Requiem for a Poet

bronzeage

I am a river to my people
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Jun 20, 2005
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I met John Jones late in his life. He had lung cancer and was disposing of his books and other possessions. He brought me boxes of books and mementos he gathered in his travels for me to sell for him.


John Wesley Jone, October 23, 1942 -February 18, 2011.

ON THE FLYLEAF OF CAVAFY'S COMPLETE POEMS

I bought you for $1 thirty years ago in New York
(cheaper than the very cheapest Egyptian street-boy),
'battered amorist of Alexandria,'
and have battened on your cynicism and wisdom of the years since.
As the god abandoned Antony,
as the athlete left his beauty in the mirror,
so you have left your louche life in these tough verses.

John Wesley Jones died of cancer on Friday, February 18, 2011 at Baton Rouge General Hospital- Mid-City. He was 68. A native of Pleasant View, Kentucky, he was a resident of Baton Rouge, Louisiana for the past 15 years. John held degrees from the University of Kentucky, Johns Hopkins University, at which he was a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship Scholar, and the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill where he earned a Masters Degree in Library Science. He had worked both as a college instructor and as a librarian. During the Vietnam War, John chose alternative service and served as an English teacher in Turkey followed by an extended stay in Europe. As a modern poet, (he wrote his first poem at the age of 14), John was named Poet Laureate of San Francisco in the1960’s. He was a published poet with his work appearing in the very first issue of Hanging Loose (Brooklyn, NY) in 1966 and later in the 25th Anniversary Issue as well as in more subsequent issues. He recently self-published a collection of his poems titled: A Fearful Joy. At John’s written request, his remains have been donated for study to the LSU Health Sciences Center in New Orleans. He was a Benedictine Oblate of St Joseph Abbey in Covington, LA and requested that the abbey cemetery be his final resting place.
 
ON THE FLYLEAF OF CAVAFY'S COMPLETE POEMS

I bought you for $1 thirty years ago in New York
(cheaper than the very cheapest Egyptian street-boy),
'battered amorist of Alexandria,'
and have battened on your cynicism and wisdom of the years since.
As the god abandoned Antony,
as the athlete left his beauty in the mirror,
so you have left your louche life in these tough verses.
A wonderful poem, the kind of poem that makes Poet Guy wonder why he even attempts poetry.

Fuck. He does because he enjoys it, not because he is good, or even competent. He cannot do this, though, damn it all.

Excellent poem to post, bronzeage.
 
louche life

sigh

but all of it. no-one telling him off about a lack of uniformity in line-length, either. it all reads so smoothly. may he RIP. lung cancer. shitty way to go. :(
 
louche life

sigh

but all of it. no-one telling him off about a lack of uniformity in line-length, either. it all reads so smoothly. may he RIP. lung cancer. shitty way to go. :(

Every good poem is an exception to someone's rule. When we look at the work of those who earned the title of "Poet", above their other accomplishments, there is little which would survive a college sophomore level English course.
 
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