[Chris O'Carroll]

A friend of hers from England sends the sad news that Ann Drysdale was found dead today, apparently having died in her sleep.

In her poem "She Writes Her Own Obituary", Ann imagined this sentence as the final message on a poet's screen:

"Spry she was, too, for such an old woman:
Could still turn a phrase like a chit of a girl."

Thank you, Annie, for all the well-turned phrases.

[Clive Watkins]

This is sad news indeed. Alas...

Clive

[Susan McLean]

She will be much missed here. A stellar poet and delightful person. I am so sorry to hear this.

Susan

[Carl Copeland]

Very sad news. She’s been quiet in recent months, but checked in regularly. I saw her in “users online” in the last few days, I think. Wish I had known her in her heyday on the Sphere. As the Russians say, may the earth be like down for her.

[Jayne Osborn]

Oh, no. I'm absolutely devastated to hear this news. Annie and I were close friends. I'll miss her, and our phone chats.
I'm stunned beyond belief.

Jayne

[Roger Slater]

Oh my God, that's horrible! Ann was one of my favorite online friends, a lovely person and also one of the smartest and most talented among us.

[Joe Crocker]

She posted on the Drills and Amusements page yesterday afternoon with a link to the 1995 BBC adaptation of Cold Comfort Farm. I watched it and wrote to thank her. I never met her but she seemed to be a lovely lady with a sharp mind.

[Shaun J. Russell]

Oh dear. Always loved her posts and poems. Such sad news, and I'm especially sorry for those who knew her well.

[Michael Cantor]

Damm! Ann was a fine poet, and a gracious voice of wisdom. She will be missed.

[Julie Steiner]

What a talent — and what a life! My condolences to her family, should they look in here.

Sounds as if she "went light." I dearly hope so.


Going Light
by Ann Drysdale

They call it “going light”, the loss of substance
That goes with the failing of the spirit
When the end comes.

My old dog went light just before he died.
His thin bones whispered in his hairy skin
And went to sleep

And all that was left of him was the light
That faded slowly as his eyes went dim;
The other light.

Going light, light going. It was as if
I had perceived a sort of sense in it
For a moment.

Two kinds of light, making an hourglass
Laid on its side between weight and darkness;
The shape of dying.

Death is the snapping of the narrow neck
In between substance and oblivion
And that is all.

And as you come near to the glass isthmus
I wish for the breaking to be gentle.
Go light, my love.