This morning I was reminded via The Writer's Almanac that today is the birthday of Diane Wakoski. The book pictured above is directly responsible for pushing me over the precipice into a life of poetry writing and appreciation.
And it all started with the title.
Throughout my teen years, I always had a passing affinity with poetry but up to then strictly as a curiosity and nothing much more. 60's rock lyrics with their lofty aspirations encouraged in the attentive listener the symbiotic relationship of song and poem; pot helped, too. It was, ahem, a tumultuous time.
One day back in the early 70's, I remember strolling through a bookstore and seeing, face out, the above title and I thought, "what the hell?" Keats and Wordsworth didn't quite seem to put things this way; even the much overheated Byron wasn't quite that, well, succinct. So I picked up the book and read the title poem:
Wakoski grew out of the sixties and was first published by LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka) in the Corinth/Totem Press publication, Four Young Lady Poets, along with Carol Bergé, Rochelle Owens, and Barbara Mosoff. She was influenced by the Beats and had her own brand of feminism but was never truly accepted by either group because, first and foremost, she was an individual, she was Diane Wakoski. There are lots of volumes by her I could recommend but The Motorcycle Betrayal Poems is a fine place to start. Her influence on Lyn Lifshin, the queen of the small press, is beyond measure. She has her own eclectic (perhaps that should be eccentric) mythology, which was another thing that opened my mind up to poetry's limitless possibilities. The woman has a jones for George Washington (careful with those wooden teeth, friend). Go figure. But, the bottom line is that it all works and it's all good.
So, in the spirit of thanks and giving back, happy birthday, Diane Wakoski, and here is one of her own poems, from Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch, to help commemorate the day:
MEETING AN ASTRONOMER ON THE BUDDHA'S BIRTHDAY
Vanity guards us from introspection.
What guards us from vanity?
To think of ourselves like the moon, dead and beautiful, and of an origin no one can be sure of?
Diane Wakoski
best, Don
Note: If you would like to receive the two current issues of Lilliput Reviewfree (or have your current subscription extended two issues), just make a suggestion of a title or titles for the Near Perfect Books of Poetry page, either in a comment to this post, in email to lilliput review at gmail dot com, or in snail mail to the address on the homepage.
This is the 50th anniversary of the publication of one of the books on the Near Perfect Books of Poetry list: A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. This is one of the very first books of poetry I remember just pulling me in and, somehow, I just knew this was for me. Here, in celebration of the man and his body of work, both as poet and publisher, is a reading in the "Lunch Poems" series at the Morrison Library of the University of California, Berkeley, from 2005:
If you can hang in until the end, there is a very powerful anti-war poem, "The History of the Airplane." At 85, he hasn't lost a step.
Least we forget, there is always the City Lights Bookstore, the premiere independent bookshop in the US. Since lots of folks are beginning to realize the repercussions of the amazon.com phenomenon and the fall out from some of its recent strong arm tactics with publishers and merchants, both here and abroad, it might be a fine thing if we all make a special effort to continue to support our local independents and national treasures like City Lights. Yeah, you lose the deep discount, but that's all you lose.
That's all you lose.
Here's a poem with Ferlinghetti's signature gentle, insightful touch:
Allen Ginsberg Dying
Allen Ginsburg is dying It's all in the papers It's on the evening news A great poet is dying But his voice won't die His voice is on the land In Lower Manhattan in his own bed he is dying There is nothing to do about it He is dying the death that everyone dies He is dying the death of a poet He has a telephone in his hand and he calls everyone from his bed in Lower Manhattan All around the world late at night the telephone is ringing "This is Allen" The voice says "Allen Ginsburg calling" How many times have they heard it over the long great years He doesn't have to say Ginsburg All around the world in the world of poets There is only one Allen "I wanted to tell you" he says He tells them what's happening what's coming down on him Death the dark lover going down on him His voice goes by satellite over the land over the Sea of Japan where he once stood naked trident in hand like a young Neptune a young man with black beard standing on a stone beach It is high tide and the seabirds cry The waves break over him now and the seabirds cry on the San Francisco waterfront There is a high wind There are great white caps lashing the Embarcadero Allen is on the telephone His voice is on the waves I am reading Greek poetry The sea is in it Horses weep in it The horses of Achilles weep in it here by the sea in San Francisco where the waves weep they make a sibilant sound a sibylline sound Allen they whisper Allen Lawrence Ferlinghetti, April 4, 1997
If you can't make it up to Alaska this weekend, here's a little notice of something of interest that we might think about in passing during the day Sunday:
SUNDAY, AUGUST 3RD
1pm: 18TH ANNUAL RICHARD BRAUTIGAN & DICK WHITAKER MEMORIAL TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA POETRY SLAM & "SALMON SONNET" CONTEST at The New York Cafe, 207 Stedman St. Sponsored by Soho Coho Gallery, Parnassus Books, and The New York Cafe.
But why just think, let's feel too:
The Sidney Greenstreet Blues
I think something beautiful and amusing is gained by remembering Sydney Greentstreet, but it is a fragile thing.
The hand picks up a glass. The eye looks at the glass and then hand, glass and eye ---fall away.
Sometimes, the idea of the Net really pulls things together, other times it just seems like the big mystery that life is. For instance, what's up with blog alerts pinging items posted years ago? I certainly don't know but one thing I can say is that the random chaos of life, and so too the net, is sometimes very lyrical, indeed. I got beeped with this this past week and thought, ah, Huff's last poem. The tone, the feel, is of the old zen masters, composing their deathbed poems. Huff's manages summarizing the main concern of all his work: home, or the lack thereof:
Tired of being loved, Tired of being left alone. Tired of being loved, Tired of being left alone. Gonna find myself a place Where all I feel is at home.
Continuing the project of providing sample poems from back issues and filling in the Back Issue Archive over at the Lilliput homepage, here's some work from issue #101, originally published back in January, 1999:
the circle so large the curve imperceptible we think we're moving straight ahead
Julius Karl Schauer
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knowledge will protect us from the darkness but what will shield us from the light?
Karl Koweski
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The Letter M The letter M in green spray paint on the gnarled bark of a tall pine tree its stately boughs whispering quietly in the afternoon breeze is way too long for a haiku but still pretty fucking succinct.
Mark Terrill
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another midnight bare bulb illuminating the back door of a slaughterhouse
M. Kettner
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Later this week, I may have news about a contemporary poetry book I actually enjoyed.
Till next time, Don
Note: If you would like to receive the two current issues of Lilliput Reviewfree (or have your current subscription extended two issues), just make a suggestion of a title or titles for the Near Perfect Books of Poetry page, either in a comment to this post, in email to lilliput review at gmail dot com, or in snail mail to the address on the homepage.
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