[Clive Watkins]

Bob Mezey: 1935 – 2020

I learned today that Bob Mezey has died. Some of the older hands round here will remember his acute, well-informed and forceful—indeed, sometimes peppery—contributions to the board back in the early 2000s. He was a fine poet, in both metrical and non-metrical forms, though privately in later life he came to regret having given so much time in his middle years to non-metrical verse. I first came across his work in November 1963 when I acquired a copy of Donald Hall’s Penguin anthology Contemporary American Poetry. Bob was the youngest poet represented. Hall included six poems, all in metre and all rhymed. I remember that I was particularly struck at the time by “The Funeral Home”. Later, I got to know other fine poems. Two I particularly like are “Tea Dance at the Nautilus Hotel (1925)” and “Hardy”. Indeed, Thomas Hardy was one of Bob's favourite poets. He compiled an excellent selection of his poems for Penguin.

I remember meeting Bob in 2004, when he came over to the UK. One of the primary purposes of his trip was to revisit the Hardy Country in and around Dorset. I arranged accommodation for Bob, for my publisher-friend, Phil Hoy (of Waywiser Press), who unfortunately had to leave after a couple of days, and my wife and myself in a thatched cottage outside Dorchester. We visited Hardy’s birthplace in Upper Bockhampton; we visited Max Gate, where Bob’s reputation as a Hardy specialist gained us access to parts of the house not usually on view; we visited the Museum in Dorchester where his workroom is set up behind glass. We had tea with James Gibson, the editor of Hardy’s Complete Poems.

We also fulfilled one of Bob’s particular aims for the trip. On his last visit to the area some years before, he had been in the company of the poet and translator Dick Barnes. With Dick Barnes, Bob had produced a samizdat edition of a large selection of the poems of Borges. Copyright problems had prevented this from reaching print legally. (Later, Bob sent me a copy from the U.S.A..) Bob wanted to stand by the bridge in Weymouth and recite Hardy’s poem “The Harbour Bridge”. It was a sunny day; the streets were busy with tourists and locals; but Bob took up his position below the bridge and, in a strong voice, did indeed recite the poem. Passers-by were variously puzzled, amused or indifferent—or, in one case, annoyed that someone was standing motionless amid the throng of pedestrians. Bob was not deterred but continued through all thirty-two lines. To my wife and I, it seemed that, in this complex act of homage and commemoration, Bob was paying a debt of friendship and honour.

Part of my last day with him was spent in Bemerton, a hamlet on the western outskirts of Salisbury. I knew from our conversations in the previous few days that one of Bob’s favourite poets was George Herbert (as he is one of mine). Herbert (1593—1633) had, at the end of his short life, been the vicar of Bemerton. On that last day, we were to put Bob on a London train in Salisbury, but I knew that it would be possible to visit Bemerton before we parted. So, without telling Bob what we were planning, we drove to Bemerton first. When he realized where we were, he was clearly moved. The three of us went into the tiny church. There was no one else about. We looked at the few monuments for a while and then found ourselves sitting in the front pews in a contemplative silence. Bob had his head down. After a few minutes he slowly raised it and began reciting from memory Herbert’s poem “Church Monuments”. This was impressive on at least two levels. First, Bob had had no awareness that we were going to be in Bemerton: his recitation was not in any way rehearsed. The second was the sense that, as with the recitation at Weymouth the previous day, Bob was honouring a long tradition to which, through love and scholarship, he had made himself a deserving member. Among the last few lines of Herbert’s poem are these:

Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat,

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust.

Bob was, I think, no more a Christian than I am, but these lines still have persuasive and monitory force.

Clive Watkins

[Julie Steiner]

Clive, thank you for that detailed and moving remembrance of Eratosphere's Master of Memory.

Here's a link to a poem he workshopped here, and to a glimpse of Bob's personality.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Hardy

Thrown away at birth, he was recovered,
Plucked from the swaddling-shroud, and chafed and slapped,
The crone implacable. At last he shivered,
Drew the first breath, and howled, and lay there, trapped
In a world from which there is but one escape
And that forestalled now almost ninety years.
In such a scene as he himself might shape,
The maker of a thousand songs appears.

