I corresponded with Keith for years. I’m sure we "met" because he submitted poetry to Dreams and Nightmares, although I don’t actually remember. He loved rhymed and metered poetry and wrote it very well. Free verse is more my thing, but when formal poetry is done well I love it. I published a number of his poems over the years.

We wrote letters, on paper, if you can imagine such a thing. We shared an interest in geology. I don’t remember now exactly what his scientific training was; perhaps he was a chemist. I remember he wrote a poem featuring a dead sheep or something like that. I had encountered one, and photographed it, while doing field research for my dissertation. I had to write him and tell him about that. Of course he had had a similar encounter, which led to the poem. I never tried to write a poem about my experience. First, I never thought of it, and second, Keith had already done it so well there was little room for elaboration.

We never met face-to-face, but I always looked forward to envelopes from him. I knew there’d be good poems and probably a letter. I am sure we would have "spoken" at greater length and more often if e-mail had been available in those days. I still miss him.

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Keith Allen Daniels was the type of poet who combined science, humanities and humour in his works. He loved words and playing on words. So much of what he wrote contained terms I always had to look up in the dictionary, but I still consider most of his poems to be accessible to the reader because he always managed to include his unique sense of wit, and a great ability to look at things from alternative perspectives.

Keith was super energetic, smart, a quick thinker. He always had firm, fast opinions, and sometimes he could be overwhelming. He loved the hard sciences as well as the soft. He had “in person” recordings from such visionaries as Terence McKenna, longing for such visions himself, while at the same time mastering chemistry and engineering in the “real” world.

Keith never understood why a rift ever existed between the sciences and humanities in academic circles. While many see the two as independent cultures with hopeless little in common, Keith saw only bridges between them, neither one conflicting with nor damning to the other. He felt that the suspicion between them came only from ignorance, a lack of knowledge of both, and he studied both with equal fervour.

I visited Keith and his devoted wife Toni for two days in their home in Ridgecrest, California about three months before he died. Keith had tumours in the liver that had spread throughout his body. He had gone through hell with chemo and refused further treatment. He knew he was very ill. He knew he had little hope, but his attitude and the light in his eyes had not dimmed. He was neither depressed nor even seemingly angry even though he believed the disease was “work-related.” He was energetic, happy to discuss all aspects of poetry, often quoting from his own poems with a pride and enthusiasm unmatched by anyone I’ve ever known. He was very proud to have offered a venue for other poets with his publishing company, Anamnesis Press,which sponsored a poetry chapbook contest every year for several years.

While visiting, my partner and I introduced him to the film “The Matrix” which he had somehow missed, and he was amazed and pleased that we brought it to his attention. That was a good evening, sitting with him and his wife, watching that movie and listening to his running commentary as his mind absorbed it all.

Keith’s death in his early 40s came far far too early in his life. He had so much to give, so many thoughts, so much he wanted to explore. His poetry press barely had time to grow. He could’ve given so much more had he had the time, but what he did give was a lot. He wrote and published so much so quickly, hundreds of poems, and won and was nominated for many literary awards.

The brightness of his poet’s soul is greatly missed.

—Wendy Rathbone