My friend Brett Foster, poet and professor of Renaissance literature, died last night of cancer, even as Wheaton College’s Arena Theater performed a selection of his poems to a packed room of colleagues and students.
Not that I’ve tasted the prophet’s honey or fire:
I’m just a shocked, confounded fellow
who’s standing here, pumping the bellows
of his mellifluous sorrow.
Brett’s words and spirit filled the room, amidst our tears. A prophet, far more than he knew. His poetry, a eulogy of life and love and friendship.
And speaking of things overheard, you heard right:
if I have to go out, I am going to go out singing.*
You have crossed the bar, but we will see you anon. Rest in peace.