Photo courtesy of Michelle Pedone

Randall Cadman

PULSE MAGAZINE FEATURE

   ~Courtesy of Pulse The Magazine~ 

A Tribute to Randy Cadman

1930-2011

A friend told me that the world will end when the last poet dies.

We are one step closer to that end with the loss of the poet, Randall Cadman – a member of Writers One Flight Up and The Mount Dora Writers Guild.  Randy published volumes of poetry and won numerous awards.  He was a prolific rhymester.  He mastered many different poetic forms and never failed to entertain us with his work, whether it was a risqué limerick, a lofty sonnet or the more difficult villanelle or pantoum. 

Randy will be missed, but his spirit, his élan, his special humanity will stay with us forever.  Randy made us happier.  We always felt better after being with Randy, and his poetry will be a part of us forever.

We will miss hearing Randy’s voice, his laugh, his quirky ideas.  We will miss his sparkling eyes, his gentlemanly manner, his dinner jackets, his ascots, and his deep baritone.  But Randy will always be in our hearts and minds. 

Thank you for gracing us with your presence.  Write on, good friend! 

God’s Fool 

There’s a need in the poet,
      while tending the flame,
  to believe that the future
        will honor his name,
   that the notes he has bottled,
        and the legends they bore,
   will be rescued and treasured
        on Tomorrow’s bright shore.
   Though he’s labeled a dreamer,
        he’ll struggle and cope,
   wearing rags of rejection
        and garlands of hope.
   When the proud spires of power
        have fallen to rust,
   when the child in her cradle
        Is mingled with dust,
   when the faith of the moment
        is yesterday’s news,
    and the merchants of madness
      have lit the last fuse,
    with the toll road of doom’s day
 expensively paved,
     still some poet will thunder,
         “The day can be saved!”
     From the ashes of splendor,
          he will somehow contrive
     the Quixotic conviction
          that Man will survive. 

Andrew Watts was Randy’s lifetime partner.  They moved from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan and settled in Eustis some 30 years ago.  In our weekly meetings, Randy often referred to the loving, caring and sharing life he had with “Andy.”

 In Memory of Andrew Watts
1919-1995
“consummate companion”

 What is as banal
as a heart-sick clown?
Fingering a vial of hemlock memories,
I number those who would miss me.
My earnest crafted notes—such fragile vessels.
Nothing now to regret
but the empty pages.
All that I know of courage
was taught in silence.
My life is a handful of burnished pebbles.
Yet sunsets have a beauty of their own.

 “Once Green” is an example of Randy’s ability to handle the myriad of poetic forms.  Dedicated to poet Maryanne Napoleone, Randy’s friend and confidant since the early ‘80s, the poem is an example of a Beymorlin sonnet, an Italian sonnet form where internal rhymes are used as well as the traditional end rhymes.

 Once Green 

When I consider how my once-green days lie thrall to autumn leaves I walk among,
I sigh to view the bitter ghosts they raise,
and gall lies like a wafer on my tongue.
I chose the Word, not action, as my mode
to chart a course or praise a friendly flag,
yet close with life an undeciphered code,
my heart still blind and wild – a wounded stag.
Since fame is not a mean or small pursuit,
I gaze for flecks of gold in ancient streams,
and claim that man can rise above the brute.
    In days to come, unlikely as it seems, these scrawls may win remembrance for me
like fall’s bright leaves from a barren, once-green tree.

Randy, like his Mom’s apple tree, “gave up the ghost this spring.”  We at WOFU mourn and praise Randy for all he brought into our lives.

 Ring of Life

The apple tree in Mom's back yard
this year stands stark and bare,
deleafed at last of stubborn grit,
with only me to care.

Mom brought it south in sapling form,
much ridiculed for hope.
Though Florida heat was not its norm,
it somehow seemed to cope.

Just half the size of northern kin,
its fruit was hard and tart.
When boiled for hours, a season's
yield sufficed to cheer Mom's heart.

The apple tree in Mon's back yard
gave up the ghost this spring.
I guess it didn't feel the need
to add another ring.—04/2010

Randall attended his first poetry workshop just before turning fifty (his age, like his telephone number, was unlisted) which, for better or worse, opened the floodgates. He has one book of poetry and several chapbooks to his credit, and his efforts have appeared in anthologies and publications as diverse as "Cats" magazine, a college level psychology tome and The Formalist.

He was a graduate of City College of New York.

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