Friday, August 31, 2007

Begin at Once

I just read Beth Joselow's new book, Begin at Once. It really got to me. If it doesn't get to you, it's because something else got to you first.

Beth Joselow, Begin at Once, Chax Press (2007)

The poems in Begin at Once are truly investigations, never simply statements of things the poet already claims to know. They wander– sometimes lightly, sometimes darkly, sometimes with a quiet but sharp irony, but always generously– over all sorts of contrasting subjects with a startling insight that traces the swift and shocking changes of a life lived in a world that’s genuinely right here, right now. Beth Joselow’s poems discover, and uncover, keen truths that always surprise and unsettle and make us think again about things we believed we understood.There’s real wisdom in Begin At Once, and the world sure does need more of that.
— Mark Wallace

Joselow’s poems are “tender numbers” for “people who used to be hungry”. We’ve been chowing down on the drill, organizing our lives around days of rain/bells with colors/gears without mesh until we experience more numbers/further use as “…elusive optimism/skin of ice…” So how do we unsettle the daily bout? Joselow suggests we take each poem as “one more time” to be “simply there” “In support of ________” …”To contain _______” so that we have some unslotted space to “sit down now, begin at once.”
— Tina Darragh


Begin at Once is a terrific collection because Beth Joselow is a writer with a great gift, but it’s also a tease. Because this is a book, all 104 pages of it, that leaves you wanting to read so very much more.
-- Ron Silliman

Monday, August 27, 2007

Bruce Andrews


There have been several poets who have established connections was the DC alternative poetry scene over the years, via repeated visits, readings and friendships. Not only is Bruce Andrews one of them, he was part of the DC scene early on, attending Mass Transit readings, and being published by SOUP.

visible:
Bruce Andrews, Doug Lang,
Michael Lally


Nothing passes unalarmed.
When we read Samuel Becket's statement "To find a form that accomodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now" we are reminded of Beckett's consummate ability to find that form. It may be Bruce Andrews' unique gift to have found the mess. I cannot think of a twntieth century artist that approximates Bruce Andrews' breadth of critical reference. Like Joyce or Mac Low, the range of Andrews' vocabulary demonstrates the measure of the mess, whilst, like Burroughs or Debord, his rabidly articulate criticality negates those that would frame politics (i.e. this life) as anything other than a struggle, with stakes. Rod Smith, "introduction" AERIAL 9

2 B's bonding at Folio Books

Sunday, August 26, 2007

The Faber Book of Modern Verse

Here are the poets included in The Faber Book of Modern Verse, edited by Michael Roberts (1936 edition):

Gerard Manley Hopkins
W.B. Yeats
T.E. Hulme
Ezra Pound
T.S. Eliot
Harold Monro
Conrad Aiken
H.D.
Marianne Moore
Wallace Stevens
Vachel Lindsay
D.H. Lawrence
Isaac Rosenberg
Wilfred Owen
Herbert Read
John Crowe Ransom
Allen Tate
Hart Crane
e.e. cummings
Laura Riding
Robert Graves
Edith Sitwell
Sacheverell Sitwell
Richard Eberhart
Peter Quennell
William Empson
C. Day Lewis
W.H. Auden
Louis MacNeice
Stephen Spender
James Reeves
Charles Madge
George Barker
Dylan Thomas
Clifford Dyment
David Gascoyne

This book was my introduction to modern poetry, although the edition I had was the second one, co-edited by Anne Ridler (1951), and I don't recall what additions there were, except for F.T. Prince. Also, Kathleen Raine, maybe. Hugh MacDiarmid? David Jones? Keith Douglas? Dunno. I just got a copy of the 1936 edition, ninth impression, from Amazon UK, for £1.00, plus postage. It is inscribed: Marjorie E. Birol, Charing Cross Road, 15/7/44. Dear Marjorie, Hello. Where are you now? In my heart.

I was in my late teens when I got the paperback edition of the 1951 version of The Faber Book of Modern Verse. What did I know? Not much.

When I was ten, I got a scholarship to go to Bishop Gore Grammar School for Boys. Dylan Thomas had gone to Bishop Gore, long before. I lasted only two years before being asked to leave, else I would be expelled. While I was a student there, I was obliged to memorize this:

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

-- James Leigh Hunt

My next stop was Dynevor School for Boys, better suited to working class ragamuffins such as I, better than the toffee-nosed Bishop Gore. Didn't do me or Dynevor much good, though. I was always getting arrested by the cops, for one thing. They weren't too happy about that at Dynevor. I dropped out, eventually. We had one English teacher named Brynley Cox, who was obsessed with Alice in Wonderland. Mr Cox had a long nose with glasses hanging on it, and he would lick his lips almost lasciviously as he read aloud. The boys would would count his licks aloud, and he would either be oblivious, or he would pretend to be oblivious. The school joke was, "There are 23 masters (teachers) at Dynevor; 22 without Cox." I really learned a lot. I did have one English teacher who was encouraging, Sam Bassett. Sam was a giant of a man, married to a tiny woman. My marks (scores/grades) for both the term and exams in English Language and English Literature were always perfect, or near perfect. Everywhere else there would be zeroes, because I wouldn't have been there. I really learned a lot. The last essay I wrote at Dynevor was on the history of rock'n'roll, which barely had a history (as a pop phenomenon) at that point. Sam gave me ten out of ten. Sam was a very nice man. But I really didn't need encouragement. I didn't give a fuck.

I loved music and movies. Movies brought me to books. And I was off to the races. After I'd started work, unloading trucks in the British Home Stores yard, I began to buy books, American fiction mostly. As far as poetry was concerned, there was always the omnipresent Dylan. Then, in my late teens, I bought the Faber paperbacks of T.S. Eliot's Selected Poems and Four Quartets, after I'd gotten the drift that Eliot was the modern poet. I was writing fiction at that time, stories and attempts at novels. After reading Eliot, I wrote some (dreadful, no doubt) pastiches of Eliot + Dylan and who knows what else.

There is so much that could be said about Dylan Thomas, but I'll be as succint as possible. First, here is Kenneth Rexroth in Disengagement: The Art of the Beat Generation (for New World Writing, 1957):

Now Dylan Thomas and Charlie Parker have a great deal more in common than the same disastrous end. As artists, they were very similar. They were both very fluent. But this fluent, enchanting utterance had, compared with important artists of the past, relatively little content. Neither of them got very far beyond a sort of entranced rapture at his own creativity. The principal theme of Thomas’s poetry was the ambivalence of birth and death — the pain of blood-stained creation. Music, of course, is not so explicit an art, but anybody who knew Charlie Parker knows that he felt much the same way about his own gift. Both of them did communicate one central theme: Against the ruin of the world, there is only one defense — the creative act. This, of course, is the theme of much art — perhaps most poetry. It is the theme of Horace, who certainly otherwise bears little resemblance to Parker or Thomas. The difference is that Horace accepted his theme with a kind of silken assurance. To Dylan and Bird it was an agony and terror. I do not believe that this is due to anything especially frightful about their relationship to their own creativity. I believe rather that it is due to the catastrophic world in which that creativity seemed to be the sole value. Horace’s column of imperishable verse shines quietly enough in the lucid air of Augustan Rome. Art may have been for him the most enduring, orderly, and noble activity of man. But the other activities of his life partook of these values. They did not actively negate them. Dylan Thomas’s verse had to find endurance in a world of burning cities and burning Jews. He was able to find meaning in his art as long as it was the answer to air raids and gas ovens. As the world began to take on the guise of an immense air raid or gas oven, I believe his art became meaningless to him. I think all this could apply to Parker just as well, although, because of the nature of music, it is not demonstrable — at least not conclusively.

I've no idea to what extent I might agree or disagree with this, but what is undeniable is that Dylan was in his way a radical poet, and he was most certainly one of the few lines of defense against the increasing conservatism and orthodoxy of British poetry.

"Dylan Thomas was made to stand for everything they detested: verbal obscurity, metaphysical pretentiousness, and romantic rhapsodizing," David Lodge, Working with Structuralism (1981).

Looking back, I see Dylan, his compatriot Vernon Watkins, David Gascoyne and Kathleen Raine as some of the few poets who were not adhering to the increasing constriction that produced the famous New Lines anthology in 1956. Dylan and Vernon had been associated to some degree with the New Apocalyptics, a self-explantory mode of poetics. Gascoyne was Britain's sole, prominent Surrealist poet, and Raine was deeply immersed in William Blake and Carl Jung.





Kathleen Raine


William Blake

Carl Jung action figure

I've looked at several Kathleen Raine poems online, looking for one that might approximate the kind of feeling I got from her work back in, say, 1959-1962. I could not find one, but that's memory for you. Raine called Vernon Watkins, "The greatest lyric poet of my generation." Vernon was from Swansea, as Dylan Thomas was, and as I was. He was a diffident man, apparently. He worked at Lloyd's Bank on St. Helen's Road. The story was that he had gone home once and left the bank unlocked. Good old Vernon. We saw him on the street many times. He must have been in his mid-forties then. We never approached him. What could he possibly have had to say to Welsh faux-beatniks? I remember his work as appealingly vague, somehow, an impression not entirely supported by what I've seen of his work recently, but not entirely reversed, either. The Dylan/Vernon letters were always a pleasure to read. What came through most was the friendship between them, and the easy ways in which they entertained each other.


Vernon Watkins by Alfred Janes

The mystery to me is David Gascoyne, the youngest poet in the original The Faber Book of Modern Verse. He always represented hope, somehow -- a British Surrealist! Other British poets who were sometimes called Surrealists did not seem like Surrealists to me, such as George Barker and Hugh Sykes Davies.

Yves Tanguy

The worlds are breaking in my head

Blown by the brainless wind

That comes from afar

Swollen with dusk and dust

And hysterical rain

The fading cries of the light

Awaken the endless desert

Engrossed in its tropical slumber

Enclosed by the dead grey oceans

Enclasped by the arms of the night
The worlds are breaking in my head

Their fragments are crumbs of despair

The food of the solitary damned

Who await the gross tumult of turbulent

Days bringing change without end

The worlds are breaking in my head

The fuming future sleeps no more

For their seeds are beginning to grow
To creep and to cry midst the

Rocks of the deserts to come

Planetary seed

Sown by the grotesque wind

Whose head is so swollen with rumours

Whose hands are so urgent with tumours

Whose feet are so deep in the sand


David Gascoyne


The mystery is why he didn't seem a good model for someone such as myself. In a peculiar way he was more distant than Paul Éluard, or even Philippe Soupault. He was no more use than Dylan was, and Dylan was no use at all. The best known Welsh poet of the 1960s, Bryn Griffiths was compared with Dylan endlessly, but there was no way to make use of Dylan, it seemed, without trying to be him. Bryn Griffiths did not do that. What he did do was emigrate to Australia, eventually.

T .S. Eliot and e. e. cummings both provided some inspiration. And Hart Crane. I didn't get Pound. I suspect that he seemed a little bit too much like the British poets of the day, with their classical educations and their allusions and their fart in a thunderstorm poems. Clearly, Pound was more than that, but whatever he was, was too much for me.

I loved Dylan and I still do, especially A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog and Return Journey; and I still have high regard for many of the poems, such as "Poem on His Birthday" and "Poem in October." I had a hard time with Dylan as a reader, he was so bombastic, with that English preacher's voice. I much preferred to hear Richard Burton read Dylan's work. We read and reread Caitlin's Leftover Life to Kill and John Malcolm Brinnin's Dylan Thomas in America -- and I'd like to read them both again now. Also, I'd like to read Brinnin's biography of Gertrude Stein, The Third Rose. Credit must go to Dylan, though, for singlehandedly reviving the oral tradition in American poetry with the tours described by Brinnin in his book. Of course, there were readings going on before that, but Dylan was really the progenitor of all those poets in Greenwich Village cafés and the avant garde of the general outbreak of poetry readings in the 1950s.


