The grabbing-of-the-toys, of course, is the betrayal of art, the self-betrayal of the artist - since (according to Schopenhauer, Simone Weil, et al.) art is the release from, the suspension of, acquisitive desire... Yet this betrayal is forgiveable, due to art's doubleness : both desirable object & the (contemplative) quenching of desire...
Magazines, anthologies being essentially toy collections... Pound & Harriet Monroe (according to Peter O'Leary's recent article) instigated the diffident Zukofsky to grab for the toys (by way of branding them : mine, ours)... thus we have "Objectivism" : which is an aesthetics of the poem as perfect toy ("object", "rested totality", etc.)... & so the Langpos & the Conceptuals, in turn, learned from this model how to brand & grab...
I reflected on these things a little bit in an old poem called "My Byzantium" (in Way Stations). Here's an excerpt :
I wanted the toy bird,
I wanted to be the bird,
I wanted to sing like him,
I wanted to turn my back and
return to the womb -
the apple of her eye,
the only one, the pure one.
And after the long siren wail
and the freeway lotus
In the beginning
I wanted Jamie Freeman's agate,
the one he found in the dirt, glinting
like the color of light in earth caverns, threaded
with spirals, like a map. Envy
burned - until I conceived
a ruse: he could play with my fire
truck in exchange. I relished
his innocence, I gloated over my prize,
I despised myself.
He could never pronounce his "Ys" - yellow
was "lello". We laughed. We called him
mudpie - he was a molder of clay,
always caked in black dirt.
Berryman hit the nail (about poetry, & Henry) : His Toy, His Dream, His Rest.