Back to Main
October 8, 2005
WB: 50th Anniversary
Comments
I first read “Howl” during my junior year of high school, aloud and alone in the basement at 3:00 A.M., stoned off my ass from some of the Columbian I was dealing, standing there wearing red welder’s goggles under a black light, and reading to my audience–a wall plastered with the jackets of 50’s record albums, a Ridgid Tool calendar of bikinied babes, and an assortment of Sierra Club pictures of Colorado that I had assiduously cut out and pasted up.
I next read “Howl” during my senior year, on the subway back and forth to Bronx Science, and by the reservior behind the school, where you went to lose your virginity, and again to my imaginary audience, alone in the basement at 3:00 A.M., everyone else sound asleep two floors above me, but now after sitting zazen for 3 hours.
I again read “Howl” during my freshman year of college, sitting in the back booth of the coffee shop by an open window, competing in the darkness with the sibilance of the crickets in the ravine, now with a real audience of 10 or 15, earnest, alienated, and over-protected middle class kids craving the songs of experience and the blue incandescense of his words.
I read “Howl” during my sophmore year at Reed, during Renaissance Fair weekend, high again, on MDMA manufactured by our chemistry department (we didn’t know it as Ecstasy then), standing inside a human chessboard at dusk, beneath towering Douglas Firs, surrounded by people, and aped by the guilty conscience of a deflating helium balloon tied earlier to a beltloop.
I sang “Howl” during my first year living in the East Village by heart, its words and cadence tumbling out naturally, tripping on four hits of blotter, standing on the tar roof of Maggie’s tenement on ninth street and second avenue, that first summer when slumlords burnt down four buildings, and the sparks and ashes rose up and into the lights of the surrounding skyscrapers, blinking on and off in the hot summer night like some vast new form of consciousness.
I cried to the lost verses of “Howl” later that same year, crashing from speed, lonely, depressed and heartbroken, betrayed by the bleak light of dawn, and craving only the fix of the Great Jones Diner.
I read “Howl” the next year behind the kitchen after lunch, during my winter at Shasta Abbey, the Soto Zen monastery in the northern California mountains, disillusioned and frustrated by the relentless training, and oddly comforted by the familiar bleak and drear verses.
I was somewhat of a poet, among other things, myself, in those days. I remember the huge fight I had with Allan in 1978, after the big event of the year, the New Year’s Day poetry reading at St. Marks in the Bowery Church, when he read an awful little throwaway piece making fun of Zen Buddhism–I didn’t have much of a sense of humor in those days. I look back in horror now at my immaturity, my self righteousness; I thought I had all the answers.
Like many a genius, Allan could also write some horrible verse: trite, dull and ininspired. And he often did in those days. But he also produced works of brilliance. I remember the first time I heard him perform “Plutonium Ode”, sitting crosslegged in the basement of some East Village restaurant, all of us sitting similarly around him. What was that he played between verses? I can’t quite remember, was it Tibetan bells or a zither, or something. But my hair stood up in the back of my neck hearing that poem, for here was all of the energy and vision of Howl, but with a mature political consciousness. Here was Ginsburg meets Chomsky AND the Dalai Lama. Here was a way to channel the despair so it doesn’t have to destroy you. That is a huge step to take, finding a way to produce great art that goes beyond just nihilism–think about it, many artists never get there.
Allan was about thirty years older than those of us who hung around the Poetry Project, and him, in those days. Most of us didn’t believe we were going to even make it to thirty, so that was a big difference. (Tragically, quite a few didn’t.) He dressed in non-descipt slacks and a blue oxford shirt with a jumble of pens and pencils in the breast pocket. Combined with his Coke-bottle glasses, he gave off more of the appearance of an absent-minded engineer than a poet. He lived in those days in a tenement walkup on Tenth street between avenues A and B. Actually, it was a seedier dump than the ones I, or most of my friends, lived in. Here was a poet, possibly the best American poet of his century, well into his fifties, barely eking out the living of a busboy. It is sad to remember that, while we recognized his poverty, I and many of my friends belittled him for it. We were no wealthier, but far less accomplished, and the cloak of penury fits far better at twenty than at fifty. Later in life, not having the catalog of songs that the Beatles, Stones or Dylan had to sell out as shills for Detroit, he was forced to scramble for a living. Teaching at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado turned out to be a good thing for him, but the first few years were touch and go; potentially more a source of embarrasment than accomplishment.
Allan’s homosexuality was well known, and not a source of much note in lower Manhattan in those days. But, he did have a predeliction for young “straight” boys, and one of his more common mating ploys was to offer some unsuspecting admirer of his poetry, new to the scene, a position as his assistant, before making a pass at them. There was always some story of the latest ham-handed fiasco making the rounds. Well, we all have our needs, and no less an authority than Woody Allen said “that he would never want to be a member of a club that would have him as a member”, an admonition that Ginsberg apparently took to heart. Nevertheless, this behavioral pattern of his did serve to knock him off his pedestal, to us, somewhat.
