Dwight passed away in the wee hours of Saturday, October 13, 2001. He was a dear friend and an inspired poet whose works were the expression of the fullest of human emotions, spirit and awareness.

From the urban jungle to the stars, from the softness and intimacy of love's special moments to the clattering of inner demons, Dwight's telling of life's experiences was lyrical and accessible.

A dear and greatly valued member of Georgia Writers Association, he was our Sergeant at Arms. Whenever there was an event where organized and focused help was needed, he was there, dedicated, energetic, cheerful and uncomplaining. He offered a quiet bulwark against the unexpected and easy solutions to logistics problems.

I will miss him for a long time to come.

- Geri Taran

Please see the announcements on this page: BranchWaterReview.htm.
Donations will be accepted year around for this annual
Students' Writing Competition in Dwight Humphries' honor..

Dwight was, in his own words, a "shaman, en-chanter, wildman extraordinaire" and now, sadly, he is gone. Anyone who has been to a poetry reading in Atlanta surely has seen Dwight in his trademark tweed hat reciting some of the most beautiful and moving poetry that has ever been spoken in Atlanta. In many ways, Dwight was the epicenter of Atlanta's Open Mic scene.

A memorial Open Mic poetry reading was held for Dwight at Bluemilk's Paradigm Artspace on Saturday, November 10 at 7PM. Paradigm Artspace is located at 1123 Spring Street, in Midtown Atlanta, between 13th & 14th Streets.

An exhibit of some of the 500 poems Dwight published are on display, along with photographs and personal effects including the poet's typewriter. Videos of poetry readings and interviews with Dwight were shown. Friends and admirers brought something to say or read about Dwight, or simply came to support fellow poets and friends in remembering a great talent and a generous soul.

Below are comments by friends and some of the works that were read.

Contributions may be made to the Dwight Humphries Memorial Poetry Prize, to be sponsored annually by Bluemilk/Prudenia. For details call Ellen Lindquist (404-875-7250) or Chris Hansen (404-815-6991).

- Ellen Lindquist

10/14/2001

Eulogy to Dwight

I found out that yesterday morning, Dwight Humphries vacated his body and is now lost to us.

You probably don't know about Dwight. But your children will. He's the only poet I've ever met that I'm certain will be in a Norton anthology someday. And well deserving of that. He was the consummate poet, and the most dedicated one I have ever known. In his apartment, he had rows upon rows of copies of periodicals where his work had appeared. He told me, a long time ago, that he had lost count of the number of poems he had had published--around 400. He also told me that he didn't
query about submissions until at least a year had gone by--he had so much material,he didn't need to.

I had the pleasure of helping to get some of his work published. One of his poems was so devastating, I was weeping as I typeset it--it took everything I had to be able to see the keyboard well enough to finish.

I have some copies of his work, created originally on his typewriter. They are even more priceless now than they were before. I have one of his typewriters which he gave to me. I also have one of his pipes, carved into the shape of the head of Vlad Dracul.

He gave me lots of advice. Some of it I didn't take and I am glad of, some of it I should have taken and regret. I gave him a copy of my book--because he was one of the people I thanked by name. I am saddened that I never got to hear his reaction.

He was a poet. He was an inspiration. He was somewhat of a mentor. He was a Subgenius. He was psychotic. He was Airborne. And more than anything else, he was a leopard.

I am crying the only tears I will for him and I am crying them now. I will get them out of the way and get back to work, because that's the memorial Dwight would have wanted from me.

There is only winter before me, And mortal cessation, but what of it? I am a natural man; I expect to come To a natural end; Earth is where I Live and Earth consumes its flesh. One exists, one dies. What of it? The worst is done; where Does one go when there is no safe place In mind? When the innermost core is a Dreaded, haunted room which radiates Dysphoria through the frame? My thoughts Are not inserted now--I have been to hell's Depths and seen the face of my foe; I see It every day now in my mirror, I, the Demon of wrath and pain. I'm closer to death Now and haven't much time to waste; having Weathered the isolation and storm of ego Annihilation; I have nothing left to fear.                                             - Dwight Humphries

You probably don't know about Dwight. But your children will.

--John Robinson

Dwight Humphries: A Eulogy

I knew Dwight Humphries. I knew him for many years, I'm not even sure for how long. He was one of the commentators in my documentary "Coffeehouse: Atlanta's Underground Poets." He is responsible for one of my favorite quotes in "Coffeehouse...". In answer to 'what makes poetry good?', in his characteristic Southern drawl he said "Good poetry makes an echo in the brain." To my Yankee sensibilities, the Southern drawl has never fit well with musings over philosophy, metaphysics and mythology. Somehow, Dwight made it work. It is to me, eerily appropriate that he and Howard Finster should go in the same season. I can't help but picture them both in the afterlife for artists attending a sermon by Deacon Lunchbox.

