| 
       News __________
  
 
    	
		 DIOGENES'
		LAMP GOES
		OUT 
    Frederick Feirstein: 1940-2020  
		The 
		news came in an email. I thought it must be some sick person's idea of 
		clever spam. I spoke aloud, although I was alone in the room: 
		“Feirstein? No way..." Folks like Fred Feirstein don’t die. No doctor 
		worth the ten-best doctors in New York poster on the office wall would 
		let that happen. And we all know how he’d managed to beat a variety of 
		illnesses and disasters over the last decade. Fred was surely of hardier 
		stuff than mortal flesh. He was still out there with his lantern, 
		searching for an honest man.  
		 
		In fact, Feirstein liked to think of himself as one of those characters 
		for whom leather jackets were made, that Joe Pesci only played 
		people like that. Too short to be taken seriously as a basketball 
		player, he could get run down by Billy Cunningham, get up, and make a 
		shot. (Billy was an NBA player a very long time ago; and Fred played 
		against him in college). Treated badly by publishers, he pressed on to 
		get the work done elsewhere. If his advice was pushed back into his 
		face, he'd congratulate you for standing up to him. He was one of the 
		most relentlessly productive poets I've ever met, and his work didn't 
		get worse as his body fell apart. Just a week or so ago he sent me a few 
		splendid poems. He’d just recovered, he said, from a car accident, and 
		was getting past the trauma.  
		 
		Chased down by complications of aging, he bounced up and kept on 
		charging. In the last few years he was plagued with serious problems: 
		cancer; cardio-problems; falling down the stairs; a car accident; 
		doctors who gave him the wrong medicine; more heart problems; another 
		fall and subsequent knee problems. And not to forget -- publishers who 
		didn't quite get around to his latest; agents who were too busy; 
		producers who made promises; not to mention a variety of collaborators 
		who jumped ship at the worst possible moment -- a litany of bad acts and 
		characters. They failed to put him down. Being put down was not in 
		Fred’s character.  
		 
		Mixed into these distressed and distressing conversations was far 
		happier news of his two grandsons (about whom he could occupy hours of 
		your time), son David (whose successes he was amazed by), wife Linda 
		(still ecstatic about her after fifty-seven years), friends, new work by 
		someone we ought to read, a play he'd just seen that you had to see, and 
		a new outburst of poetry, a new or revised play, a new version of a 
		novel, a possible production here or overseas. Frequently, he would 
		press you on what you said you were doing -- did you do it yet? Are you 
		promoting it somewhere? If you hadn’t moved off the dime, his 
		disappointment was hard to take. And he was, by his own estimation, 
		poetry's playmaking guard, the pain in the neck pressing the prima 
		donnas up front to take a shot. That’s how he affected me time and again 
		and I was hardly unique. In between bouts of hating it, I loved him for 
		being the playmaker. 
		 
		But last week the bad news part of the conversation was only about Fred; 
		and this time he wasn’t speaking. At a doctor's office on January 18th, 
		with Linda and David (his wife and son) accompanying him, as they sat 
		and talked, Fred drifted off. During that absence he suffered a heart 
		attack and could not be revived. Just like that... 
		 
		In "What Happened?", a poem from the recent Dark Energy, Fred 
		poses terrible questions: 
		
		"...And Freud who smoked his mouth to death, 
		What happened to him, to his depth 
		Of soul – is it lying like a clay shard 
		In an earthen hole, and poor Dylan Thomas 
		Who ranted “Death shall have no dominion,” 
		Knowing he lied, or the Brothers Grimm, 
		What became of them, dust in sunlight 
		Turned like a clock – watch it long enough 
		And you’ll go mad, or Paganini 
		Whose fingers danced and women swooned..."  
		And 
		Fred Feirstein now...I read
		
		Phyllis Chesler's splendid eulogy five times before I finally 
		accepted his death as true. He was gone. Just like that -- by a most 
		unkind assassin... 
		 
		Fred didn't much believe in the notion that what we leave behind is at 
		least as meaningful as our lives. In Fred's estimation, without the 
		person, we're left with a littered, otherwise empty shore. He had 
		reasons for feeling that way, some as big as the Holocaust, the rest 
		smaller but meaningful. And there is no doubt that our effects on others 
		(and the world) are built on what we do now, not inferences about 
		might-have-beens -- after the fact. Action is at the center of being. 
		One can’t argue that, but the consequences of action don’t go away.  
		 
		In the passage of a life, changes have been made; they aren't voidable. 
		We don't find proofs of that in detritus on the beach -- the broken 
		shells of crabs and clams, bits of wood from lost boats and ships, 
		scattered scraps of dead seaweed (wreckage memorializing death, not 
		life). Fred was right about that. The changes a life leaves behind are 
		found with the living, in poems, stories, and memories of afternoons 
		spent chatting under the cherry blossoms in Central Park, of contesting 
		opinions about paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, of voicing 
		the delirious pleasures of being a grandfather, or of still being in 
		love with Linda after half a century. We don't disappear when we die. I 
		just finished reading Manhattan Carnival for the fourth time. 
		 