A few years later, I moved away from New York and away from the orbit of Allan Ginsberg. Just last week, watching Scorsese’s movie about Dylan on PBS, I saw the footage of Allan talking about Dylan filmed a few years before he died. He looked good, and his comments were measured, insightful, and in stricking contrast to the interviews that Scorsese filmed of his subject, far more honest and perceptive. A better comparison could not be had. Rereading “Howl” tonight, it holds up just fine!
Malooga, excllent post,
and from the moon, a fond memory i rememberering:
& hawthorne howled
so too hart crane howled along with lowell who howled though thr long nights of his art
& dorothy parker howled
obviouslly ginsberg howled but so too merwin & bly levertov & rich
howling is at least a major voice of america
jelly roll, charlie christian, robert johnson, blind willie mctell, cisco houston, paul robeson & phil och all howled
they sang the voice of america
hank williams howled, jimmy rodgers howled, jimi hendrix howled – the young man jimmy webb who wrote the moon’s a harsh mistess howled
janis joplin she howled
though he canadian glen gould howled for america
even & perhaps especially liberace howled
when nabakov became the liberace of literature – he did so for america & he howled all night long chasing after butterflies to cut his cries
faulkner – that great gent – did nothing other than howl
america is the wolf howling while we cry like bears
still steel
Posted by: remembereringgiap | September 7, 2004 06:40 PM | #
Posted by: anna missed | Oct 8 2005 10:40 utc | 3
and so Malooga,
How’d you get from Ginsberg, to oil refinery operative? Not sayin it couldnt happen, but thats a story I’d like to hear.
Posted by: anna missed | Oct 8 2005 11:01 utc | 4
anna missed
a kiss on yr pal, for rememberingrememberering
like we do here on both cheeks
me too i am interested in the history of our malooga
& hope yr pushing yr art out my friend – the only real filter in all this madness that surrounds us
since we’re not working on maggie’s farm
still steel
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Oct 8 2005 13:10 utc | 5
A precient post RG,and a tremendous recollection, AM.
Ah, but there are a dozen years that lay between those two tales. Buckminster Fuller used to say that when you try to do something, what you often end up accomplishing is centripetal, or a right angles, to your intention. And so life proceeds, despite our best intentions, not linearly, but sideways often, in fits and starts, like a crab scuttling along the beach. Or, at least, despite craving stability while searching for truth, that has been my personal experience. And so my own tale winds through petty bourgeois years of flowers and organic foods, almost dying from a bizarre illness, alternative healing, and Denmark, to touch upon a few highlights. Oh yes, and divorce and the loss of my second nest egg, which will drive any young man to feel the rectifying urge of a simple life of hard labor as some sort of symbolic atonement…Shouldn’t have read Richard Henry Dana when I was young.
And to the poets and those that know them well…
That voice, I’m talking about the oral one now, did it come from Kerouac and/or Cassidy and the spontaneous prose line (ie. monotone, no commas, building, building, building, till it crashes)?
malooga
it is that – that we have been lied to – every which way – we have been lied to under the terms of enlightenment, progress, freedom – all of these have been the emroidered lies of our childhoods & of our growing
& then for us – thos who are in the midst of life – we were woken up – young with the lies they told us about vietnam & latin america & we woke up & we kept on waking up
surely there are moments when we have wanted sleep more than we have wanted anything else – we have wanted to sleep – through the mechacnisms of history – that inside of us – told us the terrible truth
but tyranny is a strange thing – it thinks that it can buy comprimise or kill all opposition – that it can kill the real dreams, that it can destroy love – & the compassion/critique which the most capital element of that love- but it cannot & will not
& when that monster slipped through the doors of the white house – it has created men from some of us who wanted to rest in perhaps somewhere else, it made woman understand that the nature of their love is at once transcedental & substantitial & it must possess a destructive force of cleansing
so i do not find it so odd that many of our richest & most ferocious commentators here are women
the monsters have created something from us – a community – the community or multitudes that toni negri speaks of often & in our polyphonic voice through all our exiles we are building ove with our breaths – human breath
we are all too conscient of what is happening in iraq – & it is why o have tried to meet those who presume of us here – that writing is all we do – that from any reasonable listening of what happens here – is that people are leading lives of engagement – of doing
of honouring that word -struggle
it is true also that the people losing their lives fighting the monster are iraquis & will soon be iranians – we may not have common cause with them – but we must have a united front – with their acts
i reread fanon again & again – partially for the work i do in my communities – but he is also an essential tool in understanding – how suicide bombers come into being – how a society that is being terrorised & occupied will become for a moment the mirror of that
& yes there is something homeric – that the story needs to be told again & again & again & again & why i have never apoligised for the repitition in my song here – because the story needs to be told once & for all how man walked away from his heart & built gas chambers, firestormed; murdered for money, assasinated many for the benefit of the few
how those who rule from the roll of dollars are repeating the same lie all the time – that there is nothing in their story – but our story must be told again & again & again
malooga – for me there is nothing private – your story – the story of anna missed, annie me deanander slothrop cloned posert uncles scam flashharry bernhard – all these stories are our collective stories – our contribution to the heart which is a the centre of commotment
we mmay not be good people but we know what gooodness means
rove & his brothere & sister criminals have tried to darg us through the shit of their smalltime corruption & their grand destruction – but we will survive them – our story will outsurvive theirs
their story will reach the end it has always wanted – ugly & terrifying
our story will be borne again in the flames as it as always done
force et amité
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Oct 9 2005 0:23 utc | 10
Hey, nice one malooga.