Dwight was an odd bird. He was eccentric, a gentleman and a poet's poet. He wore his tweed hat almost any time I saw him. His delivery when reading was flat monotone and eventually he took to distributing copies of the poems he read. He didn't just turn a phrase, he could twist it like Celtic knotwork, beautiful to view and painful to identify with. In "Do not ask me", the poem he reads in "Coffeehouse...", he uses the phrase …mechanics of broken brains... And Dwight knew what he was talking about. He received disability for his mental illness.

In an odd way, I think I was intimidated by him. Not just because of his eccentric demeanor but he was full of life and driven to live despite his self-destructive tendencies. He had a cocksure attitude and was not shy. Yet, as I said, he was a gentleman.

More than anything, though, I am in awe over how he hung in there. As hard as he lived, I don't believe he wanted to die. I feel embarrassed for my self-pity and defeatist attitude. He has left me with inspiration to endure in spite of outrageous fortune.

When I talked to him in the hospital about a month ago, he said he was going to pull it off again. He had me believing it too.

Goodbye Dwight, I will miss you. But I feel honored and lucky to have known you.

Goodnight friend, and thanks for the memories.

--Reverend Wyrdsli

Elegy for Dwight The winnowing of time has claimed his soul. All those of you who knew him, lend an ear. Tonight we've come together to extol a much-loved poet friend, a gentle peer. His face, his eyes, his talent once were bright, his art and vigor welled and overflowed. Alas, on wings of death he's taken flight and rests now in his ultimate abode. Turn back your thoughts to days not long ago, before his dread affliction dimmed his eyes, see Dwight declaiming, pacing to and fro, and mourn that we have lost a treasured prize. He's present still, in spite of what fate's wrought; his spirit lingers on, though he does not. -- Emery Campbell

Veteran Old spirit, old friend- Many paths traveled, Many nights spent in Your cold harbors- Only occasionally found Near fire's generous warmth, Or clasped in love's solace- You rather studied stars, Speculated ends of things, And what might lie beyond You shared brotherhood: You who knew monsters Who wandered dark corridors Only seen when touched: Madness' cold fingers Dug deep into brain's meat, Heart and soul twisted In its distorted mirror. Veteran of long war Deep under flesh And victor over demons. You have passed over, Went quietly in your bed, In night's heart- Just as you lived. You stepped from darkness, Into the eternal light: All questions and speculation Pondered in soft starlight- As your consciousness passed Like a tachyon, Superluminal and intangible, Through this childhood plane- Answered by adulthood's certainty. Death's threat removed, You have shed the chrysalis, Create with the creator, And have been admitted Into the Elder's Academy, To consort with great spirits Who went before. You have been enriched, And you have left us poorer. -- Wylde Bill

Dear Ellen,

Thank you so much for letting me know about Dwight's death. What a loss to
the Atlanta poetry scene! But it sounds like the memorials you have planned
will be a true tribute indeed!

I now live in Savannah, and won't be in Atlanta on those dates -- I just got
back from three weeks abroad, and will be teaching a workshop here on Nov. 10.

But please say for me that Dwight was gutsy in selecting my poem "Blood
Brother" for the Georgia State Literay Magazine at a time when my poetry was at its
most controversial; when some other editors were finding it too hot handle,
Dwight selected a work that I feel still carried a gut-level punch!

Ellen, thank you again. And I am so sorry for your loss.

With warmest wishes,

Rosemary Daniell

WhiteBread

I remember you
smiling, explaining
WhiteBread as . . . .
being bleached of
almost all nutrients.
Never coarse
Always refined
But never, ever
really fulfilling.
And yet today
here I stand
stuck. Stuccoed by
wailing walls.
BlueMilk Blues
Fearfully Funky
Vitamin Enriched
Mind exhausting
but exhilarating.
Grinding Grief
into . . . . GO HEAD.
Scribe the story
Paint the picture
Honor the Word-Shaman
WRITE. . . . just don't
write. . . WhiteBread.

--Larry Carter

 

The Poet Laureate of Little Five Points

sported nose-rings, earrings, finger-rings to mask a missing thumb,
bore battle scars -- both internal and external,
donned badges from lost wars, vanished loves,

slit his nose to redden
words on the page --
bled as he read his own works,

prowled the urban jungle
by foot, by bus, by train,
by any means available to him.

The Poet Laureate of Little Five Points
strutted suburban streets,
displayed his piercings proudly,

dubbed himself Leopard,
preyed on his audience's surface fears,
dished needle-sharp critiques to nervous novices,

hid the gentler voice beneath:
of encouragement, compassion,
persistence, survival.

The Poet Laureate of Little Five Points
claimed Love and Death his only subjects.
He was right.

