01-Sep-2006
In the summer of 2001 I was invited to give a reading as part of the program at the Prairie Schooner 75th Anniversary Conference held in Lincoln, Nebraska. This was a “big” deal since Prairie Schooner is easily one of the most prestigious literary magazines around. That any magazine can hold on for seventy-five years is a major literary accomplishment so I was, indeed, honored by the invite.
I had earlier published a story in it and could still remember the many times, years before, when I had wandered the stacks of my undergraduate library, nearly always ending up at the shelves containing issue after issue of Prairie Schooner. I would pick up a copy and, not bothering to find a table, just sit right on the floor and read. Since my dream of becoming a writer was very much alive at that time, I would fondle those issues almost as if they were Holy Writ and wonder, perhaps desperately, if I would ever be good enough to appear in those pages.
By the way, just last fall I published my second story in Prairie Schooner.
My time slot for the conference was to be shared with a poet, Jim Simmerman. He was from the University of Northern Arizona and read from a book of poems he’d published in 1994 titled, Moon Go Away I Don’t Love You No More. They were just delightful poems: funny, sad, sweet, poignant, scary. They had also earned the book both Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award nominations. Jim was also a truly fine reader and was able to develop a great rapport with the large audience in our conference room.
Following our reading, I went out to the tables where the books of all the presenters were on sale and bought a copy of Moon Go Away …. As I was sitting in the lobby looking through it, Jim just happened to pass through and, after a brief, but delightful conversation, I asked if he would sign the book. Quite pleased, he said of course and wrote, “For Jerry – a pleasure to read with you and to make the acquaintance of your fine fiction.”
Just a few days ago I found out that Jim committed suicide in June of this year. He was fifty-four years old.
I would give you this, then, from his work:
I thought then nothing could kill me again,
but mornings like this I see I was wrong.
I see how the world eats your heart out
day after day after day, like a bushhog
chewing up everything in its path,
ripping it apart and grinding it down …
The next time I pray let me fall to my knees
at the mouth of whatever needs to be fed
the blood and the bone and the flesh of it all.
The next time I die let me stay dead.
