That's funny! I don't remember it. But I remember something a bit similar, the time when Tim posted a new unpublished Richard Wilbur poem wherein one of the quatrains stood out for not having a rhyme. A long discussion ensued, with the majority opinion emerging that it was a brilliant move that only the great Dick Wilbur could pull off. A couple of days later, Tim apologized for the typo and corrected the line, which now rhymed. I think that sort of benefit of the doubt is only accorded to poets perceived as extraordinarily gifted, so it's a tribute to Mr. Kerrigan than he could be in that category.

So sorry to hear this news. It seems like quite awhile ago that I last saw him post here, but his posts always struck me as interesting and well thought-out. Even without really knowing him I feel saddened by this.

And so, I just learned, has J.D. McClatchey.

I'm sorry to hear that. I have his Horace, Odes, and it's very nice to work from. Besides all else.

John

Thank you, Maryann, for delivering this news. I am sorry to hear it. He was kind to me, solicited my poetry for his issue of "The Raintown Review" many years ago, and seemed a highly-intelligent man.

May he rest in peace.

Jennifer

Tom was a very dear friend. In recent years he lost the ability to type to Parkinson's. I have about seven Parkinson's poems, and I hate that disease. I've earned him a Plenary Indulgence from the Church, don't necessarily believe in them, but I seek them for my friends, a sound spiritual exercise. And I wrote him a double trimeter sonnet by way of elegy:

Plenary Indulgence

I.
Tom Kerrigan has died
of Parkinson’s in doubt.
A candle has burned out
fueled by its Irish pride.
I’ve prayed for him for years.
Let him be overawed,
this man who knew not God,
for Heaven surely nears.
Remission let me earn
for all of Tall Tom’s sins.
deliverance begins
at Pentecost. He’ll turn
his heart reborn, restored,
his face to Christ, our Lord.

II.
Our Catholic friends who fall
into a deep morass
whose bounds no hope can pass
have one chance at the Wall
of Heaven, that we pray,
confess, receive the Host,
then beg the Holy Ghost
to lead them on their way.
A better friend my art
has never had than Tom
who rhymed with such aplomb.
Friend, I shall play my part
while I’m yet undestroyed.
Your soul waits in the Void.

Sorry to hear of this. He was, after all, by picking Anna Evans as his associate editor at The Raintown, indirectly responsible for my reign of terror in that position when Anna took the reins. He was a prickly guy, but so am I. It's part of how I came to like him.

I’m sorry to hear about this. A few years ago, Tom kindly sent me a copy of his poetry book My Dark People.