I remember going to see Ginsberg perform at the Continental Divide on St. Marks and 3rd Avenue, back when they served food.
It was a weeknight around the Gulf War I, and Allen played two rosewood sticks, the size of those paraffin candles.
“Click-click-click-click-click-click-click” it went continuously, quite fast maybe 90 beats per second. And he chanted along with it, “who’s got the bomb? we got the bomb — they got the bomb — why should we bomb — who we gonna bomb — they got the bomb — are we gonna bomb — when we gonna bomb — Saddam’s got a bomb,” and so on. Very memorable for its absolutely metric and insistent rhythm and the silly singsong about the bomb. Flawless.
Every time Ginsberg finished a piece up there in front of the square cafeteria tables, this short little guy in the middle kept popping to his feet and clapping hard and loud. He wore a bright green satin athletic jacket, maybe it said the name of some university on the back — it was already out of style even back then in the early nineties.
Someone said he was the famous yippie who wrote Steal This Book.
Anyway it was a great poetry reading and afterward I asked Allen Ginsberg for his best advice. He told me to read and follow a certain psalm or scripture from Buddhism. I never did follow up on that.
Posted by: jonku | Oct 9 2005 11:28 utc | 11
Malooga,
Well written recollection. I liked Ginsberg’s use of sparse sound accompanying poetry. I also like your association of very altered states with some form of enlightenment. Interesting chemistry department at Reed.
Posted by: jm | Oct 9 2005 11:52 utc | 12
another narrative alternates/here driving vehicle/colliding into cross
malevich could’ve painted/you’re face now/it’s editing word
here sentence there/has been annihilated/and you called/for the execution
of a phrase/or a thought/that was out/of place there/you know where
because you’ve pinned/it on map/that is hanging/above our bed
there’s a radio/though there’s choice/between house music/quotes from koran
chants are heard/here in kingdom/where desire has/no other place
to go forward/is only thing/i remember about/the cultural revolution
gang of four/dog of mao/assassination of piao/they’re all novels
printed by prestigious/publishing houses american/mostly to italian
editions are costly/and are kept/under a lock/and a key/in a bedroom
where pasolini fucked/the professionals underclass/for professional purposes
and i’m running/out of paper/so i’ll write/ode or epitaph
whichever comes first/comes as no/surprise or suggestion
taken as toll/for breathing air/that you gave/me a sleepwalker
drifting into dream/you were having/when you surrounded/fortress or future
wee can speak/in their company/because barely understanding/breathe they mistake
for words arrive/in due course/as advocates answer/you in tone/that’s not replying
so i’m going/to build berlin/wall all over/again world needs
barriers & boundaries/not a notion/but is fixed/as a nail/i am hammering
into my hands/imitating a stigmata/about only thing/that hasn’t occurred
in last year/there’s been resurrection/after healthy death/down under descent
where winds waved/flags i knew/from old days/when holding fist
high in air/possibly levitating perhaps/muybridge might mention
that if he/hadn’t committed act/that’d keep him/safe on margin
where we all/belong to another/this simple ethic/still not understood
& only interpreted/in san fransisco/by bastard son/of charlie manson
perhaps wilhelm reich/but i’m being/overly optimistic only/to have faith
stay with me/a little longer/so i can/watch wounds heal
this a plea/you might hear/as i drop/to the ground/imitating a conscience
you don’t have/all you applied/for an obituary/and i won’t
give a gift/as she passes/you in street/in an arrondisement
you haven’t spent/time or threat/is wild horse/waiting outside window
when i want/it to leave/me to stay/you to play/a directors intrusion
trap for judges/who’re on way/to fourth mystery/that’s reaching out
for another explanation/you’ll have to/just hold on/i am coming
and one day/you can lean/on me maybe/that will happen
though i imagine/doubt enters mind/knowing i’m trajectory
heading towards target/that keeps moving/closer & closer
through a passage/you’re walking down/as if soldier/on duty certainly
this precise interpretation/sixteen miles away/from this place/is a tree
round that tree/tigers & bears/scorpions & snakes/on the top/of that tree
great fat snake/on his head/a little cage/in that cage/is a bird
and my soul/is in that/bird a metaphor/i’m not thinking
except of flight/though these wings/have flown away/more than once
in this area/i am master/who has everything/under control today
singing the blues/i picked up/from sonny boy/or blind lemon
they’re just names i am using/crying a river/amongst the pioneers
who are looking/for a frontier/near a temple/i worship in
an interminable intersection/an essential element/in my making
an ecstatic journey/undertaken while travelling/with a bride
digging the dirt/as we do/so they do/just so just/or saint just
