In a roundabout turn of circumstances I today learnt that Ted Walker, the poet, is dead.

Nadja is now busy in her second internship as part of her training to become a judge. She is currently working at the Legal Publisher, “Dalloz, where, she informs us, she is readying material for their blog. So I hopped over and found her first post. And just underneath was a piece about the judicial statute [is this the correct term? the judicial personnality perhaps?] of animals. This in turn referred to the recorded cases when animals have, in France and in the past, been tried for what we would consider human crimes. Including murder.

Ted Walker based a poem on one of the documented cases, and this appeared in his book, Gloves to the Hangman which my mother gave me many years back.

We were familiar with Ted’s work, and even met him a few times. He attended Steyning Grammar, in Steyning, Sussex, as I did too. Although not at the same time. He was then the sponsor [or titular figurehead] for the school’s annual poetry competition. I have no idea how one judges poetry competitions, and am inclined—reflecting back on my efforts—to suppose that perseverance was at least a major criteria. Ted Walker also performed the occasional reading at the school that I also attended, not only because distractions were rare…

One of my English Lit. teachers—with whom I somehow seemed to often cross swords, if not pens—also published poetry, and held Ted Walker in high estime. Some part of that estime must have seaped through our bended napes*, and I have subsequently followed and enjoyed Ted Walker’s work. Which is why my mother gave me the book.

So today, seeking the reference to that specific book [which is far away from me at the moment] about the pig’s hanging, the first reference that I found in Google was Ted Walker’s obituary from the Guardian.

An obituary is a curious affair, resuming a person’s life in under a hundred lines. But the very fact that it exists also says something… How many obituaries are still unwritten?

[*] School regulations stated that a boy’s hair [yes, we were the first year to be ‘mixed’] could not encroach on the nape of his neck—this was in the mid-seventies when shoulder length hair was quite normal. There could be no real reason for the rule, so we decided—in all logic and common sense—that the knowledge dispensed by our wonderful teachers was in fact imbibed through the back of the neck. Thus explaining the need to keep this area clear of interference.