So here's the deal about KK. Dude was happy all the time. Or, rather, his poetic persona was generally in good spirits. Even when he was old and wistful, the damn poems were still overwhelmingly happy.
When I was a baby poet and still in denial about my depression, I appreciated KK. I appreciated htat he wasn't depressing, that in his poetry there was an optimism, a devotion to the side not characterized by the "swervings of the darkest heart."
I too wanted to reject Eliotic seriousness. Bleh.
Now as a more highly functioning, somewhat less depressed individual, I find KK sort of irritating. I actually value darkness more now. Seriousness, even. God, I'm becoming lame. Or perhaps I'm growing up. But if this is what adulthood is like, I want no part of it.