who i identify/as central character/in a revolution/that failed here
on the streets/i am walking/away from you/away form her
i am listening/to the sounds/that separate us/along a line
we went too/far in forest/finding the witch/who was looking
hansel & greetel/in better care/than they would/be in this
world a war/that is continuing/by other means/on miracle mile
i am remembering/how we worked/inside that chapel
with angels observing/we made love/and fought wars/while others scribbled
in their notebooks/they must think/i am combination/elvis & grotowski
god without stars/stars without god/godless & starless/i became human
a long walk/to get there/more than you/think i’m anecdote
you can denounce/at a debate/whether i was/any thing other
than thought theologically/in your apartment/in louis blanc
hidden amongst volumes/is your name/clear & concise
though it’ll take/few more years/this not insult/merely a declaration
of a love/that hasn’t name/except in kabbala/this family named
in a prescription/others will write/for another day/In detroit maybe
for my brothers/live under skin/though they’re first/to demean me
you have to/just stand back/figure out facts/alone without axis
depending on defence/that didn’t come/at a time/it was expected
during a delay/between two pints/on a diagram/you have drawn
in a dream/i woke fassbinder/with a valium/drank a beer
wrote a script/we didn’t use/our imagination instead/prepared a plan
we would take/to a circle/of actors assisting/vehicle towards collision
rescuing me nightly/when you wrapped/body around this/clump of chains
i’ll call body/because that hides/the terrible tale/i am telling
on dirty boulevard/i am statue/you lean against/on your way
to somewhere else/is a place/i don’t know/if it’s in/diagram you detailed
to find me/you sort through/all the papers/on a desk/a few photographs
i cannot remember/what is dissolving/there in front/of my eyes/dripping only ice
though there’s biography/that’ll fill in/all details missed/& i’m not/worth the trouble
this isn’t humility/perhaps pure persistence/in the face/of a neglect
i will know/for the rest/of a life/barely worth living/resisting this rage
that lies beneath/surface that’s exploding/on hourly basis/why do you
think i administer/medications i loathe/to administer this/defeat still defeat
do you think/i want powders/drying out demands/that body makes
when it dances/you notice freedom/not a nijinsky/nor a novice
a natural force/creating a carnage/wherever it moves/outside its orbit
sitting on docks/watching that family/drown in desolation/i have borrowed
legacy on loan/from another poet/in soviet russia/& knowing it/a clumsy claim
to make models/form of sorcery/i’m not efficient/or even accurate
so i’ll create/images from iron/i know within/instrument i play/on a night
when you’re performing/exercises before coming/to our bed/i hide in
you unite space/in those moments/for this alone/i owe you
creation or construction/carved in culture/i detest deliberately
sending a signal/to all those/who want renewal/to occur outside
its one o clock/in the morning/i have taken/two tablets valium/listening to dylan
on french radio/singing about hurricane/that i know/oh yes that
it’s sunday morning/johnny cash sung/about except algerians/here playing cards
& i’m playing/a russian roulette/after receiving call/from that other
that all this/has been written/for i’m fool/who hears bullet
in a chamber/i once dreamt/that i’d have/everything i want
here & now/more or less/i have it/in a form/that’s been collectivised
because i want/it that way/it this way/it couldn’t be/otherwise i’d be
on short list/for booker prize/or at restaurant/in sydney australia
regaling the clientele/with my travails/all over world/i haven’t visited
you are waiting/it out here/knowing bath cold/& won’t clean
song from lips/dance from hips/i appropriate line/from another text
mine is yours/always has been/you know this/as eyes cover
my body blessed/as broken ornament/you have wrapped/in silk perhaps
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Oct 9 2005 19:47 utc | 13
To me, poetry is one of the most treasured human expressions. I love it.
I don’t think Allen Ginsberg was a particularly good poet, though. It sounded to me like he was trying to impress the teacher with his barrage of tortured words. It was too laced with personal struggle with words. So it sounded stilted and pretentious to me.
I find this problematic. When people elevate poets like this to icon status. Many seem to think that good art has to be angst ridden to be weighty and truthful. The airy and pleasurable experiences are also truthful, although I realize that some people feel pleasure in painful expression and prefer it. I think great poetry can be about anything. It’s about the magic of words and how they are juxtaposed. The duality of experience is the truth. I believe that pain and pleasure have equal weight. You can sing about war or flowers. A great poet can make everything compelling.
