Harvey Goldner passed away last week, from cancer at 65. I didn’t know him very well, but we published a poem of his last summer. The Seattle P-I has written a nice obiturary for him — he drove a taxi a few nights a week to pay for his room at a boarding house, and dedicated the rest of his life to poetry. There’s a simple beauty to that, at least in mind mind, and I hope it was as fulfilling for Harvey as it is in my imagination.
His poem from issue #25, “War and Peace,” is one that I still think of often, and so fits my definition of greatness. Perhaps like Goldner himself, it’s playful and important at the same time. He will be missed, but a body of work worth reading remains.
- Harvey Goldner
WAR AND PEACE
Big bombs fell out of the
sky. Big bombs fell all over
the countryside. Chickens died,
some cows, a few lucky people
from down the road. Then the war,
the exhilaration, was over.
A new tax collector came by–
different uniform, same fishy
eyes. The craters made by the
bombs filled with rainwater.
Kids played in the bomb ponds
until Cousin Bob, the smart one,
came back from the big city
and taught us how to raise
catfish in the bomb ponds.
His lovely wife, Bobette,
gave us a dynamite
recipe for hushpuppies.
Now, when the new tax collector
(different uniform, same fishy
eyes) comes by on the first of
every month to collect, we
have a party–all the catfish
and hushpuppies you can eat.
So far, he hasn’t gotten too
greedy, not yet. But if he does,
Aunt Mary, the ancient one,
still has left some of the
good poison which she
murdered the last one
with.