John Rety, RIP

Poet, publisher, impresario, chess fiend, émigré, anarchist.



Rumpled, principled, opinionated, informed, generous, challenging, uncompromising. Occasionally bloody rude.

And much loved. Having been away for a while, I only learned of John Rety's death today, when I read Harry Eyres's tribute in the FT. Rety was part of the poetry landscape, always there.

A quick search revealed a couple of good obits in The Camden New Journal and The Daily Telegraph. (Don't laugh - the torygraph has well informed poetry obits.) I wonder what Rety, an anarchist since the ("rather late") age of 13, would have thought about his coverage in the right wing capitalist broadsheets. If the Guardian has published an obituary, it hasn't hit Google yet. There are one or two generous appreciations on blogs, but I'm surprised that there hasn't been more coverage.

His press, Hearing Eye, and the readings at the (tiny) Torriano Meeting House seemed to punch way above their weight in terms of influence. The Torriano readings commanded top readers, such as Dannie Abse, John Hegley, Adrian Mitchell, while the famously inclusive "readings from the floor" were a template for many other venues.

Even as I write a Torriano session seems to be in full swing. All but one of the chairs are occupied, and latecomers lean against the walls, listening intently. I recognise at least half the audience. John has made some preliminary announcements, and has berated poets in general for their lack of response to the political situation. Several have already leapt up onto the wooden stage and unfolded a scrap of paper from a pocket. There have been sonnets and doggerel, rants and lullabys. It's been a mixed experience, shall we say, with some gemstones on the beach. Most of us are waiting for the featured poets. Heavily laden and swathed in many layers against the cold, an elderly woman comes in late, excusing herself past knees and folded overcoats to the least accessible seat in the house, by the wall. The singing man carries on singing, oblivious. She settles herself dramatically (but wordlessly so as not to draw attention). Surreptitiously, she rummages in her crackling carrier bags throughout the rest of the session. What does she have in there? Poems? Knitting? Fish?

Although I read for him a couple of times I didn't know him well, or visit Torriano that often - regular engineering works make London a nightmare Sunday destination by rail. Now I wish I had. And I wish I'd taken seriously his offer to publish one of my pamphlet-length pieces.

I heartily recommend Marius Kociejowski's lively and astonishing minibiography in PN Review 187, last May. Among many fabulous anecdotes, that story about the writing desk is going to come around again and again.