I think Ginsberg was a character of his time and a symbol of a sub-culture. A spokesman, an articulate one, and a person of some interest. I prefer his commentary to his poetry. And I relate to his struggle.
I found Malooga’s tribute better than Ginsberg’s poetry.
Great poetry and music are marked by what is left out… by the empty spaces, rhythm, and pauses. They build up anticipation to the next phrase. And the unexpected placement of these spaces are the key to real mastery.
Posted by: jm | Oct 9 2005 21:55 utc | 14
i think you are thinking of epenthesis – the space between sounds – & there is much of that in poetry that is truly terrifying whether it is the work of a vladimir mayakovsky a sergei esenin, victor khlebnikov (who neither speaks of wars or flowers but i imagine you would find pretentious because there is nothing except epenthesis) or the work of alexander blok
there is the work of the turkish poet nazim hikmet, the palestinian darwich the polish rocewicz – there is of course elytis, ritsos, seferis cavafy & yes certainly there is paul celan
iraq has produced some of the finest poetry from the middle east especially in the last 50 years
i do not know if allen ginsbergh is a good poet or not – if lowell thought so – who am i to disagree – there was something always elegeic in his work that rang true – it was the worst for him if he was caught up in the notion of being a poet
me i see poetry in other things in the way sonny liston smiled, or the way that einstein placed his large arms around his students, there is poetry in the horrified eyes of robert oppenheimer – there is art & poetry in the laughter of cisco houston & ramblin jack elliot
there is exquisite poetry in that massive man & here paul robeson spekaing in russian to a crowd or singing in welsh to miners
there is poetry in malcolm x when he sd be gentle be correct stay cool but if you touch me i’ll send you to the cemetry, there was magnificent poetry in the words of erika huggins, huey newton & fred hampton & in the sentences of george & jonathon jackson – there is poetry in the words of jack henry abbot
& there is poetry that may even pleeas you in the erotic tension of james agee’s let us now praise famous men
there is poetry in the refusal of dashiel hammet to comprimise or in the words of james m cain watching miners fighting the forces of the state
what you might call tortured is a tradition in american poetry going back to hart crane all the way through to the confessional poets bishop et al
there is great poetry in the contemporaries of ginsberg – jack hirschmann & ed dorn & evein in michale mclure & denise levertov
jm i don’t know what books you read but i see the most beautiful poetry being expressed by the resistance in iraq against an illegal & immoral occupation
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Oct 9 2005 23:20 utc | 15
WE RISE ON SUN BEAMS AND FALL IN THE NIGHT — Allen Ginsberg
Dawn’s orb orange-raw shining over Palisades
bare crowded branches bush up from marshes–
New Jersey with my father riding automobile
highway to Newark Airport–Empire State’s
spire, horned buildingtops, Manhattan
rising as in W. C. Williams’ eyes between wire trestles–
trucks sixwheeled steady rolling overpass
beside New York–I am here
tiny under sun rising in vast white sky,
staring thru skeleton new buildings,
with pen in hand awake …
December 11, 1974
The previous post was for jm. It comes closest to answering your criticisms. As far as my association of very altered states with some form of enlightenment, I do credit those altered states with allowing me to see that different levels of reality existed and were knowable; and even for allowing me to touch something very special, however fleeting. But to really make progress on that path, I did give up chemical means and worked on meditation and a “fresh mind” outlook. Aside from a few scrambled strands of DNA, which will never be passed on to any unwitting victims, I’m left with some fun memories and a host of great stories.
Thank you all for your kind comments and r-giap for your literary contributions–always appreciated.
jonku- Interesting recollection. The poem/song is familiar, even though I had left New York by then. For me, “The Continental Divide” was one of those “new fangled places”, when people with money started opening businesses with things like real furniture, lighting, and actual paint on the walls.
Abie Hoffman, who wrote “Steal This Book”, and last lived nearby in New Hope, PA., had already passed across the Great Continental Divide by then. It could have been his erstwhile cohort, Jerry Rubin, who had turned into an obnoxious businessman, but he lived on the west coast at that time. More likely it was Paul Krassner, Yippie and founder of “The Realist”, whose offices were a block away from CBGB’s on Bleeker St. William Burroughs was also a regular at Ginsberg’s readings, but he was like a small, quiet gray field mouse in person–not at all what one would expect from his writings.
It always comes back to the old argument about art being a subjective experience, impossible to say for sure what is great and what falls short of the ideal. I’ve always judged for myself and am known to be an iconoclast, since some of the so called greats are anything but, according to my sense make-up. I’ve seen spontaneous moments of poetry, though, and they are unmistakable, such as when a whole room of people can feel a great rhythmical groove.