192 Caergynydd Road, Waunarlwydd

This is where I lived from aged 13 to 22, with my mother, Anne, and my sister, Synde (then named Daphne). 192 was at the bottom of a long road of row-house flats, one flat on the bottom, one on the top. Ours was the bottom flat of our segment. Our door was the one on the right. The right window was the living room. The left window was my room. The far left-window belonged to the Coopers next door. There was another bedroom which was my sister's. There was one bathroom, a kitchen, and my mother slept in the living-room.


Farrow bungalow

This is the bungalow where Marie Farrow lived with her parents and her elder siblings, a brother, John, and a sister whose name I can't recall. I fell in love with Marie in a small park, where she was hanging around with three other thirteen year old girls, Adelaide Phillips, and Rita and Jennifer Howell. I was the same age. They called me over as I walked through the park. I would never have had the nerve to just go over and chat with four strange girls. Marie and I became fast friends, especially after I corrected the words of a song Marie was singing, "Secret Love." The other girls got the words wrong, too, but it was Marie that I corrected. The girls had called me over because Adelaide was interested in one of my friends and they had wanted to quiz me about him, when they weren't singing. Marie was the only person to see the first poem I ever wrote, a pastiche of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas and whatever. No one has ever been as impressed as Marie was that I had written a poem. She kept reading it, over and over, reading bits aloud and looking at me. The last time I saw her, ten years later, I was still in love with her.

I couldn't even get the picture straight.

Or,

This is the bungalow where Marie Farrow lived with her parents and her elder siblings, a brother, John, and a sister whose name I can't recall. I fell in love with Marie in a small park, where she was hanging around with three other sixteen year old girls, Adelaide, Rita and Jennifer. I was the same age. They called me over as I walked through the park. I would never have had the nerve to just go over and chat with four strange girls. Marie and I became fast friends, especially after I corrected the words of a song Marie was singing, "Tammy." The other girls got the words wrong, too, but it was Marie that I corrected. The girls had called me over because Adelaide was interested in one of my friends and they had wanted to quiz me about him, when they weren't singing. Marie was the only person to see the first poem I ever wrote, a pastiche of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas and whatever. No one has ever been as impressed as Marie was that I had written a poem. She kept reading it, over and over, reading bits aloud and looking at me. The last time I saw her, seven years later, I was still in love with her.

I couldn't even get the picture straight.

So, it all comes down to this: would you prefer to think of me as someone who knew the words to "Secret Love" or as someone who knew the words to "Tammy."

The fact is that as I was writing this, I realized that my own mythology -- fell in love with Marie when I was thirteen, saw her for the last time ten years later -- was bogus. "Tammy" was the song that Marie and the girls were singing. "Tammy" was released in 1957, so it was unlikely that they were singing it when we were all thirteen, in 1954. My first reaction was to keep the personal mythology, and to substitute "Secret Love" for "Tammy." Everything else is as true as anything I know.















Tina Darragh

Tina Darragh was the second DC poet I ever met. It was in London in 1972, when Tina came to London to record British poets for the Washington audiocassette poetry magazine, Black Box, as Andrea had done before her.

Jack,
Peter, and Tina

That was the connection. Andrea and I were living in a 3-bedroom house in Clapton, and the room Tina stayed in was my former room, a tiny room, with collages still on the walls, and so on, and Tina would write a poem called "The Poet's Room," which she would show to me years later. Tina seemed to be a very gracious young woman, warm, considerate and intelligent. I didn't know. Of course, I had no idea that Tina was soon to become one of my closest and most cherished friends of the next 35 years and beyond, or that she would be one of the poets that I would admire and respect so very much. I didn't know.

I didn't see Tina again until October, 1974, when Andrea and I returned to DC after a year in Berkeley. By that time, Tina had hooked up with my friend Pete (Peter Inman), and that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship (for me). I've been very gratified by the fact that Tina has received so much recognition in recent years. She deserves every bit of it. The magnitude of her achievements as a poet and of her generosity as a person warrant it.

Tina was born in 1950, and was raised in McDonald, Pennsylvania, a suburb of Pittsburgh. She began writing when she was eighteen, and studied poetry at Trinity University in DC, where Michael Lally was teaching at the time. This lead to Tina's involvement in Mass Transit and the DC scene in general.

My sense of Tina's poetics reached critical mass during the readings that she and I did in Baltimore for a recording that was issued by Chris Mason on Widemouth Tapes under the title, Xa. Its's easy to recall the chant-like refrain, "just looking, just looking," and Tina's excursions into concentrated disassemblages of language. Tina's work is not a set of prescriptions for meaning, nor a set of designer accessories for your karma. It is more like a global weather system, complex. dynamic, multidrectional, unpredictable, a vast series of potential interactions. In that regard, her work is the opposite of P.'s work, to which it is connected in many ways. Tina's work is an open system, P.'s consists of closed systems. I don't know how true this is, in fact, but I'm going to do some reading and give it some thought.

Tina's first two books were sidestapled publications issued by Dry Imager, her own publishing venture. Both were roughly made collages. First came My First Play, published back to back with Michael Lally's Malenkov Takes Over. Here is a page:


The caption under the picture reads:
BIOLOGIST HAMILTON
Parthenogenesis on the roof.
The other two pieces of text are, "Just Us Girls" and Labortory Cheese."

Here's another page:

and here is the text from that page, enlarged:


There were hints of things to come, both in the undermining of conventional language structures and in the global social and political consciousness behind the words and images.
The came Living, a collaboration with Tim Dlugos, photobooth images, a recaptioned frame from the Nancy comicstrip, more bits of language, funny stuff.

Tina's final 1975 publication was my hands……to……myself, another Dry Imager moment. There were no dots in Tina's title, it's the only way I could indicate Tina's spacing. Describing this work as innovative is like describing James Brown as funky. It is a question of magnitude.

I always liked D. H. Lawrence’s pronouncement, “Trust the art, not the artist,” as well as Jack Spicer’s idea of the poet as a kind of radio, able to receive transmissions from the “invisible world,” I think he called it, as opposed to writing being all about “self-expression.” I like these ideas all the more these days, when people in the arts are obliged to be at least as serious about their “careers” as they are about their work. As far as Tina is concerned, it’s clear that she was tracking the same lines as the other poets who came to be associated with L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, or, were receiving similar transmissions. What is most compelling to me now, rereading my hands to myself for the first time in a long while, and listening to Tina’s Xa recording, is how amazingly self-expressive Tina’s work was. That is to say, a Tina poem was a well made object/system of enormous energy, and a perfect expression of her character and personality. When one reads the first poem in my hands to myself, beginning, “just lookin’, just lookin’,” the rhythm of play between the word pairings of which the lines consist creates a thoroughly persuasive structure, based on dictionary progressions:

Charlie Chaplin / charge-a-plate
oatmeal / objet trouve
dictaphone / different
pidgin / piggyback
(the slashes indicate spaces that can’t be reproduced here).

This is all Tina enough, but when you hear her read the poem on the Xa recording, she interpolates the “just lookin’, just lookin’” phrase between each pairing, creating a more infectious and even more playful rhythm. So, in this case, I would say, “Trust the art and the artist,” because it is a perfectly well made object/system, and it is totally self-expressive, down to the social and political rage that’s always been in back of Tina’s work, and the unique Tina humor. This book was truly her debut as a poet, which is not to discount My First Play and Living. It’s extraordinary. Peter (Inman) now disavows his first book, What Happens Next (although I am deeply fond of it), and moved through a brief period of transition (P. Inman USA) to what became his “identity” as a poet. And to choose another poet from among Tina’s associates, Terence Winch’s Boning Up contains somewhat more conventional poetry than his signature works, which quickly followed. Tina emerged fully formed and rockin’.

The other factor that is clear to me after rereading my hands to myself and listening repeatedly to Xa, is the extent to which Tina creates a multiplicity of potential readings of each work, visually on the page, and vocally when she reads, and these two systems are in some ways kind of divergent. Of course, this idea might be applied quite comfortably to the work of many; but in Tina’s case it is emphatically true.

The year after that, 1976, Tina and Peter got married in McDonald. A small contingent from DC made the journey to Pennsylvania in two cars. When we arrived in McDonald, one of the cars stopped and someone went into a store and bought some rolling papers. By the time we arrived at Tina's home, they had already gotten the call, "The drug-addicts have arrived." It was a fabulous, unforgettable wedding. On the left side of the aisle were the massed factions of the Darragh tribe. The right side was almost empty, save for the small, huddled group of DC bohemian wannabes up front.

Paul, Pete, Tina, Potsy, Doug
Wedding day, 1976


Next came Pi in the Skye (Ferguson & Franzino), in 1980. Material from this text was also included in the Xa reading. Another element of the Darragh/Inman poetics interface begins to assert itself in this text: page as field, a convention given formal status by the poets of Projective Verse. In particular, "fragment of P.'s work -- Number One Son," looks a bit like a Charles Olson text. The visual element gets a good deal of emphasis in both Tina's and Peter's work. What's more, the vocabulary of "fragment" often resembles that of a P. Inman poem. Pi in the Skye is dedicated to "P. Inman and his work," so that it is, in effect, an extension of their marriage into the realm of poetics, a well-made marriage in which their practices would merge and diverge over the next 27 years (this far).

Listening to the sections of
Pi in the Skye on Xa, you get a strong sense of Tina's expansiveness regarding connotation. She seems to be tripping through the linguistic mutations of the collective unconscious, like Deiphobe confronted by the spirits in Virgil's underwold, or like Greta Garbo in Queen Christina, rushing around the room, touching everything, so that she could install every object in her sense memory.

If the previous paragraph seems extravagant, or ridiculous, I don't mind. I don't mean to edit my thinking, looks like.

on the corner to off the corner was another debut for Tina, insofar as Douglas Messerli's Sun & Moon books were gathering prestige and Tina's publication in that series in 1981 was a step towards national recognition of her work. on the corner to off the corner was took its title from the Miles Davis recording, and has this inscription:

"in appreciation of Francis Ponge
for things that he has given us"

Here is a comment on Ponge's work, found at the library online:

"In the prose poems of Francis Ponge, coming as he does in an un-heroic age fashioned more by scientific than by classical studies, the direction is down rather than up, smaller rather than larger. The subjects of his allegories or fables belong to a lower world than that of the gods and heroes of antiquity, and are treated zoomorphically, as opposed to the anthropomorphism of an Aesop or a La Fontaine. However, like his Renaissance antecedents, he too is creating a new humanism. He states his purpose to be "a description-definition-literary art work" which, avoiding the drabness of the dictionary and the inadequacy of poetic description, will lead to a cosmogony, that is, an account - through the successive and cumulative stages of linguistic development - of the totality of man's view of the universe and his relationship to it."

http://www.kalin.lm.com/author.html

The 26 sections of on the corner to off the corner was do fit with "a description-definition-literary art work," as Tina rambles more-or-less ecstatically through her alphabet as cosmology. And the zoomorphic / anthromorphic aspect speaks durectly to Tina's informed humanism. Peter and Tina have shown consistent vigilance in matters of social conscience throughout the time that I have know them, without piety, pomposity, or pc policity. on the corner to off the corner is as radical a book of poetry as any published post-The New American Poetry of which I am aware.

