“A poet? You’re kidding, right?” 

                  This was not the reaction pride sought to a declaration of career. Coming into the human scrum, we seek to be admired for our aspirations. Doctor, lawyer, inventor, investment banker, professor, actor even – such familiar goals flattered aspirants. But a poet? You’re kidding, right?

                  Worse, if you found yourself dreaming in that direction, “there was no there there”. To subsist a poet had to be something else – teacher, cabbie, waiter – some job society hired for – to pay the rent. When I was popping out of college like Pez from a Pez dispenser – I am that old – wanker would have been a less discreditable occupation.

                  I hadn’t the strength of character or vocation to risk so pitiable a purpose. I would pursue my dream, as a wanker wanks, in guilty secret. Critic, journalist, publisher, speechwriter, pundit, these were defensible, if not always remunerative, jobs one could confess in polite company. But who had the guts to be a Thoreau – that despised misfit – in the crazy hope Thoreau might become “Thoreau.” Though I deplored my mother’s values, I wanted her to be proud of me. My son the poet? I doubt she had ever read a poem.

                  In hindsight we may discern what drove our choices, what winds and tides steered our boat, but at the time we imagine we are “making up our own mind.” Most young persons needs to believe in the heroism of their narrative. I selected a respectable career which, deep down, I didn’t respect. There was nothing vile about it – or even venal – I was doing good, wasn’t it? I wasn’t grubbing for money or glamor. I could hold my head high. But with my study door shut I cringed at my cowardice. Real poets weren’t ashamed of being poets, were they? (The answer to this searing question is yes – sometimes – vide Emily Dickinson et al.)

                  Besides, what did it mean to be a “poet”? To kill oneself scribbling what no one would pay for? Once upon a time poets were honored – even in my father’s lifetime, some found their way onto the cover of Time – I am that old – Robert Frost, Robert Lowell, Robert Penn Warren (maybe I should have renamed myself Robert!) – but the only known poets of my generation were comic (Dr. Seuss, say) or lyricists. America has had twenty-two Poet Laureates since 1937, when the position was established – I defy you to name two. 

                  Besides (so many “besides”!), I disliked most of the poetry that made its way into print during my time. I didn’t want to be that kind of poet. So what kind of poet did I want to be? No kind! Not me! Only volumes of urgently scribbled end-stopped lines suggested otherwise. I blushed at the accusation – but guilty as charged. 

                  What does it mean to be “a poet”? it doesn’t mean “good poet” any more than golfer means good golfer or chess player grand master. It means that you enjoy playing this game, that you are in love with, perhaps addicted to, the wriggling beauty of words. It means you believe certain things can be said in this weird form only – and that you find yourself reading and revering certain predecessors. Why did I weep at Keats’ grave?

                  Retirement, a loving wife, and you guys gave this scaredy-cat the courage to admit what he was. And no, I am not kidding – I am a poet (as defined) – not because I choose to be but because that is how I was made. Age seventy-four, I am coming out of the closet. Better late than never.