		Fred's patients will live different lives because of his work; that 
		won't change. People they affect will live differently as a consequence, 
		though most likely few will know why. My life was transformed, as often 
		as Fred and I were at mild odds. His son couldn't be anyone else's.  
		Linda didn't partner with Fred for fifty-seven years out of frustration.  
		They know how lucky they are that this is so. His grandsons will always 
		have grandpa Fred. And the poems and play are out there, awaiting each 
		new discovery. None of this would be without Fred's passage. We should 
		celebrate that as we mourn his death. 
		 
                                                                                        
		Arthur Mortensen 
		 
		 
		 
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		
		  
		                                                             
		---------------------------------- 
		  
		  
		  
		  
		 
 
    	
		 Ifeanyi
    	
		Menkiti, 
		1940 - 2019
		  
		Terrible news that 
		most of us already know.  Ifeanyi Menkiti, beloved Trustee and 
		Proprietor of the Grolier Poetry Book Shop, and extraordinary Poet and 
		Philosopher, passed away on Monday, June 17, 2019.  He was also an 
		important publisher with Grolier Press.  Below is reprinted the 
		obituary posted by Keefe Funeral Home. 
		Ifeanyi Menkiti 
		became, in April 2006, the man who saved poetry — or at the very least, 
		he rescued one of its most revered institutions in this country by 
		purchasing the Grolier Poetry Book Shop, which then was sorely in need 
		of a buyer.  “I have a strong sense of hope and belief that poetry 
		can help our world,” he told the Globe a few weeks later. “The sense of 
		a world together has formed a very important part of my own poetry.”  
		A longtime Wellesley College philosophy professor who stressed the 
		importance of fostering community, he was 78 when he went to sleep 
		Father’s Day evening and did not awaken Monday morning. Dr. Menkiti, who 
		had long lived in Somerville, had suffered a stroke several months ago, 
		yet had impressed friends with his vitality since then, including at 
		Grolier events.  
		“He was a nobleman in 
		the best sense of the word,” said Robert Pinsky, a former US poet 
		laureate who teaches at Boston University, and who noted that his friend 
		was a significant writer, in addition to his concurrent careers in 
		academia and developing real estate. He was an artist and a man of the 
		community,” Pinsky said. Dr. Menkiti may have most succinctly 
		articulated his view of humanity’s need to embrace a shared existence in 
		his poem “Before a Common Soil,” whose title appears in one of its 
		verses:  
		And I have called 
		out to you, 
		Children of an undivided earth, 
		That you join your hands together 
		And be of one accord before a common soil – 
		 
		A musical setting of the work was performed at the Spring Revels in 
		Cambridge, and he dedicated the poem to his friend Jack Langstaff, 
		founder of the Revels, who died in 2005. Dr. Menkiti read the poem in 
		appearances around the world: in Sweden and South Africa, at the Dylan 
		Thomas Boathouse in Wales and in Nigeria, the land of his birth. The 
		poem’s own travels underscored Dr. Menkiti’s belief that “we” supersedes 
		“I.” In his philosophical essay “Person and Community in African 
		Traditional Thought,” he quoted the Kenya-born philosopher John Mbiti: 
		“I am because we are, and since we are, therefore I am.”  
		“The loss is hard to 
		bear,” David Ferry, a poet who was awarded the National Book Award in 
		2012, said in a statement via the Grolier. “He is a great exemplary 
		figure in the community of poetry here, poets and readers, because of 
		his own eloquent poetry and his magnanimous fostering of the Grolier 
		Book Shop with all its historic standards.”    
		Dr. Menkiti was only 
		the third owner of the Harvard Square shop, which was founded in 1927 by 
		Gordon Cairnie and is the oldest store in the nation devoted solely to 
		poetry. Louisa Solano bought the Grolier from Cairnie, and sold it in 
		2006. Over the decades, the shop was a gathering place for the likes of 
		T.S. Eliot and Elizabeth Bishop, e.e. cummings and Robert Lowell. Even 
		within the remains of the once mighty print publishing world, shelves 
		earmarked for poetry are few. So far as poetry lovers know, just one 
		other store in the country — Open Books in Seattle — sells only poetry.  
		“Ifeanyi was the kindest man, emanating benevolence,” Frank Bidart of 
		Cambridge, who was awarded a Pulitzer Prize last year for “Half-Light: 
		Collected Poems 1965-2016,” said in an e-mailed statement.  “His 
		even-handed generosity — not only as a poet, but as an entrepreneur who 
		saved the Grolier Poetry Book Shop for the community of poets and 
		readers — seemed to proceed from a sure knowledge of who he was, of his 
		nature,” Bidart added. Cambridge poet Gail Mazur praised Dr. Menkiti’s 
		“generous affection” for writers that was exemplified by buying the 
		Grolier. “The only profit in it was the joy of keeping the whole 
		enterprise, and poetry itself, alive,” she said in an e-mail. “He was an 
		astonishingly beneficent figure in our midst, paternal and princely, 
		adoring conversation about poems and poets.”  
		Ifeanyi Anthony 
		Menkiti was born Aug. 24, 1940, in Onitsha, Nigeria, a son of Ozomma 
		Charlie Nnaemeka Menkiti and Nwamgbafo Margaret Olieh. After secondary 
		school, he worked in an office until his score on an exam earned a 
		scholarship to Pomona College in California. He received a bachelor’s 
		degree in 1964, and won the distinguished senior thesis award for his 
		paper on the poetry of Ezra Pound. “That sparked his interest in 
		poetry,” said his son, Obiora “Bo” Ifensor Menkiti of Washington, D.C.
		 