It’s also a thing of mood, since a poem can create ecstasy one moment, and leave the reader without an emotional response in another. It’s a very complex system of neurological responses. So it probably is valid in the moment to each individual regardless of what anybody else thinks or says. And the elevation of anyone to greatness is suspect to me if the whole group is urged to accept it. I see success and some failure in every human attempt at self expression… in terms of reaching universal truth and sublime beauty. But we can come close. It’s the journey to that destination that probably holds the greatest joy. The unfulfilled promise. The next work.
Who’s to say that a Hallmark card evoking tears is bad poetry? I would probably say so, but who am I to interfere with some profound moment in a sorry person’s life?
I agree, r’giap, about the Middle Eastern poets. They have a deep tradition around this and even their everyday conversation is laced with poetry. I haven’t read some of the poets you mentioned, but I will. I’m always in search of gorgeous language.
I also agree about the Joni Mitchell song, the Urge for Going, which you quoted from the other day. It’s a beautifully written song.
Posted by: jm | Oct 10 2005 4:42 utc | 18
Then, of course, there is the great blues piano player and singer, Otis Spann, with his glorious smoky voice singing with his beautiful hands in rhythm…
Blues ain’t nothin’ but a botheration on your mind
Or Junior Wells wailing…
Somebody done hoodooed the Hoodoo Man
Now that’s poetry.
Posted by: jm | Oct 10 2005 5:14 utc | 19
Thanks for your history, Malooga. Just read it again. And the poem about looking into Manhattan from the Jersey side, “horned buildingtops” — it is so clear and specific if you know the view from there.
Allen Ginsberg’s book of photographs of the beatnik era to the hippie time is available to look at for free at the Strand bookstore, it has great snapshots taken by this historian of our heroes and their locales.
About Paul Krassner and his magazine, I think I know the building — it had a red door as I recall and plastered with posters all over, much like the performance spaces on the lower east side.
Sadly for me Burroughs did not show up at the reading I attended, I would surely have recognized him amongst we youngsters. I think he did live down on the Bowery but our circles never crossed.
I hope that NYC still is full of that powerful undercurrent that I have seen echoes of resonating also in San Francisco’s Haight Street and Berkley’s Telegraph Avenue, Vancouver’s 4th Avenue.
I sure hope so because we need to touch and hear some of the actual things and people that have inspired you. I’m talking about Thomas Disch’s novel 334, written in the Village about he and his neighbors, apparently the title refers to his address at the time, maybe on 11th street if I recall. And reading the liner notes on an unknown album recorded by Jimmy Hendrix and a keyboard player that remembered Hendrix’s time sleeping in the doorways of the tenements.
I’ve seen it in the punk movement, total community.
Seeing that “Dhalgren” is not just the title of a novel by Samuel R. Delaney about an outlaw city across a bridge, but it is also the name of a street in Brooklyn just off the entrance to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.
And on …
Posted by: jonku | Oct 10 2005 9:08 utc | 21
r’giap,
thanks for prose, so fleeting, so dense, like a hurricane.
Posted by: anna missed | Oct 10 2005 10:13 utc | 22
a lot of stars & a big radiant moon over alabama in this thread. wow. what illuminating conversation & verse. thanks for the reminder that it’s not always so dark out.
Posted by: b real | Oct 11 2005 1:51 utc | 23
it is so strange & perhaps not so – that even with the work i do – where i am constantly in community – in struggle, conflict & sometimes moments of great wonderment – that i feel – here on the moon of alabama – i feel our community at a very physical level
the ruminations, speculations, hmour & terrifying truths can be felt at a physical level
at times like this when i long – really long – to see rove & his criminal crew being handcuffed – i wander through other blogs sources & information – but only here do i feel such intimacy – that our frailties as well as our strengths are in evidence – & that picture – makes it human – all too human
& in times as dark as these – that is no small thing
i feel we are not one thing – but multiples & multitudes
searching & searching still
still steel
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Oct 11 2005 2:01 utc | 24
The Apes of Wrath
S.A. Griffin
virus history flickers
incurably
inside my heart
& you are with me Walt Whitman
in every blade of grass
you are with me
on Brooklyn Bridge
crossing over
& you are here now
Woody Guthrie
as your sun comes shining
in redwood forest
& I too wonder if this land
is still made for you & me
Harriett Tubbman
Margaret Sanger
St. Caesar Chavez
Malik El-Shabazz
Dr. King
Blake’s mystic vision
Baudelaire’s flowers of evil
all here
& we are with you Leonard Peltier
locked down in your wounded theatre
built upon the blood of the native dead
brick upon brick of law
stars & stripes
forever
you are here now
Abbie Hoffman & Mother Ginsberg
Rosa Parks
there is a seat for you
at the front of the freedom
train
show us the way
& what New Deal have we now?
what Great Society
conspires to steal the vote
& pimp our country
to the lowest
bidder?
… (more)
Posted by: UIncle $cam | Oct 11 2005 2:02 utc | 25
Nice, Uncle. And thanks for the Howl reminder all. The ghosts in the Machine.
