This past November 27, West Virginia lost one of its most distinctive poetic voices: Joseph P. Gatski. For those not in the know, Joe was not just a poet. He was also a songwriter, musician, watercolorist, an avid outdoorsman, and maker of bamboo flutes.

Joe published several volumes of poetry: Promontory, Annie's Stick, Cranberry Way, and Anthology. I have the first three books, and I can attest to the beauty of his work.

I first met Joe Gatski in October 1999 at a poetry convention at the local Holiday Inn. Hearing him read his work was a religious experience. That such a booming voice came from a skinny man like that, it was amazing to see him perform.

I owe the intensity of Joe's readings for re-igniting my own passion for poetry. I had just emerged on the other side of a rough time in my life. By that point, I hadn't written anything in several years. Watching Joe read his poems brought it all back to me. Though I did not know him as well as others, I owe him more than I can ever say.

Joe Gatski was 51 years old.

LAST TIME I SAW JOE GATSKI

was the day after Thanksgiving.
I sat in the Blue Moose Cafe,
facing Walnut Street,
writing a poem,
and sipping hot cider.

Joe walked in the door, gaunt
as a reed swaying
in the wind.

All his hair was gone.
Replaced by an old ballcap.
a poor substitute for
his former tousled, tangled mop.

I would have said hi, but
he looked very determined.
I couldn't have guessed why

at first, but I knew when I
heard the bathroom door slam.

Maybe I left before he came out.
Maybe he left when my nose was
buried in my book.

I figured I'd see him again
on some street corner, but
I won't anymore.

We won't anymore.