                                                           - Gelia Dolcimascolo

-- In fond memory of Dwight Humphries, 1952-2001
November 10, 2001

For Dwight

There was a poem you read once - probably more than once
I don't remember all the words but there was this recurring reference to decay
to natural processes, gravities that embrace and define our mortal lives
and I thought at once how all your poems were about this really
(and perhaps all my poems too, perhaps all of our poems)
about mortality about the orbit of our lives how we are born small
and are first enlarged by life then later diminished, decreased,
and your poems were about being somewhere, like me, past the middle
of that journey
and your poems were also
always about love, the possibility of love,
the inevitability of love
in the face of loss
your poems told the truth
that we are all somewhere past the middle of the journey
we are all dying men
and still we love
we are all dying men
loving other dying men
defying one kind of gravity
by giving in to another
and here's to the resurrection
and the voice you gave it
without reservation.

--Karen Wurl   -   posted 3/3/02

For Dwight

For one whose murmuring, marauding, soothing, searing sermons
of timelessly resounding verse
thrilled me, filled me with fantastic discoveries I never thought I'd find
this side of my own paradise.

Will I ever find the secret corridor deep below your Sumerian temple?
Or will I ever learn to keep your simple candle lit long enough
to discern the dingy dimensions of my own cell?
Or to uncover the crude mystic truth, as you did,
of how to fashion a comfortable enough, though sufficiently Spartan,
temporary home within my own skull?

You showed me--showed us all--that a bard who sired an Emily had
more than enough sizzling Dickinson forever in your spiritual bones,
building, as you did, a bright, crackling fire that penetrated your marrow
and leaving light enough for thirty-three and a third
generations Z through Omega, yet unborn to your legacy's growing
conflagration.

You were but one crow speaking to me--speaking to us all--
of many graves, of loves and horrors lost and found,
of endless bits of curious lore.
But once upon a midnight, when I turned to see your perch,
just above my chamber door,
in your eyes I found the brother Edgar--the precious brother Eddie--
I had never known before,
and I pray that you'll be sitting, never fluttering, never flitting,
in our hearts and minds forevermore.

By your own admission, you were no Prufrock, no Eliot,
not even Groucho.
Full of high sentence, yet you feared a bit obtuse.
Never the fool and never the spear carrier,
though always proud to be of use.
The minuteman-soldier-diplomat and marching elder statesman.
You were lacking the light touch, you insisted,
but we detected photons a plenty in your lines,
and we bet our lives as you whispered your secret words.

What more can I say?
"Aww, blow it out your ass!" you might well be howling,
pipe defiantly in hand, leaning over the polished brass railing
of the celestial gallery.

"I still stand between you and the outer darkness," I hear you yelling.
"Hey, and now I've got a ringside seat to watch the foaming bits of chaos,
bubbling up from pockets of seeming order,
within a larger chaos."

"Whatever, Dwight," I find myself saying.
"At least you're forever free of the power grid
and the endless encroaching threat of the wretched computer age."

"That's right!" I'm sure you're screaming with glee,
across the gulf between our respective dimensions.
"Don't be surprised if I come parachuting
back into your world some bright morning,
manual typewriter strapped to my back,
ready to type out clean, hard copy
the minute my boots hit the turf!"

"Oh, Dwight . . ." I concede.
"I know you'll always be the Boss Hoss."
"That's right! I told you I was writing for a thousand years from now,"
I can hear you now, speaking so clearly, right into my ear.
"I may never be a tall cedar on the heights of Mount Olympus,
but I'm already a hearty shrub on its upper slopes."

"But Dwight, you don't belong dead," I find myself complaining.
"Dwight, I can still see you so clearly in my mind.
Your trademark chapeau, your rings,
your watches, your boots and backpack, overflowing with verse.
Your stance ready for anything flimsy, pitiful Life might launch at you.
Truly Atlanta's ultimate shaman soldier-poet."

"And Dwight," again I find myself lamenting.
"I can still hear you so clearly in my mind.
The town-crier wail of cosmic declarations,
the white-hot rage of your tirades against injustice,
the soft murmurs of your gentle, heartfelt love lyrics,
the wild, joyous erupting laughter in conversation after the reading,
the earnest, honest tones of a generous, sharing kindred soul. "

"But Dwight," I find myself at last confessing.
"The most embarrassing thing is that
I can still see you and hear you so clearly that
I've gone and written this goofy poem in which I've tried to pay tribute to
you, but I'm sounding like I've gone off into the regions you called
hyper-insanity, and I'm seeming to channel you like some hideous
telephone psychic from realms of late night infomercial torment. "

"Whatever!" I hear you laughing softly.
"Mike, you always did have the soft touch.
But, hey, we know who the hard core is. "

"Yeah, Dwight, we definitely know who the hard core is. "
I pause for a few awkward seconds. I sense time is growing short.
"Dwight, what is poetry? I mean what is it all about . . . "

"The horrors of the literary life!
Whatever, Knock yourself out.
And remember . . .
You're all gonna die!
But nothing happens 'til we get there. "

--Michael N. Langford   -   posted 3/3/02