Gordon Black, Long-Time KZYX Music Host, Poet and Coast Raconteur, Dead at 88

Marta McKenzie: With great sadness let it be known that Gordon Black passed away on Thursday, March 21 in Fort Bragg. A poet, a teacher, a gentleman and a truly fine man.

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Ann Brown: Ahhhhh… Gordon Black, a fine actor musician and friend of all the arts. And what a unique voice! Just hearing him say Good Morning was a pleasure. He will be missed.

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Liz Helenchild: Thank you, Marta, for posting the sad news about our esteemed longtime local radio & theater star/poetry creator & promoter. He wore his several hats with flair. It comforts me to report that Gordon's last days of a fully packed 88 years were graced by Marta and a small group of his good friends. Quoting Jesse Colin Young: We are but a moment's sunlight fading in the grass.

David Jones: Here’s a poem Gordon sent to me awhile back. He was a strong man who kept me centered. I’m very sad.

NEW YEAR

quiet in the canyon enough

to hear the whistle in the head

afar a kerthunk and there distant surf

.

that said its value is what's not said

escape to football Rose Bowl interpret

both defenses are getting the best of it early

.

let as if life itself hang on disambiguation

or ride the perimeters of sense in nature at repose

light withdrawing from some but not all last things

— Gordon Black

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John Sakowicz: I am heartbroken to hear of the death of Gordon Black, friend, teacher, poet, public radio broadcaster, classical music connoisseur, motorcyclist and daredevil in his own boisterous, luxuriously fine, lavish, large and powerful way. 

TO POETS

for Gordon Black

the quiet in the canyon was enough—yea,

the noise in our heads was too much

.

there's something to be said for what's not said

something to be said for in nature in repose

.

something to be said for the Anasazi's ancient secrets

something to be said for the sun-washed waste of sands

.

there's something to be said for the giant cactus

waving with their hands in the sky

.

waving goodbye to all last things

as stars come out or hide, as thunder goes rolling by.

— John Sakowicz, March 24, 2024

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In 1997 Gordon Black took a motorcycle tour of the Northern United States and Canada on his Harley. Here’s a short excerpt from his report: 

“I’m at a picnic table, assembling notes. Before me on the green are three spirited women, volleying French. I think I need to ask whether lac, as in lake, is la, or le, and I learn it’s neither; it’s lr. The merriest one has the voice of a cello, mezzo-French. An arrow to the heart! I resume writing in an awful hand with scratchouts on lined paper, she is writing on blank pages, bound, with gold stampings. I must invite them to sample the grapes of California’s fabulous Nomanapacino, introducing them to the viticulture editors of the AVA, get them on Marco McLean’s world literature radio review. But when I conclude my piece with its final, perfectly formed period, they’re gone. An ouch to remember.”

(Assembled by Mark Scaramella)