Rest in Peace Reuben Jackson – Poet, Archivist and Friend

Reuben Jackson via Alan Squire Publishing

Thanks to Katie for sharing the super sad news about Reuben Jackson’s recent passing earlier this month.

On a personal note I have to say that this news has hit my very hard. Most people don’t know this but Reuben was a reader, supporter and occasional contributor to PoPville from the very early Prince of Petworth days. And when I say supporter I mean Reuben gave me strength in the very early days when I was filled with doubts. Reuben always gave me words of encouragement and urged me to keep doing what I was doing. Simply, Reuben was the best. He reached out to me after the pandemic to say hi, and I said hi. But I wish I had said so much more. Don’t we always. I’ll say it now – thank you Reuben. Thank you for your words, your voice and your friendship. You will be missed.

About Reuben’s words. Here’s what he wrote to us back in 2009:

“I am not sure I would call these “haiku”. In fact, I would not. They are 17 syllable “poems” looking at a side of this city (Washington, DC) which increasingly nags at me (to say the least). I am trying to do something with the very “Southern” aspects of life here-aspects which so-called home rule (etc.) has not changed. Finally, they are the -ahem-ahem- “musings” of a middle aged black man trying to come to grips with the tension, changes, what have you in what my Mom accurately dubbed a “big-small Southern town”.

I.

Spanish music plays
in buildings where James Brown ruled
Throbbing stereos.

II.

Followed in bookstores
Mocked by gangsta wannabees
Where do I fit in?

III.

Why would you leave here?
A childhood friend inquired
Through a toothless smile.

IV.

Men I’ve known since birth
Baby sit ragged corners
Under served by life.

V.

Girl with Whole Foods bag
Receives suspicious glances
“She must think she white.!”

VI.

Disdainful glances
Hurled at a new white neighbor.
Soon there will be more.

VII.

Parents left me here.
Is it too late to get out?
Dream on the down-low.

VIII.

Politicians flock
Like self important peacocks.
Shopping mall- at last!

IX.

Take a crosstown bus
If you dream of salad bars
And sit-down cafes.”

Katie and felow poets say that “his Trayvon Martin poem, For Trayvon Martin, is one of his best”:

“Instead of sleeping—
I walk with him from the store.
No Skittles, thank you.

We do not talk much—
Sneakers crossing the courtyard.
Humid Southern night.

We shake hands and hug—
Ancient, stoic tenderness.
I nod to the moon.

I’m so old school—
I hang till the latch clicks like.
An unloaded gun.”

You can read the Washington Post obit: Reuben Jackson, poet, jazz scholar and radio host, dies at 67 here.

From Alan Squire Publishing:

“Reuben Jackson served as curator of the Smithsonian’s Duke Ellington Collection in Washington, D.C. for over twenty years. His music reviews have been published in the Washington Post, Washington City Paper, Jazz Times, and on NPR’s “All Things Considered.” Jackson is also an educator and mentor with The Young Writers Project. He taught poetry for 11 years at the Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland and taught high school for two years in Burlington, Vermont. He is also a founding member of the New Music-Theatre workshop and currently works for the organization as a librettist. His poems have been published in over 40 anthologies; his first volume is fingering the keys, which Joseph Brodsky picked for the Columbia Book Award. Reuben Jackson is currently an archivist with the University of the District of Columbia’s Felix E. Grant Jazz Archives. From 2013 until 2018, he was host of Friday Night Jazz on Vermont Public Radio.”