		Subsequently, Dr. 
		Menkiti received a master’s in journalism from Columbia University, a 
		master’s in philosophy from New York University, and a doctorate in 
		philosophy from Harvard University, where noted philosopher John Rawls 
		supervised his dissertation. Dr. Menkiti, who published four poetry 
		collections, met Carol Bowers when both lived in international housing 
		as NYU graduate students. She previously had been a Peace Corps 
		volunteer in Nigeria.  They married in 1971, and he began teaching 
		at Wellesley in 1973, retiring as a professor of philosophy in 2014. He 
		had saved his Pomona scholarship stipend, which he used for the down 
		payment on the family’s Somerville home.  “He never splurged. He 
		never needed anything fancy or splashy. Relationships, language, and 
		morals were the currency he dealt with,” said his daughter Ndidi Nnenia 
		Menkiti of Brooklyn, N.Y.  Dr. Menkiti washed his clothes by hand. 
		Avoiding computers and e-mail, he kept paper and a pen handy. “One of 
		the things that have been so wonderful about Ifeanyi is his sense of 
		being a citizen of the world, and at the same time he so loved his own 
		traditions,” Carol said. “He loved the music of Nigeria, he loved the 
		language.”  
		He added the first 
		name Chinyelugo after receiving a Nze na Ozo title in Nigeria, one of 
		the highest titles the Igbo people of Nigeria can bestow. And yet, his 
		wife added, his Catholic faith also meant much to him. “When he went to 
		Mass here,” she added, “he’d say The Lord’s Prayer in Latin.”  
		 
		Though Dr. Menkiti’s 
		work ranged from writing to teaching to investing in properties, he 
		secured a significant legacy by purchasing the poetry bookstore on 
		Plympton Street in Harvard Square.   “He was a hero to do 
		that,” said Lloyd Schwartz, a poet and a writing professor at the 
		University of Massachusetts Boston. “The Grolier is really a landmark 
		for the poetry world in New England and beyond.”  For Dr. Menkiti, 
		the poetry that filled the pages on the Grolier’s shelves could not 
		really be separated from music — from traditions that dated back to his 
		childhood in Nigeria, where “there was a lot of song in the air,” he 
		recalled.  
		“With poetry, for me, 
		it’s almost as if we live in this song-denominated universe,” Dr. 
		Menkiti told the Globe in 2011. “The music that resides inside the human 
		tribes of the world, and the tears that the nations cry, their joys, 
		it’s as if they’re not able to cry or have their joy unless they encode 
		it in song.” 
		Sorry for more grim 
		news, but many don't know that we lost poet and professor emeritus 
		Michael Riley this year: 
		
		 Dr. 
		Michael D. Reilly, 73, a poet and marvelously good guy from Lancaster, 
		Pennsylvania, passed away in March of this year. He published six 
		volumes of poetry. A new book of poetry will be published posthumously, 
		and is inspired by his love of mysteries and forensics. It is to be 
		called Pattern Evidence. Michael was published in anthologies such as 
		Irish American Poetry from the Eighteenth Century to the Present and 
		Blood to Remember: American Poets on the Holocaust. His poems have 
		appeared in 300+ books and periodicals, including AMERICA, Poetry, 
		Poetry Ireland Review and Rattle. Michael was an accomplished musician. 
		He performed as a saxophone player and lead vocalist in The Barons, a 
		band formed when he was in high school. The Barons Blues Band reformed 
		in 1981, was popular in the Lancaster music scene, performing in The 
		Blue Star, Smokin' Jakes as well as the Lancaster Blues Festival at The 
		Chameleon Club. There's a
		
		fine recent interview with Michael in Lancaster online.  
		  
		  
		  
		
		 Andrejika 
		(Andrea) Hough, who passed away recently at 62, was a gifted narrative 
		poet whose first collection, Island Fire, I was privileged to 
		publish in 1998. She was a fine musician as well, and for many years 
		taught piano to students of all ages in New York. A regular reader at 
		the Belanthi Gallery series in Brooklyn in the late 1990's, she leaves 
		behind a son, siblings and many nieces and nephews.  Her work can 
		be found in the archives of many journals, including American 
		Literary Review, The Bridge, Anglican Theological Review, Pivot and 
		many others.  Copies of Island Fire may be found on a used 
		bookseller sight, such as Powell's Books or alibris.com.  Mark 
		Jarman remarked of her poems in Island Fire "Hough steeps us in 
		the harsh beauty of immigrant and city life.  She has a gift for 
		lyricism and narrative.  Any poet who can tell us, as she does, 
		that 'death, once more reluctant, stands aside' deserves our attention."  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		  
		
   |