Posted by: PeeDee | Oct 11 2005 2:22 utc | 26
feels like my comfortable shoes holes and all
not many words from me lately but i am hear
thanks from my heart to yours
about that intimacy yes, here at moon
Posted by: annie | Oct 11 2005 2:55 utc | 27
& in times as dark as these – that is no small thing
i feel we are not one thing – but multiples & multitudes
searching & searching still
still steel
remembereringgiap
I like that.
I’m also a fan of intimacy.
Posted by: jm | Oct 11 2005 11:00 utc | 28
Thanks for all of this. I feel my jaw unclenching and muscles relaxing. A deep breath of fresh air.
Posted by: beq | Oct 11 2005 13:01 utc | 29
when we weave/in & out/of an assembly/someone has organised/for this solitude
to be sent/away on vacation/to our origins/not so dissimilar/to king lear
who’s still howling/in front room/playing the record/over & over
he has trespassed/into transgression/he will not/name the the next/in line for
an anonymous inspector/solemn & savage/looks at stamps/he has collected
for album/declaimed every day/on street corners/in eighteenth arrondisement
where i’m being/betrayed before breakfast/on ferry/we are taking/to another place
we’ll tear apart/anniversaries & memorials/sending a saviour/to back where
he came from/wilderness or wind/it doesn’t matter/he wouldn’t have
lasted under interrogation/before multitude/breathed miraculous breath
in shipyard/of doom’s desire/arriving as avalanche/sullen & ambitious
a prophet harangues/ only man/left in loss/on jetty
someone’s being baptised/before his brethren/decide to deny/the second third
or first coming/atoning for others/sins so speechless/they are forced
to dance deliberately/creating turbulence/after we’ve adored
magicians in mania/walking to haven/where birds swoop/down on book
we’ve thrown away/hoping ascension assisted/by good works
though we don’t/believe in burden/of being saints/seeking shrine
of another’s mouth/still uttering prayer/after deluge broke/sometime mid century
interpreted as invasion/of soviet union/but we know/better by bible
we recite/to martyrs coming/off ship/we have sunk
blessing all on/board welcoming barbarians/who can enjoy/ small enterprise
so saluting shipwreck/crying in cathedral/roy orbison sang/an occassional hymn
to remember flame/& a vow/he had taken/his fortune final/in back seat
of new model/of old car/advertised in life/magazine a partnership
between a public/that doesn’t want/& a publisher/who won’t give
substantial our slide/into volcano/before it burns/out is ocular
in most forms/of scripture certainly/this is prejudice/i have developed
along with corruption/that has led/to damnatio/& another sermon
i shall speak/inarticulate but innoculated/navigating a narrative
you’ll mostly miss/as a harangue/or a mythology/you’ve no pleasure
in discovering anymore/than you can/find the fish/i have placed/on the table
hoping to build/revenue for retreat/but supposing that/is also propoganda
i have understood/much too late/to come in/useful i utter/what can be
in this document/tongue on fire/in global village/that marshall mcluhan
did not see/were in ruins/nor the marionettes/in an opera/that won’t finish
this is vindication/of 400 years/of bad theatre/without any majesty
in a parliament/of promises sealed/except in pagoda/where primal scene
is being enacted/to a crowd/that includes judas/& maybe another
addicted to answers/& other assertions/masquerading as mission
to recuperate regret/simultaneouslly while saving/souls so stupid/they don’t know
in hollywood musicals/taboos are transgressed/in every song
that passes someone’s/lips are left/to shout epistles/defending a realm
where we’re waiting/for an illumination/is next to/impossible these days
unless you’ve booked/for that kind/of grandeur dissapeared/when thief tumbled
combination in safe/he already knew/what was in/there was here/all the time
we’d abandoned purgatory/to poorer people/transforming into tigers
in our nightmares/we sough heirs/who might carry/weight so willfull
we have entered/into a correspondence/with a ventriloquist/& his doll
curious to claim/appetite for ascension/we’ve never witnessed/camera outside room
catching its prey
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Oct 11 2005 18:03 utc | 30
(pour theodor a m & beq)
we are architects/drawing up diagram/waiting for you/to open door
because men outside/stand on scaffold/performing theatre
i’ve not seen/semaphore you sent/nor language
you have addressed/ gathering outside/on rue doudeauville
thinking i am/louis the fourteenth/cutting beautiful hair/over a basin
until you arrive/with these guardians/who sing aria/from opera
i’ve not competed/transaction or transfer/though my name
appears on screen/in a basement/somewhere in langley/a man plays
crossword & crisis/at same time/while investigating file/he has before
him a globe/jean seberg held/in film/that featured melancholy
as a discipline/i’ve studied diligently/under many masters
i have lied/in their bed/covering a contour/organising orpheus’s ascension
leasing a legend/long time ago/before being born/to be exact
i enacted myth/regular as routine/settling a score/with the beggars
who’d made home/around a cross/malevich had drawn
according to plan/drawn in dust/as she combed/her hair here