By the time Striking Resemblance was issued by Burning Deck in 1989, Tina's work had been included in two significant anthologies: In the American Tree, edited by Ron Silliman, and published by the National Poetry Foundation, University of Maine at Orono, in 1986; and "Language" Poetries: An Anthology, edited by Douglas Messerli, and published by New Directions in 1987. Tina was one of four poets associated with DC in In the American Tree (P. Inman, Lynne Dreyer and Diane Ward were the others); and she was one of three in "Language" Poetries (P. Inman and Diane Ward were the other two). Ron Silliman also cited five other names of poets associated with Washington as candidates for a "volume of absolutely comparable worth" -- Michael Lally, Bernard Welt, Joan Retallack, Tim Dlugos, Doug Lang. There were some other, strong candidates, too: Terence Winch, Beth Joselow, and Douglas Messerli, for exampe.

There was no such thing as Language Poetry, of course. Small press magazines such as This, edited by Barrett Watten on the West Coast, and L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, edited by Bruce Andrews and Charles Bernstein on the East Coast, had given focus to a particular set of poetics and particular concerns about theory and practice; and there was a more than sufficiently visible "movement" to deserve the name. The product of this movement was the focus of Douglas Messerli's anthology. While the value of that anthology was specific, the phenomenon it documented was too diverse to categorize, ultimately. (I'm not proposing that this was the purpose of "Language" Poetries -- just that what some took for a prescription was more of a lens, really.) The larger picture was that the movement was the epicenter of a continuing renaissance in American poetry that had been most recently documented at that time in Donald Allen's The New American Poetry. While In the American Tree gave full recognition to the movement, it also indicated an awareness of the larger picture, both in the breadth of its inclusions, and in its editor's introduction.

In the American Tree
and "Language" Poetries could easily be aligned with other anthologies, such as the earlier An Anthology of New York Poets, edited by Ron Padgett and David Shapiro (1970), and Up Late: American Poetry Since 1970, edited by Andrei Codrescu, and published in the same year as "Language" Poetries. It was all good, as they say. In fact, Up Late could have been regarded as the "volume of absolutely comparable worth" proposed by Ron Silliman.

The point is that Tina Darragh was at the center of the Language Poetry movement, and had been recognized as such. And that Tina and Language Poetry were both connected to an ongoing American poetry renaissance. It was very gratifying to see Tina get the recognition she deserved, along with her DC poetry associates. The publication of Striking Resemblance was just as gratifying. Issued in Keith & Rosmarie Waldrop's great Burning Deck series, published out of Providence, RI, it was Tina's first book to be published outside of the Washington area. It began with Pi in the Skye, and contained three other pieces.

I've always assumed that D. H. Lawence's, "Trust the art not the artist," was intended to address both the issue of meaning, that the meaning of a work of art was not necessarily what the artist intended it to be, and to the issue of control, i.e., the artit's desire to control the reader's experience of the work. These issues are addressed readily in Striking Resemblance, in which process is of absolute concern. As Rod Smith wrote:

"Darragh is investigating investigation. One isn't led to conclusions. The manner in which she constructs a context for the investigation is itself the investigation.... When we learn to inhabit [this process] we'll have learned a lot."

And here is Tina:

"You know, in relational database structure there's a whole thing about webs… as opposed to hierarchically structured data bases where you have where you have the primary information up top and then you have these little boxes of secondary information and then you could have comment and other kinds of information off them. But the relational database structure is supposed to open up the possibilities of being able to retrieve the data in different ways."
(my italics)
Tina Darragh interviewed by Joan Retallack, AERIAL #5

In her interview with Joan, Tina cites the mathematician Benoît Mandelbrot, the creator of fractal geometry, as a kind of model investigator, capable of looking at data and seeing entirely new patterns. Tina's intellectual generosity in Striking Resemblance is such that she creates all her readers mini-Mandelbrots. One could write a book about this book. There is the focus on Raymond Chandler (in "Raymond Chandler's Sentence") and on James M. Cain in the last piece in the book (the title of which Blogger formatting prevents me from reproducing with any accuracy); the achievement here in creating object/structure forms, combined with immensely self-expressive material; and more besides. Taking a Montessori course, studying statistics, reading a collection of essays (Demystifying Social Statistics, a collection of twenty-two essays written by social scientists and statisticians), all of these activities are subsumed into the process of an autiobiography as process.

There are several moments here. One of them is indicated by dedications in Striking Resemblance, one to Susan Howe and another to Joan Retallack. At this point in time, the history of close connections between the women poets of the DC scene had evolved into a kind of secondary community, involving Tina, Joan, Diane Ward (even though she no longer lived in DC), Beth Joselow, Phyllis Rosenzweig and Lynne Dreyer, in various combinations of interchange, collaboration, and so on, through several years. If one thinks of Douglas Messerli has having proposed a kind of deliberate coherence with "Language" Poetries, and Ron Silliman as having configured more of a working "coherence" with In the American Tree (the bigger picture), then you could say that the camera was panning back to reveal an even bigger picture; and in some ways, too, a separate picture, within the original bigger picture, at its edges, and on the outside. This would eventually lead to Margery Margaret Sloan's seminal anthology Moving Borders: Three Decades of Innovative Writing by Women, which would include Tina, Lynne, Joan, and Diane.


Joan, Lynne, Tina


Another moment was indicated by the publication of AERIAL #5 in 1989, then in its third year, and clearly demonstrating the imminence of a second surge in the Washington alternative poetry scene. Aside from publishing younger poets such as Daniel Barbiero, Gretchen Johnsen, Joe Ross, Wayne Klein, and A. L. Nielsen, editor Rod Smith had published work by Terence Winch, Douglas Messerli, Joan Retallack, and Phyllis Rosenzweig, as well as Tina Darragh, and a connection between generations was made manifest. The Joan/Tina interview and work by both poets in the same issue all gave emphasis to this. What was more, Rod's publication (through several issues of AERIAL) of work by Rosmarie Waldrop, Bruce Andrews, Charles Bernstein, Gi Ott, Peter Ganick, Keith Waldrop, Elaine Equi, Susan Smith Nash, Carla Harryman, Lyn Hejinian, Alan Davies, Julia Blumenrich, Jackson Mac Low, Hank Lazer, Andrew Levy, Ray DiPalma, Eric Wirth, Loris Essary, Janet Gray, Sheila E, Murphy and Stephen-Paul Martin, refreshed and extended DC's connections to the larger scene.

end of part one

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Insert No. 7














Go here:

http://illuminatedmeat.blogspot.com/

Insert No. 6


In my post on Michael Lally there was a list of the 31 poets included in the anthology, None of the Above, edited by Michael. To my dismay, it was brought to my attention that the list contained only 30 names, and that Simon Schuchat's name had been omitted. Simon was the prodigy of the Mass Transit era. His first book, Svelte was published when he was seventeen, I believe, with an introduction by Lewis MacAdams. His second book, Blue Skies was one of my great favorites among the SOUP publications. The first poem in Blue Skies,
"To Mayakovsky," begins,

You are distant, boss.
Made beautiful by the advantages
of poverty war and injustice.

He had me right there. In fact, he had me with "To Mayakovsky." There were many mini-Ted-Berrigans around back in those days. What separated Simon from them was his audacity, impressive in one so young. Ted Berrigan was audacious, but Simon's audacity was not copied from Ted's, it was all his own. Here is the first of his poems from None of the Above:

THE MIRACLE OF SIMON SCHUCHAT

Howdy my names Simon

I'm almost twenty years old

I go to the University of Chicago


I take no shit from no one

Whatever that means

I'm trying out something new


When I was fourteen I won a poetry prize

Given by Scholastic Magazine

Honorable Mention Junior Division


I been writing ever since

My favorite poet is John Ashbery

Do you think I write as good as him?


You've got to love that. There was no poem in None of the Above that I liked or admired better. Simon went on to edit a terrific NYC mag, 432 Review, and later worked for the State Department in China and Hong Kong. There 's a poem in Svelte, "adapted from Tu Mu" --
coincidence?

This is by no means the last you'll read about Simon at this weblog. Meanwhile, here's a poem written in 1980 in Shanghai, taken from Jack Kimball's East Village Poetry Online:

The East Village
Belly

Staring at your lips so red
In black and white from 1947
A little before dawn -- the
Liberation, day of bright hope
Some children now have never seen
They live the same as their fathers
Families are separated the same
And hunger is ugly to just hear
About it, whether you blame it
On the big noses or bad eggs
And so long as they love their face
Like that their belly will be
A stone

http://www.theeastvillage.com/t/schuchat/a.htm


back cover of Blue Skies

Friday, August 24, 2007

Insert No. 5








I've nothing new to say here, I only wanted to show off this artwork that I just received from Tom Raworth:







Insert No. 5








I've nothing new to say here, I just wanted to show off this artwork that I just received from Tom Rawoth:



Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Bibliography

This is the beginning of my attempt to compile a list of publications of work by poets closely associated with the Washington DC alternative poetry scene, as well as publications out of DC of works by poets not directly associated with it. In my post on Michael Lally, I did not discuss his record as a small press publisher beyond his involvement with Some of Us Press. Between 1974 and 1979, Michael's O Press issued seven titles, all of them valuable contributions to the traditions given greater coherence by Donald Allen's The New American Poetry. As always, Michael's choices were idiosycratic, and the work he promoted covered a diverse set of poetics.


Highlighted titles indicate poets not directly connected to DC poetry

1970
Michael Lally, What Withers (Doones Press)
Michael Lally, MCMLXVI Poem (The Nomad Press)
Michael Lally, The Lines Are Drawn (Asphalt Press)
Andrea Wyatt, Three Rooms (Oyez Press)

1971
Michael Lally, Stupid Rabbits (Morgan Press)

1972
Lee Lally, These Days (SOUP)
Michael Lally, The South Orange Sonnets (SOUP)
Terence Winch, Boning Up (SOUP)

1973
Bruce Andrews, Edge (SOUP)
Susan Baker, She's a Jim-Dandy (SOUP)
Ed Cox, Blocks (SOUP)
Tim Dlugos, High There (SOUP)
Gabrielle Simon Edgcomb, Moving Violation (SOUP)
Margaret Gibson, Lunes (SOUP)
William Holland, How Us White Folks Discovered Rock and Roll (SOUP)
Michael Lally, Late Sleepers (Pellet Press)
Leonard Randolph, Scar Tissue (SOUP)
Simon Schuchat, Blue Skies (SOUP))
Andrea Wyatt, Poems of the Morning, Poems of the Storm (Oyez Press)

Mass Transit #1 Summer 1973, edited by Terence Winch

1974
Martina Darragh, My First Play (A Dry Imager Production)
Lynne Dreyer, Lamplights Used to Feed the Deer (SOUP)
P. Inman, What Happens Next (SOUP)
Beth Joselow, Ice Fishing (SOUP)
Michael Lally, Malenkov Takes Over (A Dry Imager Production)
Robert Slater, A Rumor of Inhabitants (SOUP)
Terence Winch, Irish Musicians (O Press)
Ed Zahniser, The Ultimate Double Play (SOUP)

Mass Transit #2 Fall/Winter 1973-1974, edited by Michael Lally
Mass Transit #3 January 1974, edited by Ed Cox & Tina Darragh
Mass Transit #4 Spring/Summer 1974, edited by Michael Lally
Mass Transity #5 Fall 1974, edited by Beth Joselow and Peter Inman

1975
Martina Darragh & Tim Dlugos, Living (A Dry Imager Production)
P. Inman, P. Inman U.S.A. (A Dry Imager Production)
Michael Lally, Oomaloom (A Dry Imager Production)
Michael Lally, Sex/The Swing Era (Lucy & Ethel)
Michael Lally, My Life (Wyrd Press)
Michael Lally, Dues (The Stonewall Press)
Michael Lally, Mentally, He's a Sick Man (Salt Lick Press)
Michael Lally, Rocky Dies Yellow (Blue Wind Press; second edition, 1977)
Phyllis Rosenzweig, Seventeen Poems (O Press)
Terence Winch, The Beautiful Indifference (O Press)
Terence Winch, Where the Yellow Went (A Dry Imager Production)

