When I reflect on what Lyn Hejinian has meant to me, I am overwhelmed. I am just one of many people whose lives she changed for the better. At the same time, I had the privilege of enjoying a long, productive friendship with Lyn, who was to me, in her words, “your fellow and comrade poet and friend of half a century.”

Deep thinker, brilliant writer, tireless publisher, fearless teacher, staunch collaborator, empathic translator, Lyn was all of these. From the transitional Bay Area poetry scene of the 70s to the national and international scenes of the following decades, Lyn demonstrated what it means to be a leader. Her spirit of adventure was only matched by her magnanimous generosity.

In the fall of 1986, Lyn and I began exchanging short poems via postal mail. Our correspondence continued for two years. The first set of 24 poems was published by Charles Alexander’s Chax Press in a beautifully designed letterpress accordion-fold edition called Individuals. Lyn later published an expanded version of her side of the full series entitled The Cell.

Over time, Lyn achieved a masterful synthesis of analytic thought and imaginative play to create brilliant works that are both rigorous and wild. These include critical writing like The Language of Inquiry and Allegorical Moments, and poetry such as A Border Comedy, The Book of a Thousand Eyes, and Positions of the Sun.

I have lots of memories of working and traveling with Lyn: collating pages of the Tuumba letterpress book series on her dining room table; taping our radio show on KPFA; performing in Poets Theater; touring Stockholm, Helsinki, and Leningrad with a group of Russian and American poets; writing, editing, and performing The Grand Piano: A Collective Autobiography along with our friends and colleagues, Rae, Steve, Carla, Tom, Ted, Bob, Ron, and Barry. Invariably, Lyn was an absolute pleasure to be with.

In June 2022, Lyn and I had a date for a glass of wine on College Avenue. On the way, my car broke down, so we rescheduled for the following week, when I received this text: “Hi. Now it’s my turn to postpone our date. I’ll explain later. Sorry.” This was the beginning of Lyn’s long bout with cancer. During this time, she completed her long prose work “Lola the Interpreter,” which was to be her last.

In February, my wife Ahni made soup for Lyn and Larry, which we delivered to their front porch. When we texted to announce the drop, the door opened and they said, “Come on in.” It was wonderful being together. Lyn was in good spirits. Six days later, as a group of us assembled on Zoom to perform a celebration of Lyn’s life and work at the Louisville Conference on Literature and Culture, our host Barrett Watten informed us that Lyn had passed away that morning. In total shock, we had no choice but to continue with our presentations, as Lyn would certainly have wanted.

Along with our mutual friend Kathleen Frumkin, Lyn and I shared the same birthday, May 17. Each year we would make sure to wish each other many happy returns. From this year onward, my birthday will be tinged with sadness, but also deep joy for having had Lyn in my life.