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You're right that the Wittgenstein of Philosophical Investigations would certainly not condescend to practical knowledge. He would've acknowledged that knowing how to do something is different from knowing how to discourse on it. However, doing the latter would be a different species of practice, a different form of life with its own language-game(s).
I can't tell from the Schlegel quotation itself (I mean, without the context) whether he's condescending to the practical or not (perhaps there's a nuance in the German that I'm missing). In any case, I'm not sure I'm entirely happy with the analogy. What, for instance, with poetry is the equivalent of just picking up and knowing how to follow the music? Reading? Interpreting and understanding? Unpacking an extended metaphor? Writing a sonnet? It seems to me that where poetry's concerned, Wittgenstein's refusal to endorse the theory/practice distinction is particularly useful since it's hard to tell within the universe of poetry where practice ends and theory begins. This is why so many craftsmen/practitioners (e.g., Billy Collins) insist on dissembling the medium in favor of what they take to be "poignant" more or less realist aboutness (e.g., the world, the self, my emotions). They feel the encroachment of theory, or whatever would be its stand-in were the distinction dissolved, everywhere.
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Re: Collins, he's definitely talented (though I prefer by far his 18th-century namesake William). He can make a basket (which guarantees him neither the arrival of his "package" nor the possession of the phallus, as he seems to think). Remember what Wallace Stevens said to the young Richard Wilbur: something to the effect of "You're talented, Wilbur, but you need to quit publishing in The New Yorker." (In truth, I would leap at the chance to publish a poem there myself.)
There's definitely a strain of the more straightforward that I like, too. I still defend Frost, for example. I agree about Dylan, except the part about the force of his words when they lie mute on the page. Like those of Lou Reed, Dylan's words without the music -- and a fortiori without the voice -- remind me of the way Hobbes used to look when adults, rather than Calvin, were looking at him. The illusion's being broken always filled me with the chill of death.
Okay, the scanner's coming out has me genuinely frightened. I didn't know you were gonna get medieval on me.
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