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Connie Hutchison
Kay Anderson
Connie Donleycott
John Stevenson
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Remembering
Francine Joy Porad
September 3, 1929 — September 27, 2006
Francine was my dear friend for more than twenty years. We worked together weekly from 1988-1995
producing Brussels Sprout. I miss her phone calls and frequent query, “Do you have time for
one haiku?” I treasure the sharing that resulted as we discussed nuance, word choice and order,
conversations that often led to jokes and stories. Her paintings and writings continue to remind me of
her talent, drive, warmth, and generosity.
first dabs —
her paintbrush now
in a grandchild’s hand
— Connie Hutchison
Again we are reminded that we have a limited visa for life on this earth. Another of our beloved haiku
poets has entered a new dimension. Having published a “first haiku” for many of us,
Francine’s Brussels Sprout journal painted a path where we were warmly invited to journey.
Remaining forever close to us, Francine Porad’s dynamic life and spirit continue to pulsate
throughout the haiku world.
seeking balance
down a rain-rutted road . . .
cry of the night heron
— Kay Anderson
Losing those we love is not easy. Francine’s spirit will live forever, in our hearts and in our
minds. I met her for the first time at a ginko in the Bloedel Reserve. Her warm smile was the first
thing I noticed. Then she took my hand and introduced herself. My heart pounded, and I’m quite
sure I fumbled with trying to introduce myself.
autumn wind . . .
learning that her middle name
was Joy
— Connie Donleycott
Francine was the first editor I approached with my haiku. She rejected them,
firmly but in such a nurturing and encouraging fashion that I was encouraged
to try again and again. Now that I am working as a haiku editor myself,
Francine is one of my most frequently invoked models. I’m doing my best
to pass along what she gave me, with some of the warmth and humor that was
so evident in her editorial work and in her poetry. This poem is one I wrote
on the day I first met Francine and is one I know she liked very much:
discussion
of one word . . .
a spark flies
— John Stevenson
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