About a decade before he passed away, my father, the celebrated poet, called me home to his summer place in the Hamptons for a visit. This was an unusual event as he preferred, we meet in the city, once a year, near the holidays. Asking for the reason, he told me, in that ponderous voice of his that we were gathering to talk about his will.  As his only child, I found this an intriguing proposition. By this time in his career, he had ascended to those rare heights in the American pantheon of cultural elite. He was esteemed enough to secure a wife, 40 years his junior, and with looks and appeal three standard deviations from his on scale of attractiveness. He had surrounded himself with willing accomplices, men and women of some renown, many teaching at fine universities, editing small but prestigious books of poetry for first class presses. This cadre blurbed his books and wrote complementary reviews. Some, I am certain read his poetry, but others simply joined the team. They couldn’t discern whether the poet has clothes or not; they were satisfied that someone more learned, someone in higher position on this bespoke hierarchy thought that he did. 

At this meeting which lasted less than an hour, we stood facing each other in a pretty room that overlooked a marsh. I don’t know that he sailed; he never spoke it and it never appeared in any of his poems. The room has been decorated elegantly by Tiffany, that recently acquired wife in that sparse modern décor, uncomfortable for humans but exceptional for long shots featured in Design magazines. I don’t recall his asking me to sit down or to stay for lunch. Tiffany seemed rattled by my visit when she answered the door that morning. In that short conversation, I tried to convey that none of my father’s wives held places of treasure or contempt for me. She had nothing to fear from me. I smiled and asked a few appropriate questions; I have a talent for that. She left shortly to sit on the dock, just at the edge, wearing a sun dress, her ankles in the water.  

During our meeting, my father, in his oblique way, told that he was writing his will and wanted me to know that I would be taken care of, as is due the son of an important poet. I quickly thanked him and told him that I was fine, I was making my way through the world and appreciated his thinking of me. Unlike the rest of my relationships, I must say that I have always been most obsequious with my father. My friends and partner would hardly recognize me in these exchanges. I still call him, Sir, as if he were members of the landed gentry in generations ago Great Britain. 

Still, he persisted and said that he was designating something very special for me. Once again, I thanked him. “That’s very kind”. 

He quoted one of his favorite non-poets Warren Buffett who had said that he was leaving his children money in his will to do some things, but not enough to do nothing. I smiled and replied, that seemed wise counsel. We talked no further of the will. He asked about my career and quickly changed the conversation to an upcoming collection of his poems soon to be published. Perhaps, I could attend the party to be held later in the year. I could have told him I was out of the country or made some other excuse but I said something like “wouldn’t miss it for the world” when in fact, I’d give anything in the world not to go.

 I left in early afternoon in my rented car, advising myself against obsessing about the conversation and parsing it. I vowed to file it away as another encounter with my father that I would never completely understand. I call upon my sketchy knowledge of Buddhism to leave it, to let it be.

The truth was that I spent the next ten years reviewing that conversation and imagining myself re-writing scene after scene and re-casting our characters as if I was working a script for an off-Broadway run. I never did reach an agreeable version, I couldn’t write him into the role where he emerged fully formed and multi-dimensional. And to tell the truth, I couldn’t do much better for my own character. At my age, it seems a lack of will and denial to be still wanting more from a father. I have wondered what kind of son would be happily matched with such a father. My imagination failed me. 

After his death in August 2018, we met with his lawyer to review the will. Tiffany got the money, the house, the other house, and a whole series of complicated but beautifully drawn rights to his intellectual property. I write beautifully here to refer to the genius of highly paid attorneys whose moral compass has wealth and the preservation of it as its North Star.

In his will, my father misquoted John Paul Getty^[1] who he claimed wrote that nothing of value could be found in money. (Actually, Getty wrote, My formula for success is rise early, work late, strike oil.) So, inspired by Getty, he was giving his only son the treasure of his words, in the hopes that I would follow his path and his direction. There were bookshelves full of journals and notebooks and file cabinets with drafts of poems just waiting to be born.  I would become the next great Poet, the Celebrated Poet Junior. However, it should be clear that in all aspects of my life I have tried to be my father’s antithesis. Our taste in art, in women, our clothing, our social status, our values, our sense of our selves – all of it. Were it not for therapy, I could have foolishly made his work my work. 

Not long after the will was read, I received three crates in the mail along with a beat-up wooden filing cabinet from his lawyer. Enclosed was a carefully organizing archival box with notes in his hand, written on fine paper, along with well-worn dictionaries, a complete collection of the positive reviews of his work, titles of books of poetry I might use, a list of themes to explore. In this box, he also left a letter, a sort of map to the contents. “There is much work to do here”, he urged.

There was no suggestion here that I might want to consider being my own poet. Instead, this was more like a business plan, something that a son might seek from his father – throwing down the challenge to continue his legacy, fulfilling my birthright as his son. When the family business is poetry, what’s a father to do?  Along with the box, he outlined everything he thought I needed to know about writing poetry.  On a set of ten index cards, he outlined his guiding principles. What a gift.       

Don’t use all the words at once; be measured.

Be manly about poetry.

Order matters; coherence doesn’t

Clever trumps authentic or vice versa sometimes.

Plant tricks in your poetry. The critics love these. (Make certain they can’t all be found.)

Be not too careful with grooming, especially when you are young.

Write for people dumber than you.

Powerful people like to have poets to drink with.

Launch early, then glide.

Develop your poetry reading voice; this will be the most important key to your success.

Those acolytes of my father are delighted by his gift to me, smug and superior, that I will waste it. And I am most certain that I will in every way. Sons seldom are that acorn that doesn’t fall far from the tree, especially when that tree casts such a shadow that there is no room for light. Still, Poet in a Box. Maybe, I can talk to my marketing manager about the possibilities. 

^[1]Getty actually wrote, “My formula for success is rise early, work late and strike oil.”