teasing a temptation/that i am/no longer capable/of shovelling soil
even in uniform/i wasn’t victim/so easily described/elsewhere in ethical
book given/as present/to woman/i once knew/who sold ribbons
inside a temple/i was flourishing/lending hand/to bookbinder
who was covering/me from behind/even back then/when i immolated
in that garden/where worship worried/about its disciples
after reading letters/on jetty/in some country/i cannot remember
montreal or vancouver/though they were/there of course
are extant memories/ reminding me/now & then/of what’s hidden
with a blade/you are precise/so they say/under big top
i have paid/for a ticket/i didn’t use/but gave away/to a child
not yet born/i studied crucifixion/as geometry/i’d become familiar
with that science/i have grown/carrying carved crosses/through forest
where witch waits/for two children/to feed gingerbread/to them facts
not quiet enough/to go on/is simple conclusion/arrived at today
in crowded place/i’m fastening belt/around my neck
letting you lead/me in tango/at least dance/i should know
from a charity/extended to me/on an afternoon/in australia approximate
perhaps within proscenium/theatre i declared/some other words
from a play/peter weiss’s certainly/the marat/sade/last classical work
to be done/with that world/so i’ll build/house by cliff
where we watch/migration of birds/ships & men/coming into view
before i go/down to basement/to attach needle/to my skin
imitating lili marlene/running into mischief/until you stood
in my way/so much paper/i am burning/a human furnace
inside me dwells/a burning bible/passages or psalms
& another speech/elaborate & erudite/i’m making exceptions
while taking barbiturates/during an avalanche/that’s overwhelming me
in this ascent/i cannot count/number of times/i haven’t looked
back to front/all words mirrors/to some other/sentence or pardon
kind of clemency/i read about/for the term/of natural life
famous australian text/that is unknown/even in australia
other than drunk/who recites chapters/between a drink/& a breath
he hasn’t got/a context correct/but in this/he’s no exception
in my country/i am fatigued/by any movement
that is arranged/before getting up/to take position/in a chorus
you hear voice/making up words/as i go/along a wire
you’ll find marks/i have left/for your enquiry/doesn’t interest me
in the present/if we use/times or tenses/as isaac did/when grabbing son
we’d get somewhere/though that secondary/& at best/a futile exercise
motion most magnificent/when we’re withering/away like state
as in marx’s/holy text torn/from a hat/like a rabbit/with it’s head
cut off cleanly/i am alone/as a man/ought to be
when on craft/going up river/to meet colonel
whose civilising influence/in the territory/changes almost everything
though i’m drowning/as i’ve said/so much earlier/in the piece
text or memorial/depends on what/your thinking barren
can make of/it you me/these are words/that i know/oh yes yes
that i know/when greeks sings/their flags fall/& heart beats
to a tune/you are whistling/when you’re weaving/your way clear
to a station/of the cross/i have departed/& kneeling here
& there you/are cutting paper/dolls from book/i have written
manuscripts at midnight/mixing a mania/with a mystery
you’ll never understand/love i left/loss & loneliness
tradecraft i developed/following third man/from foreign office
this beautiful betrayer/died in moscow/before stage one/had even begun
still enchanting me/his whole story/lost to legend/leaving a lie
in a narrative/you’ve got reason/hope & faith/playing a role
though flaubert failed/in his enterprise/characters cut out
from a journal/read over petit dejeuner/at terminus nord
waiting for train/that is coming/from drancy perhaps
not a childhood/that i’d recognise/without an aide
walking beside me/on a street/in lille angels/taking me aside
i will make/to an audience/who are preparing/for another kind
who has gone/who is there/who is here/who is there
these are subjects/for contemporary scholarship/succeeds so sorrowful
needs helping hand/to make it/across a bridge/through these clouds
which are breaking/against a wall/where you’ve written
message to me/that i’ll misinterpret/mentioning a men/you’ve never met
in a museum/there are papers/with identifying marks
all over them/i see you/body & soul/a primitive prose/pulls me forward
piling all files/collated for purpose/that wasn’t clear/at the end
search for beginning/& find out/you’re in middle/tied to both
ends all same/so it’s suggested/in chinese poetry/of ninth century
that i’ll read/on the metro/when i go/to see you
hauling the holbeins/under a dress/you’ve never worn/except to bed
where we belong/is another story/for an autobiography
that may be/written in wrath/on a window/i’m staring through
imagining a field/of possible vision/or just hearing/all senses gone
their own way/described in anatomy/book i’m reading/for the hell
of it you/me or them/this is spoken/today & possibly/tomorrow ill say
this heathen dream/for public record/so you’ll hear/about it later
when college closes/doors behind us/leaving us lesson
we’ve already learnt/hardest position taken/before decision made
Posted by: remembereringgiap | Oct 11 2005 19:23 utc | 31