My brother, John Horder, who has died aged 80, was known as the “hugging poet”. He was interested in the teachings of the India mystic Meher Baba, whom he called a “hugging genius”, and Baba’s maxim “don’t worry, be happy” became John’s favourite saying.
His first published collection was The Child Walks Around Its Own Grave (1966), for which he received two Arts Council awards. A selection, A Sense of Being (1968), was published as part of the Phoenix Living Poets series, and, later, Meher Baba and the Nothingness (1981). His plays included Cakes and Carrots and The African Who Loved Hugging Everybody. He wrote a reinvention of Rumpelstiltskin which I saw him perform; he had a wonderful stage presence.
John was born in Brighton, East Sussex, son of Molly (nee Rourke) and Ernest Horder. Our mother died when we were both young; John was 12 and I was four. This had a marked effect on the rest of our lives. We grew up in Coulsdon, Surrey, where John attended Downside school. Our father, a journalist and PR man, then sent John to St Paul’s school in west London. I think he wanted to toughen him up, but it did not work.
John went on to Selwyn College, Cambridge, to study English. After national service, he spent a brief spell as an assistant press officer to two archbishops of Canterbury. In the 1960s he moved to West Hampstead, north London, and became established in literary circles there. He became a freelance writer and reviewer for publications including the Guardian, and later the Independent, as well as for local Hampstead papers.
He interviewed poets including Philip Larkin and Ted Hughes and became friends with Stevie Smith. He formed a special friendship with Smith and I will never forget him taking me to meet her in her tiny flat. In 2002, to mark the 100th anniversary of Smith’s birth, he co-edited Stevie: A Motley Selection.
John was an adorable character. He loved to walk across Hampstead Heath and eat in his favourite cafes. He lived for his writing and his work, almost to the exclusion of everything else. A visit to his flat was an event in itself. He had a table, a couple of chairs and virtually nothing else, except thousands of books and newspapers that one had to climb over to give him a hug.
