BEATLICK JOE SPEER

 BEATLICK JOE SPEER WEEK at 'Bradlaugh's Finger' has featured, thanks to Joe's partner Pamela Hirst, some great writing by and about Joe. But I've saved the most moving piece until last. The following is the last entry from Joe's journal. He was dying from pancreatic cancer. It wouldn't be long before he left his body for whatever plane we find ourselves on next. In this one relatively short entry Joe wrote his own epitaph, almost: here is a poet's attitude to his art as he faces the end of his life. He knew what he had contributed to poetry and he understood that he didn't need to say anymore. He had other things to do now. 'The rest,' as Shakespeare says, 'is silence.' (BH)

Joe Speer's Final Journal Entry

“Are you writing a lot,” Terry asked for the second time? I guess she thinks I should be scribbling away between pain pills that having an expiration date on my life should enhance my writing. My answer both times was no, mostly because I don’t feel like writing. I’m happy to lie down, after finding a comfortable position, close my eyes and enjoy the warmth of a zipped up sleeping bag. Plus I don’t know that my death tinged words would be more valuable than a poem I had written in my vim and vigor days. Regardless of how I feel I usually only put pen to paper when I am consumed with a good idea or a strong theme that needs flushing out. If Terry thinks I should run out the clock while trying to extend my fame into the future, a few last minute shots to increase my total points scored. I don’t find that inspirational. I’ve made some contributions to the poetry scene over the years. My goal has always been to serve literature, not use writing to promulgate my own personality. Fortunately, literature will continue on whether I write profusely while coughing up blood or never write another word. The quality of its devotees is the important point. These servants follow in a long line one after another. Someone is waiting to take my place. 

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