Simon Curtis
 

It is with sadness that I report the passing of Simon Curtis, former kingpin of the Thomas Hardy Society and, more recently, Editor of The Interpreter's House until ill health forced him to stand down.

He was a mild-mannered gentleman, representative of a diminishing breed. I know there are Sphereans whose lives he touched, although he never quite got to grips with the online scenario.

He will be missed.

I am very sorry. We were friends, if only distant ones. I stayed with him once and I have three books of his poetry on my shelves. I don't know what happens if you google Simon. He was so pissed off with the dumbing down of English Literature at or universities that he joined the French faculty and I honour him for it. Here is one of his poems.

Satie At The End Of Term

The mind's eye aches from Henry James,
Like arms from heavy cases lugged for miles.
Theme and structure, imagery and tone

From Lawrence, too; how hard I dug
For insights sunk, yards deep, in turgid prose.
Theme and structure, imagery and tone

Web of necessity in Daniel Deronda
Gloom in Dorrit, gloom in Flaubert,
One more week to go at
Theme and structure, imagery and tone.

So fitful-fresh as April sun.
You're welcome, clown;
Your good melodic dissonance
Will pierce low clouds of syllabus
With humour's grace,
Mercy of irreverence.

I had always meant to see him again and now I can't. He's right about Satie, too.

Ann and John, I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm sorry I missed the opportunity to know Simon.

Thank you, Maryann.

In a way, you did know Simon. He it was who published "our" Kowalski's poem. I had shown it to him as evidence that the Internet was not an altogether malign influence on poetry. The sparrow passes; the Wyrd shivers.

Simon first came to my attention when he reviewed my first book for Acumen. We became good friends and I, an avid contributor to Interpreter's House. It was obvious that he was failing fast, and I shall miss him.

Simon Curtis
 

How sad to know Simon is no longer. He contributed to The Susquehanna Quarterly the following poem, appropriate on this occasion, and we corresponded about poetry, Hardy, and other matters on and off for several years. Last year he kindly published a couple of mine, along with some of Tim's, in The Interpreter's House.


In Memoriam A.M.


As kids traipsed off, in twos and threes,
To school past pub, past betting-shop,
The sun lit up a crimson blaze
In kerbside thorn-trees on Moor Top.

My post had brought a hoped-for cheque --
A friend in France had sent a card --
A day that could have been designed
To lull and catch one off one's guard.

At nine the phone went, and I heard.
A heart attack. At work. You'd died.
I stood there, speechless, while the sun
Streamed on, mechanically, outside.

Mechanically, it must have lit
Your Borders valley - Dod Hill Wood,
Lee Pen and white-harled kirk and house;
Lit shock, lit loss, lit widowhood.

Just two short months ago, I stayed;
A week when, why, we'd time to spare;
We beat the boys at badminton,
Heard Brahms quartets down at Traquair;

The inn at Tweedsmuir, where we talked
Of Health Care Trusts -- your work in Fife,
Your team, new colleagues, clinics, plans --
A twinkle in your eye. New life.

I've snapshots of our long, last hike,
The heather coming into flower;
Straw-hat and cod Edwardian pose,
You stand, relaxed, by Blackhouse Tower.

The thistledown on Fethan Hill,
Curlews above Mountbengerlaw,
The five of us at Tibbie Shiels --
It seemed such times were all encore.

That phone-call morning when I learned
The brute fact there'd be no again,
The sun streamed through my window-bay;
A torpid wasp banged at a pane.

'We'll meet at Hogmanay*,' you wrote
Three weeks ago, and sent a book
On Scott you'd seen and thought I'd like --
Why, there you are by Blackhouse, look.

To try to comprehend, I read
Donne's famous sermon, Rasselas,
Ecclesiastes, Book of Prayer;
Of how man's life is but as grass --

Yet Sid Scam thrives, Stu Snout-in-trough;
Fritz Fraud, Hugh Huckster, and Sam Spiv,
While you, most generous of hosts,
Had so much yet to do, and give.

To try to comprehend, I write
Of valley, glebe and burnside trees,
The manse you made (in Hardy's phrase)
A house of hospitalities --

To build a bridge across the void.
Words make no sense. What can one say?
We thought we'd time, but we were wrong.
We will not meet at Hogmanay.

Mechanically, the sun streams down
On suburb street and shops, the same:
The kids traipse off to school once more;
The leafless thorns no longer flame.

Mechanically, a curlew calls
From Dod Hill Wood to Kirkhouse clear.
Hard by glebe-field and Quair, good friend,
You lie, now, and you cannot hear.

That is a most beautiful poem. Surely Simon never wrote a better one.

Thank you, Golias, for posting that. It embodies the straightforward sincerity that made him special.

That is a spectacularly good poem. Thanks for posting it, Wiley.

This is a fine stanza:

To build a bridge across the void.
Words make no sense. What can one say?
We thought we'd time, but we were wrong.
We will not meet at Hogmanay.

My condolences to all of you who knew this poet.