The synaesthesia press used to maintain a few listings in directories soliciting poetry manuscripts for chapbook consideration. I’m not particularly fond of the practice, but who knows? The next Charles Bukowski might be sitting in a cheap room somewhere, pounding out poems and looking for a place to send them.
Like every small-press publisher, I receive far more work than I could ever print. Most of it simply isn’t for me.
Then Henry’s manuscript arrived.
From the first poem I read, I was hooked. In fact, I decided to publish the book before I reached the end of the submission.
Whenever people asked me what Henry’s work was like, I found myself giving the same answer: Brautiganesque.
I know. I hate to pigeonhole, and labels are imperfect. But we apply them to everything—books, music, people—whether they fit or not. Still, it was the closest comparison I could make. Henry’s poems possessed that same clarity, gentleness, humor, and emotional precision that made Richard Brautigan’s best work so memorable.
As the project began taking shape, I asked Gerald Locklin to contribute an introduction. His assessment was better than anything I could have written myself:
“Henry Tokarski has produced a sequence of youthful, credible love poems in a time not hospitable to such efforts…”
Locklin went on to praise the poems’ restraint, emotional intelligence, and ability to leave space for the reader. I remember reading his introduction and feeling reassured that my instincts had been correct.
The book was designed. The type was set. A publication date was announced.
And then life happened. At the time I was working full-time, and despite every intention of publishing the book, I never found the time to complete it.
Years passed.
After I retired, one of the projects I most wanted to revisit was Henry’s book. I tracked down his contact information, eager to finally finish what I had started. That’s when I learned Henry had died. The news hit me harder than I expected.
Publishers accumulate unfinished projects over the years. Most quietly fade away. This one never did. Henry’s manuscript remained on my shelf, patiently waiting.
It still is.
One of the great regrets of my publishing life is that To Sherri O’Brien From Morrell Park in Northeast Philadelphia never appeared when it should have. One of my hopes is that it still might.
Some books arrive on schedule.
Others take the long way home.