Michael Lally (editor), None of the Above (The Crossing Press)

1976
Bruce Andrews, Vowels (O Press)
David Drum, Facade ((O Press, 1976)
Michael Lally, Charisma (O Press)
Andrea Wyatt, Founding Fathers: Book One (LLanfair Press)

1977
Andrea Wyatt, The Movies (Jawbone Press)

1978
Michael Lally, Just Let Me Do It (Vehicle Editions)
Michael Lally, Catch My Breath (Salt Lick Press; second edition, 1995)
Michael Lally, In the Mood (Titanic Books)

1979
Diane Ward, Theory of Emotion (Segue/O Press, 1979)

1980
Michael Lally, White Life (Jordan Davies)
Andrea Wyatt, Jurassic Night (White Dot Press)

1982
Michael Lally, Attitude (Hanging Loose Press)
Michael Lally, Hollywood Magic (Little Caesar)

1984
Andrea Wyatt, Baseball Nights (Renaissance Press)

1996
Michael Lally, Cant Be Wrong (Coffee House Press)

1999
Michael Lally, Of (Quiet Lion Press)
Michael Lally, It's Not Nostalgia: Poetry & Prose (Black Sparrow Press)

2001
Michael Lally, ¿Que Pasa, Baby? (Wake Up Heavy Press)
Michael Lally, It Takes One to Know One: Poetry & Prose (Black Sparrow Press)

2003
Michael Lally, March 18, 2003 (illustrations by Alex Katz) (Libellum) (third edition, Charta, 2006)

2004
Tom Orange, 25 poems (The Interrupting Cow)

Insert No. 4

Michael Lally

I had not seen either of Michael's two Black Sparrow books when I did the post on him. Now I have them both, and I want to recomend them. It's Not Nostalgia (1999) is a perfect place to begin reading his work. It has two great introductory pieces of autobiography, "The South Orange Sonnets" and "Memoirs of a Revolutionary," a really excellent choice of work from Michael's DC period, 1970-1975, and from his New York period, 1975-1982. The DC section contains "The Swing Era", "My Life" and "Oomaloom," the New York section has "In the Mood," and there is just a whole lot of Michael's greatest writing. Besides, how can you not dig a book that begins with a quote from Sidney Bechet? It Takes One To Know One (2001) is packed with prime Michael, too. Here's one:

Sonnet for My 33rd

Brigitte Bardot
Abbot & Costello
Hound Dog
The Dickey Bird Song
The Girl Can't Help It
T.S. Eliot
Cassius Clay
JFK
Thelonious Sphere Monk
On the Waterfront
Bird
Pope John XXIII
Ezra Pound
Clifford Brown

Together, these two books serve as an ideal Michael Lally primer.

Acknowledgement:
In my post on Michael I neglected to credit George Mattingly of Blue Wind Press for Rocky Dies Yellow, while crediting other publishers.

The self-portrait of Miles & Michael Lally above was included in the Burt Britton collection, Self Portrait (Random House, 1976).

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Self-Portraits


Peter Inman, done for a benefit reading at Folio Books, 1977



Terence Winch, done on the spot in the basement at the Strand Bookstore
in New York City, and later published in the collection of instant
self-portraits that Burt Britton had solicited over many years, 1976



Diane Ward, done for the same benefit reading at Folio Books, 1977




yours truly, a doodle from circa 1982

Lee Lally

Back in the day, I used to shop at Count's Western Wear up in Tenleytown -- cowboy shirts, cowboy boots, and a suede vest which I still have, all beat up and way too small. The seamstress at Count's was Lee Lally, one of the key figures of the Mass Transit activities in the early to mid 1970s. I never did know Lee very well. I would see her around once in a while. She gave a memorable reading in the Folio Books series, with Lee Howard, and that was about it. I never spent time with her socially, really. The night of her Folio reading she was surrounded by friends after the reading. She was a really good reader. Very present, very good at
projecting feeling in an oblique kind of way, even when the content was very direct, there was always something very subtle going on.

There was a lot of passion and humor in her work, although the humor was subtle, too, as I remember it. Her SOUP chapbook, These Days, sold out its first run, I want to say one thousand copies, I'm not sure, and was reprinted. I don't have These Days anymore, but I remember it as a very well made set of poems, not so much confessional as confrontational, i.e., with the self, with her experience, with everybody and everything, with the world. And, clearly, it resonated through a lot of people's lives.

Lee and I liked each other. In our casual exchanges at Count's, I saw someone who was very watchful, probably as hypervigilant as I was, with a warm but wary countenance. I wish that I had known her better, Because of my lack of first hand knowledge of her, I asked Michael to contribute to this post. Here is what he wrote:


Michael Lally on Lee Lally


Lee and I met in the Spring of ’61. She was a high school senior and I was a college freshman about to be kicked out, after which we became faithful correspondents. That Fall she entered the University of Buffalo (she grew up outside that city) and had poetry published in their literary magazine. Another student published one of Lee’s poems as his own, causing a minor scandal! She also played guitar and sang (blues and old style country music) in local coffee houses, and drew and painted well, was a New York State merit scholar and the state women’s fencing champion, as well as a prize winning skier and a professional puppeteer. Oh, and she sang and danced in her Catholic girls high school in musicals, e.g. she played “Bloody Mary” in South Pacific.

In August 1964 she left her job as a puppeteer on an island amusement park in Lake Erie (Fantasy Island?) and gave up the U. of Buffalo and her friends, including a pre-med student she was engaged to, to marry me and move to Spokane, Washington where I was stationed as an enlisted man in the Air Force, meaning I made less than a hundred bucks a month.

The wedding was a last minute decision, after not having seen each other since we met in ’61, instigated by various changes in my life, including most of my scene in Spokane getting arrested on various drug and sex charges. I was playing regularly in Spokane area clubs, but soon gave up drinking and the night life and we spent time writing collaborative poems, playing music, drawing, reading books aloud, going to plays (I was in my first professional play there, and underground film) and hanging with my bohemian friends who weren’t in jail.

Lee claimed to have no interest in publishing or performing publicly or going back to school. She was an incredible seamstress and cook, as well as artist, writer and musician, so she kept busy. By the time we left Spokane in ’66, I was getting published regularly in little mags around the country as that phenomenon began to take off, while she said she was contented to just write things for me.


One of the people who published me, and paid me for my poems and a short story, was a woman who was convinced I was going to write the great American novel and wanted to be my patron. She put us up in a fancy apartment in Brooklyn Heights where we lived from February ’66 to June. Lee was jealous of the woman, so when my mother passed that May, we made arrangements to move in with my father in Jersey and left the patron, the apartment, and the money she was giving me to live on.

I went to work at Overbrook Hospital, while Lee cooked and took care of the house and my dad. By the end of the summer she was fed up with that role and a Spokane friend who had moved on to the U. of Iowa Writers Workshop convinced me to come out to Iowa City and try to get in, so I did, just days before the semester started.

Lee instantly became a well known figure in Iowa City, due to her style—partly her own creations, including a cape and granny boots before they were big—as well as her unusual looks—tiny but voluptuous, black hair and penetrating green eyes, a slightly deformed chin and lips from a car accident she told me, but her parents later said it was a congenital condition from childhood (she had a scar that wrapped around one ear and ran along the bottom of the jaw line to her chin, which had no bone in it but was constructed of tissue from elsewhere).


One of the first people we befriended, outside of our Spokane friends Roy and Karen Harvey, was Ray DiPalma, a poet in the graduate workshop (I didn’t have a BA so I didn’t get in the graduate workshop until the following year) who Lee dug, and later the poet Robert Slater, who adored Lee from the minute they met and had a deep connection with her. When Ted Berrigan came to the workshop to teach around ’68, he too fell under Lee’s spell and they had a special connection as well.


A lot of the younger women students at Iowa dug Lee, and when the feminist movement of that period began to take shape, they came to her and wanted her to lead them, which she declined. She was wary of my developing politics—like running for sheriff of Johnson County, Iowa on the Peace and Freedom ticket—which took me away from home and made me a target of right wing death threats as well as gave me opportunities to appear in various student and underground films etc. Especially after she became pregnant and gave birth to our daughter in February of ’68 and then became pregnant with our son in ’69.

I met Gary Snyder that year, who hand wrote, in a calligraphy style that Lee sometimes was paid to do, one of his poems for her, which we framed and now hangs in our daughter’s home.

Upon getting my MFA from the workshop in August of ’69 I wanted to move to San Francisco where all the action seemed to be, or to Chicago, where I was working with a project attempting to turn white street gangs into revolutionaries called Rising up Angry, but Lee insisted I have a job somewhere before we moved. Through the auspices of a famous writer at the just started American Association of Writing Professors (or something like that, unfortunately I can’t remember the writers name), who I had never met but nonetheless recommended me to Trinity College in DC, a Catholic girls school, and they hired me sight unseen for their English Department.


So, we left for DC via Buffalo (detouring around the traffic mess at Woodstock, where we had intended to stop but decided it was too much trouble) and New York and Jersey. Our first apartment was in Hyattsville, because everywhere else we tried in the city wouldn’t take us with one infant and another on the way. Until we reached a “garden” apartment complex next to a huge intersection where two major roads intersected and there were no sidewalks.



Lee and Michael with their children, Cailtlin and Miles

There were a lot of ethnicities in the complex—Korean, Mexican, everything except African-American—and a lot of white “country folk” who Lee instantly befriended (her mother had been a country girl from upstate New York and Lee had many aunts and uncles and cousins who grew up and still lived on farms where she had spent her summers as a kid). That’s where we were when our son was born, and where we often housed visiting radicals, like the gang kids from Chicago in for demonstrations in DC, or poets, like Ted Berrigan and Alice Notley, who were staying with us when our kids accidentally ate rat poison (Ted wrote about it in a diary style piece of prose that was later published in an issue of The World).
Ray DiPalma was there when our son was born (he is his godfather). The place was usually filled with people, either from out of town or neighbors or new DC friends. It was while living there that Lee ran into an old friend from Buffalo in a supermarket who talked Lee into joining her at a “consciousness raising session” with several women at the home of a woman who talked about how she only married her husband to show the guy she wanted to marry up, because he wouldn’t marry her and it was all his fault and—as if you could ever invent this shit—it turned out that the guy was me.

I had met her the winter before I met Lee, at another upstate New York college. She was a beautiful and brilliant Italian-American woman who edited her college literary mag. When I wouldn’t marry her, she married this other guy and had three kids and now was unhappy! For which Lee came back pissed off at me! That was the beginning of the end for us, though we didn’t see it.


On a pot run to the Midwest in ‘71, I cheated for the first time in our then seven years together and brought back more than the pot. After that, I slept on the couch for weeks, and Lee went to more and more meetings with her growing feminist network. That same year an anthology of “movement” poetry came out, Campfires of the Resistance, with some of my poetry in it, so I organized a reading by anyone in the DC area in the anthology, at the Institute for Policy Studies (if I remember correctly) at which a very large standing room only crowd showed up to hear us.


Lee and I had already encountered the local academic poetry scene, which didn’t interest us, and I had been organizing readings at Trinity by all kinds of outré poets since ’69, but after the Campfires reading I decided to start a weekly reading series at the new location for the Community Bookshop on P Street. Dave Mancuse had started the shop around the time I arrived in DC in its first location on M I think, but had recently moved it to P near Dupont Circle. Lee became a regular at the new reading series, which we pretty quickly called Mass Transit (forget who came up with the name) and out of which some of us started a magazine by that name.


