Anyway, in its time it was Big, and Dennis was central to it. You've probably seen the obits. As with several people who pretend to be hippies, he was a heavy-duty capitalist au fond, and went on to make serious shedloads of the filthy lucre. In later life, despite limp protestations to the contrary, he became a bit fixated on his legacy in the form of his superb business deals, his forestry (sic) and - his poetry.
Opinions on this latter are mixed. Some are quite sniffy about it, though he fills pages of his websites with approving sleb soundbites. I suppose that when a wealthy man gives public poetry readings with free wine, it makes one think he suspects that no-one would otherwise turn up.
So - is he a real poet ? I reckon so, in the same way that Karl Jenkins is a real classical composer. Derivative, yes, but plenty of imagination; and original - and confident - enough. Not quite as good as Clives James for my money (to name another poet about whom some are not at all complimentary). Then again, Clive James actually charges real money whereas Dennis puts his up for all to see.
If death knows no dominion, The dead wield iron claws: Ghost limbs aligned to pinion, To bend us to their cause. By hoary yews and birches We worship gods they chose; We sweep their empty churches, We smite their ancient foes. If death knows no dimension, The dead are with us still; By custom — and convention, They wed us to their will. Their art a thing of beauty, The bait by which we’re led; Little we bring but duty To serve the ghastly dead.
What do you think?