Jocelyne Marie Marchand

October 21, 1944 - March 20, 2008

It is with a great deal of sadness I must announce Jocelyne Marchand, PoeticPortal's Webmaster, passed away on March 20, 2008 after a long illness. Jocelyne's presence is greatly missed.  

"I, like Pete Collins (the former webmaster), was introduced into literature at a young age. I was born in Noranda Quebec and received my education in Ottawa, Ontario. I had a parochial upbringing and the Sisters were aware that fine literature, poetry in particular 'has the power of calling all of us to a loving attention of truth that cannot make itself known in either reason or belief alone.' I had a bilingual education but I especially enjoyed English literature most of all.

It brought me such pleasure and amusement with one particular teacher. She had the ability to communicate her enthusiasm of Shakespeare and other classical works into sheer pleasure! We would beg her to prolong her discussions well beyond class time. She was delicate in nature as she was physically... this petite woman stirred in each of us a thirst for a deeper understanding of what was being studied with her passionate convictions. She had a keen insight into the author's most obscure meanings it seemed."

Her goal was to open up our young minds, and as Tennyson would have it:
"to strive to conquer and never to yield."

One of Jocelyne's favourite poems seems particularly apt at this time.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightening they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

An you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas (1951, 1952)