In early December, the much loved Bolton polymath Raymond Dean died after a fall. He was 95, though most of us thought him to be much younger. Raymond was a regular attender of Bank Street Writers' meetings and a great poet. His verse was always witty, perfectly scanned, and often accompanied by song. He also wrote short stories. He was a truly accomplished performer.
Raymond was a very able and gentle man, a scientist, linguist, musician and writer. A large number of people, including several members of BSW attended the service at St Paul's in Bolton to say goodbye to him. We heard many humorous and lovingly related details of his life from his daughter and one of his poems was also read to us by his son. The vicar too spoke of him in sincere, glowing words.
For me, it was an honour to have known him. He was undoubtedly the best rhyming poet I ever met. An interview I did with Raymond about his poetry can be found on You Tube under 'Bank Street Writers.' Our meetings won't be the same without him.
Should One Sing?
by Raymond Dean
Glum-faced Joe, who never sings,
Wonders why he misses things,
Why the welkin never rings,
"Still small voice" for ever stings,
Wishes he, like birds, had wings,
Nothing worthwhile his way brings,
Misery to his being clings,
Happiness is just for kings,
If joy his way ever swings,
Away, himself he straightway flings:
Music made with vocal strings?
Very thought, away he slings.