Bruce Andrews, Lee Lally, Nathan Whiting, unknown student
at Trinity


By the time we rented a house on Emery Place in “Friendship Heights” in early ’72, Lee had become a full blown feminist and I had been affected by the ideas as well. That same year we started a press called Some Of Us Press, along with Terence Winch and Ed Cox and others. My idea was to publish a chapbook of poetry by a local poet every month, which we managed to do for awhile. Lee helped choose and design some of the books, one of which was hers, These Days, which gathered the poems she had started writing again under the impetus of her feminist education and experiences. Some were published in feminist and gay and women’s publications that were beginning to crop up around the country, and all had been tried out at Mass Transit.

Lee wasn’t much to talk about her emotions, and didn’t care for others speculating on what she was thinking or feeling, but her poetry made it clear. She later claimed that she hadn’t been writing much poetry since her Buffalo days because of sexism, and that it was the nuns in her high school and her artist and feminist friends (Lee had many women artist friends over the years, including Joan Hanor, who designed the SOUP logo) who gave her the inspiration to take up poetry again.
I always felt a little hurt by that explanation, because I had encouraged her to write, to publish, to do music and all the rest, even to return to college, but she always resisted. I also helped her put These Days together and got some of the poems in it published (in the Trinity Record and December, etc.) but she didn’t acknowledge me, or any of her other male friends and supporters, like Terry or Slater or Ed Cox et. al. in the book, just women.

At any rate, once she returned to writing and sharing a more public kind of poetry, she was an instant hit. Feminists adored her work and These Days had an immediate impact on many women, as well as men. The title came from a song that a feminist singer/songwriter whose name I don’t remember wrote and sang at a concert Lee attended in DC around ’71 (there’s a plethora of songs with that title on Google but not the one that Lee was referring to).


The poems in it were influenced by the blues Lee loved (Memphis Minnie was a particular icon of hers) and old timey country (Mama Maybelle Carter another of Lee’s great influences and loves). And of course it was influenced by the sexual politics we were living through and experimenting out of. Lee had taken a female lover and encouraged me to take male ones, as part of what we thought was going to be the liberation of future generations from the bonds of gender and sexual discrimination.
The house on Emery had quickly become a “commune” in which all kinds of people lived or visited (Valerie Salinas was famously dropped off on our porch after she got out of prison and ended up a good friend of mine but intimidated the women in the commune because she didn’t like their brand of feminism, as she went back to hooking for her money and claimed to enjoy it even though she preferred women for romantic and long time sexual relations, she made the point that her idea of feminism was to create a world where women could do whatever the fuck they felt like doing, not follow some politically correct dictums).
In ’74, I moved out of what by then had turned from a crazy collection of all kinds of lefties, to a strictly lesbian feminist collective. Lee remained in the house with the other women and our kids, and I moved to apartments in the Dupont Circle area until in Spring of ’75 I moved to New York where our kids joined me for the summer and our son stayed. Our daughter returned to DC and her mother and the commune.
Eventually the commune fell apart and Lee ended up with a boyfriend, a younger man whose nickname was “Boo” from the movie of To Kill a Mockingbird. Lee’s female lover, who she was with for several years before Boo, was nicknamed “Atticus” from the same movie. A favorite book and film of Lee’s I might add. What are the odds.

In early ’80, our daughter made the decision to come live with her brother and me in New York. The move was to take place at the start of the summer. But in March I think it was, Lee got sick and didn’t see a doctor and our daughter came home from school one day to find Lee unable to get out of bed. The boyfriend finally came home and took her to a nearby hospital, where they discovered a serious infection in her ovaries caused by an old IUD. During the operation to remove the IUD and the ovaries, Lee stopped breathing for a few minutes, and when they revived her, she was in a coma, which she remained in for six years before finally passing away.


There was a malpractice suit brought by the court appointed guardian for Lee (we were divorced by then and her parents signed over any rights). It ended up being I think the largest sum ever awarded in that part of the country, six million dollars. But they appealed and it was eventually reduced to two million, out of which the government took a third, the lawyers took a third and court costs, and the remaining money was used to care for Lee. Some of that money was invested by the guardian, and the kids ended up getting some after Lee passed.


By the time that happened, Some Of us Press had long folded and Lee’s These Days had been reprinted by a Baltimore feminist press called Diana’s (if I remember correctly). Lee accused the women at that press of ripping her off, by reprinting the book without giving her any royalties, and by understating the amount of copies printed and reprinted in several editions never marked as such, according to Lee.
As of this date, they have never been accountable, or others who have reprinted Lee’s work, to Lee or to her children, though many of the same women claim Lee as a role model and an icon in their feminism.

I think a poem from These Days, “The Reading,” best expresses what I tried to recount here in terms of Lee’s relationship to her life and art:


The Reading

Sitting
listening
to the readers.
Painfully some try to decide fast
‘what two poems will make them love me?’.
Still sitting
hearing all the cries,
a different hand stretches
over air
to pat my belly.
I decided not so fast
but long ago
it didn’t matter.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Liam Rector (1949-2007)

I just heard from Terry Winch that his good friend Liam Rector has committed suicide. Liam had had severe health problems about a decade ago, and his health had been detiorating recently. He shot himself.

Liam was very much connected to the DC poetry scene. He was involved in Mass Transit, and read in the Folio series with Ann Lauterbach.

Here is more information about him from the Academy of American poets.

Liam Rector was born in Washington, D.C. in 1949. He holds an M.A. from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and an M.P.A. from the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard.

His books of poems include The Executive Director of the Fallen World (University of Chicago Press in 2006), American Prodigal (1994) and The Sorrow of Architecture (1984).

His poems have appeared in Agni, Paris Review, American Poetry Review, The New Republic, Boston Review, Slate, Ploughshares, and elsewhere.

His reviews and essays have appeared in magazines and books that include American Poetry Review, The Los Angeles Times Book Review, The Boston Globe, Hudson Review, Bostonia, The Oxford Companion to Literature, and Contemporary Poets.

"Liam Rector is one of the most linguistically liquid and gifted poets of his generation," said poet Lucie Brock-Broido. "His is the oddest and most hallucinatory romance with Romance in American letters."

Rector's honors include fellowships in poetry from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts, and he received the Friend to Writers Award from PEN New England. He has served as poetry editor of Harvard Magazine and as associate editor of Harvard Review and Agni.

Rector edited The Day I Was Older: On the Poetry of Donald Hall (1989), and co-edited On the Poetry of Frank Bidart: Fastening the Voice to the Page (University of Michigan Press, 2007).

Rector has taught at Columbia University, The New School, Emerson College, George Mason University, and elsewhere. He founded and directs the graduate Writing Seminars at Bennington College, and has also administered literary programs at the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, the Folger Shakespeare Library, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Academy of American Poets. He lives in New York City.


My condolences to his family and to his many friends.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Ahmos Zu-Bolton II

I did not know Ahmos Zu-Bolton. I heard him read one time, but I do not remember the context. We spoke a few times, and that was all. He was a man of enormous presence and charm, one of those people that you just liked and respected at first contact.

Ahmos was born Oct. 21, 1935, in Poplarville, Mississippi, and he died March 8, 2005, at Howard University Medical Center in Washington, D.C. He was 69 years old.

Solo Press published A Niggered Amen: Poems, in California, 1975. Ain’t No Spring Chicken: Selected Poems, was issued by Voice Foundation, Inc. in New Orleans, 1998. He was co-editor, with E. Ethelbert Miller, of Synergy D.C. Anthology, published by Energy BlackSouth Press, 1975.




Ahmos ZuBolton II and Haryette Mullen

Here's a post from Ethelbert Miller's blog:

Tuesday, March 08, 2005


Miss Walker, Miss Walker, your true love is dead
He sent you a letter to turn back your head


Ahmos Zu-Bolton was the author of A NIGGERED AMEN (1978) and AIN'T NO SPRING CHICKEN (1998). Yep. Little Zu was born in 1935. So he leaves us in his 70th year.

Here is what I wrote about him in my memoir FATHERING WORDS:

"He carried a bag of magazines or maybe it was just a pouch filled with goober dust, cat eyes and rabbit feet. The man was southern in the way he walked, dressed, and spoke. If it were earlier in the century, it would be a perfect example of the Great Migration. Here was the type of guy Langston Hughes would meet while in high school in Cleveland, the guy who spoke in the rhythms poets wanted to capture on the page. Henderson had introduced me to the blues and African American folklore. Ahmos Zu-Bolton introduced me to himself."

And here are three pages at Chicken Bones: A Journal:

the first, about Ahmos

http://www.nathanielturner.com/zubolton.htm

the second, a poem by Ahmos

http://www.nathanielturner.com/zubolton3.htm

the third, announcing a candlelight vigil for Ahmos

http://www.nathanielturner.com/candelightvigilforahmoszubolton.htm

Ahmos was part of the Mass Transit scene, and was in a couple of the mags.

Here's a poem:

The Basketball Star

We define:
Livewire Davis. The one
with the million-dollar jump-shot.


Livewire as bebop star:
torn between his body's genius
for fast breaks

and a questionmark
called rage. Stumbling
thru a lifetime of all-star games

(he never hit the winning points
but was always a frontpager.


Livewire's days

were lawless theater

(except for the 8 o'clock class,

except for the poetry of bullshitting

with the women,

except for the ritual of practice:

run jump "shoot their eyes out"

defense

defense
except for the terrible puzzle of books

he was free.

& here is another

into my final books of poems

this is to say that i am
coming round the bend. the darkness
inside your flashes of light know me,
i throw you curves because i wanted to be
a pitcher, a sidearming hero you could turn to
in the late innings. (i would save the game
before my wounded brother got to
the shower.

but this ain't no playground
they told me - that & the fact
that i never mastered
the screw-
ball
is the reason i am here.


I was always an admirer of open parentheses.
& I will always be an admirer of this poet.

I need to get another copy of
the Synergy D.C. Anthology, as well as copies of the two books by Ahmos.

If any of the Mass Transit folk would like to add more about Ahmos in a comment, that would be a big plus.

& here is more from Ethelbert Miller: some notes for an article on Ahmos Zu Bolton
that was published in Eugene Redmond's Drumvoices Revue a few months after Ahmos died:

Spacedream Struggle

In his poem “Spacedream Struggle” one will find the use of Zu-Bolton’s favorite word- that word is “struggle.” One would have to look at other Zu-Bolton’s poems as well as his life to understand how he defines struggle.
Is it simply a racial one? It is an inner struggle to better define oneself?
Is it similar to the Muslim concept of Jihad, a struggle in which righteousness is a goal or objective.

Zu-Bolton’s three part poem begins after the conflict. If the first stanza we notice immediately that narrator of the poem is on a space ship. And he is heading home. One must ask the question – where is he coming from, and where is home? Is it earth? In the literature of many African American writers, the concept of home is a very important one. It can be a way of talking about the South as well as Africa. I think Zu-Bolton’s poem forces us to look at home in a much larger sense.

We find the narrator not in control of the ship and relying on music to determine its definition. Notice the reference the general reference to music in the poem and not to jazz or blues.

In the fourth stanza of the first section of “Spacedream Struggle” Zu-Bolton make one of those “Zu” leaps in his poems. A twist that defines logic and opens the door to his creative imagination.

“I am in the memorybanks/of the ship’s psychiatrist”

Why a psychiatrist? Why a person who treats mental disorders? Is this the person responsible for the care of everyone on the space ship? Why is there a psychiatrist on board in the first place?

And now one might wonder if this is a poem about inner space instead of outer space. We find the narrator becoming linked to the psychiatrist.
A joining of doctor/and patient; someone sick with someone well.

