In Memory of
MCN
The unexpected death of Michael McNeilley back in mid-July has cast a pall over much of the literary world, especially the world of online poetics and bulletin board art. McNeilley was one of those masters of the trade, a brilliant if unassuming guy whose work dominated that around him without even meaning to. As I've said before, he was as consistently good as anyone there is. His bests were classics and those less than his very best were superior to much of the drivel we see posing as poetry on the Internet. I didn't know MCN as well as I would have liked to. I envy guys like Virgil Hervey and Frank Till, and others who knew the man for years and got to know all his layers. On the surface he projected a sort of "simple man" thing, a beatific and Zen-like vision of what you see is what you get. But when you read his words you understand that the man was a very complex and intellectual soul, capable of viewing the arena of life from inside out and from angles many of us never even knew existed. And yet intellectual might have been a distinction he wasn't comfortable with, because I remembered him snorting at one time because of some list that had him noted along with what he believed were "academic" poets. Those reputed to be academic poets may get all the grants and most of the widespread recognition, but many with the true path to The Word, people like McNeilley, don't take them real seriously. One gets on dangerous ground with a comment like that, perhaps. It begs for a definition of what constituted "academic" poetry, who is the arbiter and what are the values. I'm sure MCN didn't give enough of a damn about that to get into it, and neither do I. Labels generally restrict, not enlighten or prompt understanding. Affix a rigid label to something and you might as well lock it in the cellar and forget it. I spent a very pleasant evening with MCN at Kent, Ohio in July 1999. It was the only time I ever met the man face-to-face. He might have been an amputee in a wheelchair, but he projected a powerful physical presence. He had that illusive quality we call charisma, that undeniable internal/external mix that causes people to be drawn to one in some almost mystical way. Michael McNeilley had an abundance of it, but he had no need to flaunt it. He, and his work, will be missed. Many of us, most in fact, pass through this realm without any notice other than that of family and close friends. But then there are people like MCN, who come along and rattle the cage and remind us what we are and what this is all about. They blaze like meteors across our skies and then they are gone. Gone maybe, but never forgotten so long as we see the sky and remember. And we do, and will.
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 Random Notes A tribute to MCN by Jim Chandler
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