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."
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