“He goes to sleep mumbling
and my voice takes-up
where he left off

In the second section of “Spacedream struggle” we find the narrator/psychiatrist fighting the Christians. So here it seems as if the use of the word “jihad” would not be out of place, in describing the conflict. What we find in Zu-Bolton’s poem is that Jesus is on his side fighting the Christians too. The narrator seems to have a kinship with Jesus, even as he rejects Jesus’ suggestion of turning the other cheek. Here Zu-Bolton places the words turn the other cheek in italics, as if spoken by Jesus. These words seem to be punctuated by the use of the word nigger.

The narrator and Jesus team up like a dynamic duo. They are fighting inside the spaceship and not outside. Jesus is fighting while standing on the narrator’s desk. It seems an interesting place to do battle.

If one was to look at the some of the larger questions raised by “Space Dream Struggle” one would find that Zu-Bolton is critical of the church and organized religion:

“I /had my back to the wall/sidekicking their preacher.

As Zu-Bolton describes the conflict taking place he relies on the visual use of white space on the page. He pulls in the folkloric reference to John Henry.
Along with a word like struggle, Ahmos would also frequently use the word dance, here we find “the ghetto in my eyes/was a firedance .” Dance must be viewed as ritual, as a term of engagement. Dancing underscores the movement of life as well as the language of the poem.

In the third and final section of “Space Dream Struggle” one finds the psychiatrist waking up, screaming and turning the narrator’s voice off.
It is the psychiatrist who gets up to leave and not the narrator. Payment is a bible. Why is payment a bible? What is the psychiatrist doing with a bible
in the first place? It’s also obvious that it is the psychiatrist who is not well.
Ahmos Zu-Bolton’s poem raises a number of philosophical questions about
religion as well as Jesus, and the role they play in political struggle.

Now,what follows the third section of Zu-Bolton’s poem is nothing but white space; about 2/3 of the rest of the page is blank. The absence of words seems to lead the reader back to the “weightlessness” mentioned at the beginning of the poem.

What one finds missing from the end of Zu-Bolton’s poem is a reference to the space ship. The narrator seems to be lost in space. One wonders if and when the music will lead him to his destination.

Spacedream Struggle

1.

It has been a long day

and I am on a spaceship
going home.

I am not
at the controls, so I lean back
in my weightlessness
and let the music
carry me.

Sleep
will disarm me, but
I surrender to it, being
the direction of the music
that the ship
chose.
I am in the memorybanks
of the ship's psychiatrist.
He is on the couch
spilling his life
to me.
I take it all down
in a shorthand that I can't read.
He goes to sleep mumbling
and my voice takes-up
where he left off.

2.

I fought the christians today.
Me an my man Jesus, who is
on the mission with me.
and who would have me
turn the other cheek
nigger.
But
we teamed up this morning, with
love in his heart and rage in mine
we turned the sky of this ship
into a battleground.

Jesus stood on my deck
turning both cheeks
at once. I

had my back to the wall
sidekicking their
preacher.

We fought the good fight.

The heat of battle
dripping
down
my body
like sweat,

the ghetto in my eyes
was a firedance
while
my fist
became John Henry's hammer
and the side of my feet
became the switch --
blade
they say we all
carry.

3.

The psychiatrist woke up
and turned my voice off. He
left convinced that he
was not as sick
as me.

(unable to reproduce the spacing of the original poem).



Sunday, August 12, 2007

Insert No. 3

Lallypalooza

My Michael Lally post is pretty much done. There's a good bit more material than there was before (see below).

Dylan

Around 1960-1962, we used to go down to Laugharne to visit the boathouse and Dylan's grave. David Dooley, Ivor Curnock, Marie Farrow and I used to take the bus down there and stay at a B&B. Our friend Ray James came with us once, too.

Dylan was a cultural icon in Wales even before he died in 1953 at the age of 39. After his death, he was the cultural icon, especially in Swansea, his home town, where I lived. You'd meet all kinds of people who had had encounters with Dylan, or claimed to have had them, invariably in pubs, the bar at the Grand Hotel, or the Hanbury, or the No. 10, or The Three Lamps, or The Cross Keys.

We used to read the poems, listen to records of Dylan reading the poems, listen to a record of Richard Burton reading the poems, and listen to the record of the BBC's 1954 broadcast of Under Milk Wood, with Richard Burton as First Voice.

In 1964, Ivor Curnock was First Voice in the Swansea Little Theatre's procuction of Under Milk Wood. Ivor is dead now. David Dooley became an actor, and he has been First Voice in a number of productions of
Under Milk Wood. He still lives in Swansea.

Dylan was everywhere, the ghost of Dylan was everywhere, and, if you were a poet from Swansea, well…
…but I've never been sorry to be asked to read "A Child's Christmas in Wales" at Christmas; I've done so many times.


After a reading I did in 1977, Tim Dlugos told me that the poet whose work my work reminded him the most was Dylan's. Tim had this great, mischievous grin on his face, as though he'd said something very perceptive that was going to make me uneasy, or embarrassed. I miss Tim. He had a great spirit.

(I've never understood the American pronunciation of "mischievous," as though the 'i' came after the 'v' and not before it. It's almost as bad as the case of "aluminium." Do people not see the second 'i'?)


Recently, I've taken to deconstructing some of Dylan's poems for readings, and that's been fun. I'd like to go back to his grave in Laugharne and read one of them there.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Insert No. 2

Typical autodidact, I've always got to be learning something. This blog is no exception. As well as remembering, researching, documenting, and so on, I'm learning. Maybe it's the same for everyblogger. I'm finding out exactly what I think, as opposed to kind of what I think, or what I think I think. And I'm gathering and organizing data. And I'm learning.

This blog has four threads.

History Project is my attempt to place what I "know" or may (re)discover in some kind of context. 1975 will be the next post in this thread.

Poets is a combination of portraiture and memoir, with some "literary" history and appreciation. I'm kind of anti-literary, hence the quotation marks. I have not completed my post on Michael Lally yet; the next one will be about Ahmos ZuBolton II.

Texts is all about reading. I don't want to write reviews. Not at all. It is a little bit tricky, because what I'm doing is going public with my own reading habits. I try to document my own thoughts regarding the text at hand. It's pretty much what I do in private, without concession to the fact that others will be reading it, to whatever extent that is possible. The next text up will be Heather Fuller's perhaps this is a resuce fantasy.

The Inserts thread is for material I don't want to put into other posts, announcements, explanations, asides, odds and ends, whatever.

There will be a fifth thread of autobiographical material.

So, like Dan Dare, in the old Eagle comics back in the UK, I'm going to explore the universe, and fight the Mekons…

http://www.dan-dare.org/Homepage.htm


Yes, that is where the Mekons got their name.

So Good It Hurts

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Michael Lally

It’s a commonplace that the two great literary subjects of the 20th century were sex and the self. I think of Michael Lally as a Beat poet, essentially, devoted to the investigation of the self and of sexuality in the context of everything. His work as a whole may be read as an ongoing autobiography, the confessions of an American poet. It is revealing, often raw, full of self-mythologizing, self-praise, self-doubt, attitude, discourse, speculation, exhortation, and a whole lot more. The last book that I read of Michael’s is Of, a book-length (100 pages) poem, which reminded me of another commonplace, this one about novelists: that the novelist brings to each novel everything they know and think and feel about the world, and that they embark on a journey during which they will learn more. Of seemed not just a restatement of previous material, or an extension of familiar themes, although it was both of those, but a new hazard. I do not intend to attempt to tell you Michael’s life-story, because the definitive version is available in his work. Visit his blog (see links) and you will be able to make your own discoveries.

In fact, I believe that the very best introduction to Michael is the anthology he edited, None of the Above: New Poets of the USA, published by The Crossing Press in Trumansburg, New York, 1976. It contain work by 31 poets:
Maureen Owen
Darrell Gray
Ed Cox
Bruce Andrews
Robert Slater
Merrill Gilfillan
David Drum
Philip Lopate
Ron Silliman
Joe Brainard
Bernadette Mayer
Dave Morice
George Mattingly
Joanne Kyger
Ray Di Palma
Patti Smith
Jim Gustafson
Nathan Whiting
Terence Winch
Joe Ribar
Hilton Obenzinger
Lynne Dreyer
Michael Lally
P. Inman
Simon Schuchat
Barbara Baracks
Tim Dlugos
Lorenzo Thomas
Paul Violi
Paula Novotnik
Alice Notley

There were poets in there I’d never heard of. One of two of them I still haven’t heard of. It was a wholly eclectic selection, reflecting Michael’s populist approach to everything, including poetics. There were some jokes at Michael’s expense a few years ago about his claiming to have started “language poetry” – I don’t know that anyone believed that he had made such a claim in any seriousness, but the fact is that six of the poets included in Ron Silliman’s anthology, In the American Tree (1986) were in None of the Above: Silliman, Andrews, Mayer, Di Palma, Dreyer and Inman. Three of them were included in Douglas Messerli’s much less expansive “Language” Poetries (1987): Di Palma, Inman, and Andrews. The fact is that Michael was supporting what would become the “Language Poetry movement” at its onset, and I wouldn’t be surprised if None of the Above was the first anthology in which these poets were published together. There were six poets associated with DC in the anthology: Cox, Winch, Dreyer, Lally, Inman and Dlugos. There was Patti Smith, prior to her music career taking off. There was Joanne Kyger, an associate of the Beats and the California Renaissance. I had been in love with Joanne Kyger since I’d read Descheo Notebook in 1971. The main reason I might have regretted not having done enough to warrant possible inclusion in None of the Above was that I might have been published with Joanne Kyger and my DC friends. Not that the rest of the company was too shabby. However, my first point is this: Michael’s identity extends in all kinds of directions. This anthology reflects his social and political inclinations, as well as his literary interests. And this really was alternative poetry, of many different kinds. Most of the poets in None of the Above would have been extremely unlikely candidates for publication by any of the mainstream publishing houses and presses. My second point is that None of the Above contains Michael’s “My Life,” i.e., his signature as well as his life story to that point, his poetics and his science, his money and his mouth.


(Amazon.com has only one copy of None of the Above available, $22.00.)

Michael is an actor, too (under the name Michael David Lally, due to SAG restrictions). He's been in a bunch of movies and a good deal of television shows, including LA Law, NYPD Blue and Law & Order. My favorite work of his so far was in NYPD Blue, second season, episode 16, UnAmerican Graffiti, in which he played an artist who agreed to testify against some very bad people after witnessing a violent crime. I didn't have to look it up. I have the DVD. His Walter Coy is an unforgettable character, with a convincingly distracted demeanor, explaining his sense of aesthetics to the cops, and then having a huge amount of moral fiber and fortitude . It was very gratifying to see an artist not portrayed as a buffoon, but as a genuinely heroic character. Henry Fonda heroic, not Bruce Willis heroic. There was an excellent 1997 follow-up episode featuring the same character: NYPD Blue, Season 4, Episode 10, My Wild Irish Nose. Michael also had a great bit at the end of the first Deadwood series.

Anyway, Michael is a performer. He’s an actor, he’s a performance-oriented reader, and he’s a performance-oriented writer. Every poem is a performance. Every poem is Michael interacting with his own domain, his connections, his history, his psyche, his ego, his mood, his karma, you name it. What drives him there drives him in the world at large. Whatever that is, it’s the same thing that made him such a force in the DC poetry scene in the 1970s.

I didn’t spend that much time around Michael during my first year in Washington, 1973-1974. It was clear that the radical spirit of the 1960s was thriving still during that time around the Dupont Circle scene, and that there was a huge amount of energy coming out of the alternative poetry community in particular. Michael was at the center of that. He and Terry Winch were the driving forces of Mass Transit and SOUP, with Lee Lally and Ed Cox in support. One of their most important endeavors was the reading series at the Pyramid Gallery across the street from the Community Bookstore on “P” Street, but closer to 21st Street. I did my first ever reading in America at that gallery, Sunday, January 26, 1975, with Paul Violi.

