Jane Greer, one of the founders of the “new formalism” in poetry, died last night at the age of seventy-two. She left us far too few poems, but enough poetic intensity to fill volumes by lesser poets. Regular readers of this Magazine are familiar with her even if they do not remember the name: she often left us clever remarks (signed simply “Jane”) in the comments.

We console ourselves for the loss by reminding ourselves that Jane’s poetry was only a small part of her work. She was a sower, and we are still reaping the harvest from the dozens of good poets she encouraged. She even encouraged your humble servant here, which shows us that charity was not the least of her virtues.

The loss to poetry is mitigated, then, by her enormous legacy. The personal loss is a little harder. Every so often we will run across something that we know would amuse Jane and no one else, and what can do with it?

The grief: I cannot seem to move beyond it,
but in this silence I will try to save
some shred of this beastly day, try to believe
in redemption, and that I am not the beast—
voice tight, teeth showing, my hour come round at last.
(From “Motherhood on the One Quiet Night” by Jane Greer.)

Two of Jane’s books are in print from Lambing Press. It was our honor to be present at the birth of both these books—not as the midwife, perhaps, but at least as one of those technicians who roll the cart in. If our own recommendation is not sufficient, they come with glowing recommendations from Samuel Hazo, James Matthew Wilson, Anthony Esolen, Ryan Wilson, Rachel Hadas, Boris Dralyuk, Maryann Corbett, and a host of other big names in current literature.