The Poetry Life: Ten Stories

the poetry life

CavanKerry Press


When I look around his little apartment whose décor consists largely of oxygen canisters and aquariums (my dad has always liked tropical fish), I see some books of poetry I once gave him. The better part of a sixteenth of an inch of dust has come to rest on them. My dad isn’t much for cleaning what wants to be left undisturbed. Still, he hasn’t thrown them into a garbage pail or an incinerator. “It’s not going to compete with TV or Hollywood,” he once told me when I informed him that my first book of verse was going to be published. I could hear the treble of parental determination in his voice. He was letting me down easy. He was telling me one of those home truths a parent has to impart. His voice had a wise, reasonable gentleness that I loved. I agreed with him and shook my head with grateful resignation. Anything a son and father can agree upon is precious.

© Baron Wormser