Funeral pending for poet Charles Guenther
It is with sadness that I have just finished writing an obituary for Charles Guenther, who died Thursday at 88.
He was such a quiet gentleman and one of the most generous, hard-working book reviewers I’ve ever worked with. He reviewed poetry for the Post-Dispatch for an incredible 50 years. I edited reviews he wrote between about 1993 and 2003, when he retired. He wrote for nine book editors, I believe, starting with Thomas Sherman in 1953.
If you read the news story at http://www.stltoday.com/entertainment you will learn more about Mr. Guenther and the funeral arrangements. Visitation is from 3-8 p.m. Sunday at Kutis funeral home in Affton, Mo.
For a story in next week’s Sunday A&E section or for this blog, I welcome comments from poets and readers who knew Mr. Guenther.
My email address, of course, is jhenderson@post-dispatch.com.
I will miss Charles greatly. He was very supportive over the years and kept me interested in literature, writing, and publishing. He was truly a gentleman who will be sorely missed by many people. I was fortunate to have known him.
-Anthony J Summers
To know Charles Guenther was to be blessed. There are too few of human kind like him in today’s world and our loss is great in his going. Large of spirit, generous, kind, he was more than a first-class poet, he was first-class in every human way.
It is a tragedy that Missouri did not have a Poet Laureate post when Charles Guenther was able to fulfill its duties. His innumerable contributions to poetry, worldwide–to Missouri literary arts, in particular–and to the many writers he encouraged for so many years make him an obvious choice for the honor.
I’m reminded of the following by Lord Alfred Douglas…
I dreamed of him last night, I saw his face
All radiant and unshadowed of distress,
And as of old, in music measureless,
I heard his golden voice and marked him trace
Under the common thing the hidden grace,
And conjure wonder out of emptiness,
Till mean things put on beauty like a dress
And all the world was an enchanted place.
And then methought outside a fast locked gate
I mourned the loss of unrecorded words,
Forgotten tales and mysteries half said,
Wonders that might have been articulate,
And voiceless thoughts like murdered singing birds.
And so I woke and knew that he was dead.
The Dead Poet by Lord Alfred Douglas