If you translate the good Robert Pinsky's paragraph on the necessary "difficulty" of poetry out of its academician's Guide to Life-speak —
Difficulty, after all, is one of life's essential pleasures: music, athletics, dance thrill us partly because they engage great difficulties. Epics and tragedies, no less than action movies and mysteries, portray an individual's struggle with some great difficulty. In his difficult and entertaining work Ulysses, James Joyce recounts the challenges engaged by the persistent, thwarted hero Leopold and the ambitious, narcissistic hero Stephen. Golf and video games, for certain demographic categories, provide inexhaustible, readily available sources of difficulty.
— you have a rough equivalent to the following: "The reader is not a consideration."
Here's a secret shared by poets who write poetry worth reading and remembering: When they read a good poem they don't talk about dissociation of sensibility or even comment on the expert use of caesura or spondee. They say, "That was a bloody good poem."
T.S. Eliot is a briar patch of pretension wherein a few odd roses gasp into existence. Ezra Pound? Not just "difficult," but unintelligible, wrongheaded and scholastically disastrous (his translations of ancient Greek were on par with his politics).
As for the manufacturers of contemporary verse, that collective workshop of rhyme-less, rhythm-less insecurities, Philip Larkin got their number long before they were a number:
“Kingsley [Amis] and I used to read other people’s poems, and seriously planned getting a rubber stamp made – or rather two rubber stamps made, one for each of us – reading ‘What does this mean?’ and ‘What makes you think I care?’”