Lally and Winch were Li Po & Tu Fu, Abbott & Costello, Slim 'n' Slam, Ginsberg & Kerouac, Starsky & Hutch, Ren & Stimpey, all rolled into one duo. Aside from Ed Cox, Tim Dlugos, Peter Inman and Lynne Dreyer, other DC poets such as Beth Joselow, Tina Darragh, Bernard Welt and Phyllis Rosenzweig received early support and encouragement from Michael and/or Terry, as did many other poets. Of course, there were plenty of conflicts, issues, disagreements, etceteras, during this era, and Michael was often at the center of them. Issues of power and perceived power always cause divisiveness, even in regard to poetry publications, reading opportunities, and so on. And, also, this was the time in which ideas of “political correctness” (as we now know it) were being formulated. I don’t mean “political correctness” in terms of the zealous application of the letter of the law, as it is now interpreted very often. I mean ideas regarding appropriate behavior, attitudes, and speech, receiving serious consideration and attention. There were always differences in opinion about this, about what was right, about what was the right application, about a lot of things. Everything in the garden was not always lovely. Differences about these things sometimes escalated into personal animosities. Michael was no saint and he did not enjoy universal approval within his own community. And there were some “mainstream” poets, and some poets who were not attached to either the mainstream or the alternative communities, who regarded Michael (and others in the Dupont Circle gang) with hostility. As the 1970s progressed, I found myself to be the subject of this hostility by association, sometimes. Aside from whatever hostility I might have earned directly, that is.

Michael has always been very generous. He has always made things happen. He has made many good things happen for a lot of people, including myself. And he is an amazingly prolific writer. Some of his very early writing was what might be termed experimental, more so than his signature work, which was well established by 1972, when SOUP published The South Orange Sonnets. His signature work was distinct, and remains so. The experimental edge did not disappear from his work. It simply became part of his style of writing, and part of his persona as a poet. A more realized version of that style developed between The South Orange Sonnets (1972) and Rocky Dies Yellow (1975), that was very much his own, very clear and recognizable. Its apotheosis was My Life (1975).

The language in The South Orange Sonnets went beyond the vernacular into a kind of anti-literary version of American speech, and the attitudes it expressed were defiant, in-your-face, and provocative. The language reminded me of what the great American novelist James Jones had devised for his novel, From Here to Eternity, an approximation of raw speech, although Jones’ language represented a particular subculture (the US military), while Michael’s represented his own New Jersey roots and identity. The South Orange Sonnets was an unflinching portrait of Michael’s social context, in which his persona emerged in the form of voice and posture.

The cover of Rocky Dies Yellow shows a still from the 1938 movie, Angels with Dirty Faces; the young street punks who would later become the Bowery Boys are contemplating a newspaper headline announcing the death of James Cagney’s Rocky Sullivan, an Irish American, New York City hood. And it’s all there. Just as the cover of The South Orange Sonnets depicted Michael’s social roots, the cover of Rocky depicted his true cultural roots: the movies in general and Cagney in particular. One high literary effort to accommodate Michael’s work named him the American François Villon, but, no, he was poetry’s Cagney, poetry’s Bowery Boy, a fast talking Irish American tough guy. This was not simply a matter of Michael finding his “voice” in the traditional, literary sense. Michael was an actor long before he was cast in the low-budget horror movie, The Nesting (1981), featuring John Carradine and Gloria Grahame. He was a natural actor. What Michael did was create the perfect role for himself: himself, out of Cagney and company, out of the autobiographical traditions of the Beat Generation, and out of his counterculture experiences. This was an authentic, postmodern moment. The counterculture aspect related to another aspect of the Rocky Dies Yellow: “The meaning of that title and cover for me was that, like Cagney's Rocky Sullivan, I was pretending to be softer and less macho than I thought I really was, so that my kids and all kids wouldn't grow up like we did, with all that tough guy model shit, but instead would be more sensitive to women and gays etc. etc. In other words, the times in which most of Rocky was written, were when feminism and "gay revolution" were first having an impact on me and those I knew."



This “softer” side was evident in the lyrical tendencies of Michael’s work, also. Here is one of the poems from Rocky Dies Yellow:

IN THE DISTANCE

In the distance called My Father
I rode my innocence down, rode it
down on its hand and knees like
the people whose dance created the world

What do we know about the world
or the distance we create for our personal atmosphere

What we know is the way we fall
when we fall off the little we ride
when we ride away from the things we’re given
to make us forget the things we gave up

How far is it to where my son
will break my bones and dance on them

& here is the first page of My Life:

I ate everything they put in front of me
read everything they put before my eyes
shook my ass, cried over movie musicals
was a sissy and a thug, a punk and an
intellectual, a cocksucker and a mother
fucker, helped create two new people,
paid taxes, voted and served four years
and a few weeks in the United States Air
Force, was courts martialled and tried
civilly, was in jail and in college, kicked
out of college, boy scouts, altar boys
and one of the two gangs I belonged to,
I was suspended from grammar and high
school, arrested at eleven the year I
had my first “real sex” with a woman
and with a boy, I waited nineteen years
to try it again with a male and was sorry
I waited so long, I waited two weeks to
try it again with a woman and was sorry
I waited so long, wrote, poetry and
fiction, political essays, leaflets and
reviews, I was a “jazz” musician and a
dope dealer, taught junior high for two
weeks, high school Upward Bound for two
years, college for four years, I got up
at 5AM to unload trucks at Proctor and
Gamble to put myself through classes
at the University of Iowa, I washed
dishes and bussed tables, swept floors
and cleaned leaders and gutters, washed
windows and panhandled, handled a forty
foot ladder alone at thirteen, wrote
several novels not very good and none
published, published poems and stories
and articles and books of poems, was
reviewed, called “major,” compared to
“The Teen Queens,” mistaken for black,
for gay, for straight, for older, for
younger for bigger for better for richer
for poorer for stupider for smarter for
somebody else

There is so much material that I could write about. I am extremely partial to the two chapbooks Tina Darragh published in her Dry Imager Production series, Malenkov Takes Over and Oomaloom. Malenkov is a twofer, with Tina’s My First Play starting at one end and Malenkov Takes Over at the other, collages in both cases, collage as writing, writing as collage, image as word, word as image. Very cool. Also very cool, Oomaloom, a book of prose, autobiography, poetics, and counterculture history, containing Michael’s famous “The Dress Incident.” Tina Darragh is the greatest publisher ever.

In the Mood is another favorite, and not only because I was one of its publishers, along with Diane Ward, Bernard Welt and our fearless leader, Terence Winch, all of us editors of Titanic Books. In the Mood could have been called “My Poetics.” It’s a tribute to Frank O’Hara. The Titanic edition has a fabulous front cover designed by me. Xeroxed-down-to-pixels photograph of O’Hara, smudgy rubber stamp work for the author’s name and title. Wow.

Some good places to start reading Michael’s work would be Hollywood Magic, published by Dennis Cooper’s Little Caesar in 1982 and containing a lot of poems, including “My Life,” and Can’t Be Wrong, published by Allan Kornblum’s Coffee House Press in 1996, also containing a lot of poems, including "Where Do We Belong" a long poem about Michael's return to Ireland and his clan's roots poem which he also reads on the What You Find There DC (see below). But, really, the Lally oeuvre is outré in all directions, so its all win win.

One of Michael’s strength’s a an actor and as a reader is his voice. There’s a CD available, What You Find There, there’s a recording of a reading Michael gave at the West End Bar, NYC, March 12, 1978, at pennsound (along with the material that’s on the CD):

http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Lally.html

And there’s a very good 1997 KCRW Bookworm interview by Michael Silverblatt,:

http://www.kcrw.com/etc/programs/bw/bw970130michael_lally

Michael’s long poem March 18, 2003 has been described as the greatest poem of our time.

http://www.cyberpoems.com/march18.htm

Michael read the poem at The Great Hall at Cooper Union on Tuesday, Feb 20th, 2007, prior to a talk by Howard Zinn, to an audience of a thousand plus. Bob Holman introduced Michael as “Whitman to Zinn's Lincoln” (the podium at Cooper Union is the one where Lincoln gave his great anti-slavery address): "As a poet, a fearless, edgy poet, Michael Lally has been giving readers his version of history for the past 35 years. He has done so with the political forthrightness and performance punch of Ginsberg, with the wit and language skills of O'Hara. But because of the place of poetry in this country, a bard like Lally, while a member of the Pantheon to all manner of poets, remains unknown to the public at large, even an audience like tonight's cognoscenti." Michael's reading was a huge success.

You can read more about March 18, 2003 at Stephen Vincent’s blog:


http://stephenvincent.net/blog/?p=280

The most crucial period of Michael’s development as a poet was spent in DC, and the impact of his presence here is still an ongoing reality, as are the benefits (for so many) that resulted from his presence and his activities. As far as “alternative poetry” is concerned, no city outside of New York and San Francisco can rival the achievements of the poets of Washington in terms of publications and reading series, and general ambience. Poets in their twenties, thirties and forties associated with DC are the beneficiaries of that prestige, as well as being the creators of its continuation. Michael was there at the beginning, and, for those who care about these things, he deserves the highest regard.



Lang, Winch & Lally
at my apartment in the Dupont East
1978
photograph by Rain Worthington

Michael Lally’s books:

What Withers (poetry, Doones Press, 1970)
MCMLXVI Poem (poem, The Nomad Press, 1970)
The Lines Are Drawn (poetry, Asphalt Press, 1970)
Stupid Rabbits (poetry, Morgan Press, 1971)
The South Orange Sonnets (poetry, Some Of Us Press, 1972)
Late Sleepers (poem, Pellet Press, 1973)
Malenkov Takes Over (poetry/collage, A Dry Imager Production, 1974)
Oomaloom (prose, A Dry Imager Production, 1975)
Sex/The Swing Era (poetry, Lucy & Ethel, 1975)
My Life (poetry, Wyrd Press, 1975)
Dues (poetry, The Stonewall Press, 1975)
Mentally, He's a Sick Man (prose, Salt Lick Press, 1975)
Rocky Dies Yellow (poetry, Blue Wind Press, 1975; second edition, 1977)
Charisma (poetry, O Press, 1976)
Just Let Me Do It (poetry, Vehicle Editions, 1978)
Catch My Breath (poetry and prose, Salt Lick Press, 1978; second edition, 1995)
In the Mood (poem, Titanic Books, 1978)
White Life (poetry, Jordan Davis, 1980)
Attitude (poetry, Hanging Loose Press, 1982)
Hollywood Magic (poetry, Little Caesar, 1982)
Cant Be Wrong (poetry, Coffee House Press, 1996)
Of (book-length poem, Quiet Lion Press, 1999)
It's Not Nostalgia: Poetry & Prose (Black Sparrow Press, 1999)
¿Que Pasa, Baby? (prose poem, Wake Up Heavy Press, 2001)
It Takes One to Know One: Poetry & Prose (Black Sparrow Press, 2001)
March 18, 2003 (book-length poem with illustrations by Alex Katz, Libellum, 2004) (third edition, Charta, 2006)

& a CD:

What You Find There (poetry compact disc, New Alliance Records, 1994)

