ROBERT HERSHON R.I.P.

I first met Bob, as his family and friends called him, in the 1960s when he was one of the editors and publishers of a new little literary magazine that came as a packet of separate loose pages stuffed in an envelope, hence its name: HANGING LOOSE. He became an instant friend (and later book publisher when the press added books to its line up) and remained so over all the years since. 

Bob was six years older than me and felt like a big brother, a funny one (I had an ex-cop big brother named Robert who was twelve years older and a jokester as well). Hershon's quick wit, even when aimed at me, always made me laugh, which was an unexpected gift because my inability to be equally witty usually soured me on that kind of banter. But Bob Hershon's love for his fellow poets and friends, and most folks, radiated from his heart even when cracking wise.

In fact, his readings were known for the laugher his poems often generated, even sometimes when addressing serious subjects. Some thought of him as a stand-up comic as much as a poet. But he was one of our most wonderful poets and should have had the name recognition of our most famous ones. I think because his poetry was often humorous it sometimes wasn't taken as seriously as it should have been, and because he didn't fit into the categories that critics create for poetry movements and scenes.

In fact Robert Hershon was unique, as a poet, editor, publisher, co-founder and director of The Print Center (that made it possible for many small presses to publish), and husband, father, friend, and wit. His physical presence will be, and already is, deeply missed, but his printed and recorded presence will live on. Rest in poetry, Bob.

[PS: here's the full text of the title poem from his 2019 collection END OF THE BUSINESS DAY:

"I looked in every file and folder/under the fax and behind the/Xerox. I retraced my footsteps/and pawed through the waste/paper and finally/I found what I'd done with this poem//So I folded it in half and then in/quarters and then to the size of/a matchbook/and I put it in my breast/pocket and I gave it a pat/and I turned out the lights/and I locked the door/and I ran for my life"