From this it follows, all the ironies
Life plays on one whose fate it is to follow
The way of things, the suffering one sees,
The many cups of bitterness he must swallow
Before he is permitted to be gone
Where he was headed in that early dawn.

Robert Mezey

[Andrew Frisardi]

Thanks for the evocative and vivid memorial, Clive.

I have a copy of Robert Mezey's Hardy edition, which is excellent, and I've enjoyed his posts here in the past, though I don't recall ever interacting with him directly on the Sphere.

I did meet him once in person, however, in 1999 at the one West Chester conference I ever attended. The highlight of that conference for me was the translation panel, including Tim Murphy and Alan Sullivan reading from their Beowulf translation, Mezey reading his Borges, and Dick Davis from somebody, probably a Persian poet. I bought a floppy disk of Mezey's Borges from him after the reading, and I remember the wry look of disbelief on his face when I only had a fiver to offer for it. I also recall being bowled over by the translations.

[Gregory Dowling]

Thanks, Clive. As Andrew says, an evocative memorial.

I never met him but a few years back we held a critical seminar at West Chester on Hardy's poetry and Tim Murphy managed to get him to Skype in during one of our sessions. His knowledge of the poetry was impressive; as soon as we mentioned the poems we were looking at he was able to recite them from memory (as you testify, Clive), in addition to commenting on them. It wasn't a long call but it was very rewarding.

By the way, the vicarage of Bemerton, just opposite the church (and about three times the size of the church), is now home to Vikram Seth.

[Clive Watkins]

Thanks for this, Gregory. Yes, you are right about the Bemerton Vicarage, including about its size.

That whole stretch of country around Salisbury and west towards Sherborne (where Louis MacNeice experienced part of his schooling - and where my godfather was, after the War, a house-master) and on down to Beaminster and the coast have special associations for Irene and myself. But though this gave a particular context to our visit to that part of the world back in 2004, it is, I concede, not relevant here.

Clive

[Rick Mullin]

Here is an obit in the LA Times.


I tried to post the following earlier, but clumsily posted it in the comment about the New Yorker and succeeded in putting the Merzey in the New Yorker thread from years ago at the top of Accomplished Members. That may be a good thing--a reminder that landing one in New Verse News (which I did again today) is NOT a noteworthy accomplishment. Same with Asses of Parnassus, though always chuffed to be in either. My earlier attempt to comment here:

Thanks Clive. That New Yorker poem is tremendous! I didn't put myself through being here until something like 2007, so I don't remember Bob Mezey. Nice to see Janet in the thread~,:^) And a taste of early 2000s Sphere--a time, it seemed, when New Formalism was dropping off like the first stage of a Saturn V rocket, having served its purpose, and the good quality stuff was surging forward. I wish Ray Pospisil were more involved in here in those days.

[David Anthony]

Happy to read this obituary of one of the finest t.o.c formal poets, since I have searched in vain for anything in the British newspapers.

[David Rosenthal]

My time here overlapped with Mezey's, but I don't remember ever interacting with him. However, the collections of Robinson and Hardy that he edited, and his introductions to both, are dear to me. Same for the "Poems of the American West," a lovely little volume if you haven't seen it.

--David R.

[Tim McGrath]

Mezy is entirely new to me, Borges an old friend. I was very impressed by Andrew Hurley's translation of Ficciones. Any thread that starts with Borges and goes on to mention Hardy, Herbert, E. A. Robinson, and Vikram Seth has been spun into a golden thread, which is both a legal term of art and a prized addition to fine embroidery. The comments were also invaluable, ore from the Comstock Lode.

Does anyone know this masterpiece by Seth?

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the one you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above,

Know that you're not alone,
That all men share your tears,
Some for two nights or one
And some for all their years.

Or this passage from Hardy?

Amid the happy people of my time
Who work their love's fulfillment I appear
Numb as a vane that cankers on its point,
True to the wind that kissed ere canker came.

The brilliant critic R.P. Blackmur has a chapter on Hardy in "Language as Gesture," a primer on modern poetry. Among at least a dozen great essays, "Lord Tennyson's Scissors" is the nonpareil, the ne plus ultra.