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

25 poems


Tom Orange
25 poems

the interrupting cow dc 2004


25 poems consists of 25 poems
each 14 lines long
each line 3-5 syllables, unless I missed a variation

the last line of the last poem is
elegaic brilliance
each word qualifying the other
but the preceding lines
the stormy white
having spent its little
(elegaic brilliance)
leans more towards a brilliance that is elegaic
than towards an elegy that is brilliant
but we can have both and more
as bakhtin noticed
any word brings all its possible connotations into play
in this case
brilliance
made me think about the lightness of this text
how the lines shift through a lyric troposphere
so lightly
resisting the downward pull
towards this or that usually inevitable trope
found in the atmosphere of lyric poetry

your way with
dusk sprayed
at gentle feet
leaves the
minutes mortals
hear to curl
into gardens:
glare long
together and
lovely for the
horizon to soothe
the disaster you
too had never
unveiled first

this is finely deconstructed lyric poetry
more by way of reverdy than rilke
or eluard

a reformed napalm death or carcass
could give a nice rendition of this material

in lyric poetry there is always the risk of suffocation
these poems are open-ended
there are always multidirectional exits

here’s one of the poems restructured

pleasure, the
there and look
to pillow through
we till: hand me
through to some
loving you paler
the rivers and weeds
we would eat from
that little silence
ultimately in all
palpitating heads
long lineage of
& breathing hands
of what we want

there are 59,115 possible variations in the order of the 350 lines of 25 poems

here is a poem made from these poems

legs unleafing
you faked and
from that which
that you sound
to the bones
other that you
a numerous lover
far more than
imagine everything
legs unleafing
language flashing
phosphorescent
breathed the
loving honed out

because the line is the unit
because the line is inextricably within the nexus of the text
the movement between the lines within the text is diffused
because the line is inextricably within the nexus of the text
each line reflects the other
each line is all the other lines

I think I stole that from Merleau-Ponty

“Things explain each other, not themselves.
George Oppen

“In poems such as these, as in Apollinaire’s “Zone,” the elements, the primary data of the poetic construction, are narrative or at least informative wholes. In verse such as Reverdy’s, they are simple, sensory, emotional or primary informative objects capable of little or no further reduction. Eliot works in The Waste Land with fragmented and recombined arguments; Pierre Reverdy with dismembered propositions from which subject, operator and object have been wrenched free and restructured into an invisible or subliminal discourse which owes its cogency to its own strict, complex and secret logic.”

Kenneth Rexroth
“The Cubist Poetry of Pierre Reverdy”

in “Silence as Text Among the Works of George Oppen,”
Gwyn McVay quotes Edmond Jabès
"Why," he was asked, "is your book just a sequence of fragments?"
"Because the interdict does not smite a book that is broken," he replied.
(The Little Book of Unexpected Subversions)

no ideas except in things

the interrupting cow makes my life better

continue reading
continue thinking

the material nature of words

words as mysterious

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Insert No. 1

I just wanted to say that my post on Andrea Wyatt (below) is now complete (9:40 pm Tuesday, August 7, 2007). There’s a new third paragraph of biographical data, plus photographs, a lot more material at the end, and more comments, including one by Andrea about Max Douglas.

Coming attractions


My first post on a text, 25 poems by Tom Orange (almost done)


History Project part 3 (1975). This may be in process for a while, as I sort through the detritus of my library and papers and the fuckwit theme-park of my psyche. I may
post this while in progress and hope that that isn’t too annoying.

Michael Lally

1972, London

Plus
A little pre-American history of my own life as a poet, in the land of Raworth, Harwood, Mottram, Prynne and Fisher.





Saturday, August 4, 2007

History Project part 2


This material was written about five or six years ago for the History Project at the DC Poetry homepage. The questions in italics were given to various poets who had been involved in the DC scene.

4) what was the kind and level of activity in the scene? who was your audience? who were the featured out-of-town visitors? what were the big events? what kinds of interactions were going on among the community's members?
The poetry scene in DC around 1973-74 was very intense. On the one hand, there was the obvious manifestation of values associated with alternative culture regarding anti-war politics, civil rights, gender and sexual politics. On the other hand, there was the obvious continuation of traditions documented in the monumental New American Poetry anthology of 1960. And, clearly, the two hands were joined. It was fun for a dumb-ass Brit like me, although I was never a part of the Mass Transit scene, except vicariously through Pete. I did attend a couple of the readings, and got a taste of the culture, but nothing more than that. The audience for poetry at that time, and, indeed, the poets themselves, extended beyond the literary mileau. It was all peace and love and sharing, man. And, reporting from what I heard back then, occasional orgies in the back room at the Community Bookstore. I don’t know if that counts as “interaction among the community members.” There was so much energy. I don’t remember any big events other than Michael Sappol smacking himself in the head with a metal napkin-holder after his third tequila one evening at the Li Hi Bar & Grill because the waitress would not acknowledge his existence. Maybe it was his fourth tequila. I know that John Ashbery was a significant visitor, reading at the Pyramid Gallery, but that was before I’d arrived. And Ted Greenwald, likewise, after I’d arrived. Dupont Circle in those (pre-subway) days was a kind of miniature Greenwich Village. Low rents, lots of students, arty types and general transient folk, and everybody was part of the same project, seemed like. You could sit all day at Schwarz’s Drugstore lunch counter at the corner of Connecticut and “R” (now a Starbucks site), and you’d more than likely see everybody you knew. Really, when you walked down Connecticut Avenue between Florida Avenue and Dupont Circle, you’d be greeting people all the time. There was a tremendous sense of community, and the poetry scene was an integral part of that.

Joan Retallack has given a definitive account of all this in her “About Mass Transit: The Dupont Circle Circle,” published in the Washington Review in 1988, and now online at the DC poetry homepage (see links).


One of the things that defined the poetry scene then, through the Folio period and to this day, was that it was relatively small. There were just three factions: the academically based poets, the African-American poets, and the Mass Transit poets – with some overlap in all directions. The Mass Transit/Dupont Circle group wasn’t big enough to allow factions to develop within itself, other than at a microscopic level – i.e., a few people complaining to each other about this and that. The diversity of the scene was evident both socially and in terms of poetics.


In those days, the “academically based poets” were the mainstream poets. And there was no lack of hostility in either direction (i.e., between “mainstream” and “alternative”), although there were also poets in academia who maintained their independence from the various “scenes” – David McAleavey being a good example.


The thing I loved about the Mass Transit scene was that it was in some respects very non-literary, even anti-literary. That got lost, which was too bad.


The Li Hi Bar & Grill is now Au Pied de Cochon. (And, since I wrote that
, has closed, I believe.)

5) what were the gender, race, and class dynamics involved in the community at the time?

As more of an occasional observer than participant, my sense was that the Mass Transit scene was dominated by radical gay politics. Certainly, issues concerning the gay community were in the foreground.

In general, gender politics were kind of schizoid. Mucho preaching, poco practice. Peter Inman was a miltant feminist from the get-go, in every respect. Some of us guys were retards. I’d been raised by a divorced mother in a time and place where a divorced woman was invariably regarded with contempt, and I saw what my mother suffered. Also, I was around women more than men in my family life and for the first ten years of my working life (two department stores, one supermarket). I was a feminist before I knew such a thing existed, but that didn’t stop me from being a retard. Hope you don’t mind a little autobiographical data.


As for race, there was some feeling of racial unity in the poetry scene, even though there was a separate band of African-American poets. Ahmos Zu-Bolton and E. Ethelbert Miller were connected with the Mass Transit scene, and Gaston Neal, Joanne Jimason, Adesanya Alakoye, Connie Carter, Robert Hinton, and Larry Neal were all on the scene throughout the remainder of the decade (along with Ethelbert). I don’t mean to deny any divisions here – I’m sure they were real, and acute. But there was a lot more inter-racial closeness practiced then than there is now.

As for class, all I can say is say is that a lot of people were very earnest and well meaning. Certainly, there was a good deal of rhetoric regarding class back then. Probably, I have too much baggage for this one.

6) was there at all a sense amongst yourselves of factors or qualities that made the scene identifiable with the place that is d.c.? a style of writing, a set of concerns, editorial stances, etc.? similarly, was there at all a sense of the same held by outsiders looking in?
For
(at least) the past 34 years DC has been a strong base for alternative poetry, although the early and mid-80’s were kind of dry. Obviously, there’s been a connection with the language poetry scene, dating back at least as far as the fourth issue of James Sherry’s Roof magazine (1977). James included in that issue a DC “forum”, with representative work by Tina Darragh, Lynne Dreyer, P. Inman, Douglas Messerli, Phyllis Rosenzweig, Diane Ward, Bernard Welt, Terence Winch, myself, and two Baltimore poets, Kirby Malone and Marshall Reese. Other than that, it’s just been a hotbed of brilliant, imaginative writing, and I’d be surprised if anyone in New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Chicago didn’t think so, not to mention New York, Chattanooga or Duluth, wherever.

7) d.c. has never really gotten the attention it deserves in the histories of alternative poetry that are being or have been written (e.g., language poetry as an almost purely bicoastal (nyc-sf) phenomenon); do you agree or disagree, and why do you think that is (not) the case?

Yawn. It’s a good question, but exclusion fantasies are not my forte. I can best answer in terms of individual poets. In a curious way, Michael Lally has always been under-appreciated. Partly his own doing, maybe. Of those poets connected to the language “school” – Lynne Dreyer is a little under-appreciated, maybe because of limited publication. Joan Retallack was under-appreciated for the longest time, but surely isn’t anymore. P. Inman is under-appreciated to a degree that I find ridiculous. Of the poets less centrally connected to the language movement, Terry Winch is severely under-appreciated, and Beth Joselow has received little recognition, which is also a joke. Just for the record – I do not feel under-appreciated myself. Terry and Beth have missed out by not being attached to a particular movement. It’s the reverse side of the coin regarding the smallness of the DC scene. Lynne and Joan and Tina all benefited from the recent feminist revisionism of alternative poetry, which was long overdue. I guess Terry awaits the Irish American Poets Tangentially Connected to the Language School with one Foot in the New York School anthology, Pete the Grumpy Modernist Purists anthology, and Beth the Radical Moms with Bad Attitudes anthology. Then, there’d be the Blank Anthology, with empty pages to indicate the non-publication strategies of Phyllis Rosenzweig and yours truly.

Fact is, with the ascendancy of language poetry and post-language poetry came the renewed ascendancy of theory and criticism, not a bad thing in itself, but it did drive alternative poetry back into academia, about which I have mixed feelings. I am in agreement with Ron Silliman’s claim that America has undergone a poetry renaissance the like of which has never been seen before. There are so many poets now. Some express this as a complaint. I do not. I dig it, man. More about this, later,


8) what were the limitations
of the scene or community? things that you felt should have been done that weren't, etc.
Regarding the Mass Transit era, I don’t know. There were some divisions, personality conflicts, personal differences, political antagonisms and criticisms of which I was aware, but nothing worth recording here. And there could have been more documentation, more photography, film, audio, more publications, more written history, more taped oral history.

9) was there a moment at which the community or scene as you knew it began to change, for better or worse? took off in exciting new directions or fell flat on its face unable to get up?
There have been four significant points of change, so far. The first came with the ending of the Mass Transit era, 1974-1975, and Michael Lally’s departure to New York. 1975 was a year of transition. The second came with the formal start of the Folio Reading Series in 1976, although there had been readings by DC poets there during1975. The third came with the ending of the Folio Reading Series and the closing of the bookstore in 1978. And the fourth with the gradual advent of the next generation in the second half of the 1980s into the early 1990s, first with Rod Smith and Joe Ross, then with Buck Downs and Mark Wallace and the rest of the crew. The one “worse” part was that long dry spell between the late 1970s and the late 1980s, but that was only about ten years. Flat on its face and unable to get up? Pretty much. “Exciting new directions?” That was what came next. Aerial/Edge, Bridge Street Books, In Your Ear, Ruthless Grip and everything else.
One other recognition is due: the work Rick Peabody did with Gargoyle (beginning in 1976) was a sustaining element through the down phase, even though he had never seemed to have any direct interest in the events around Mass Transit and Folio Books.

Here’s a short poem from back in the day:

DC poet's lament

Nobody thinks I’m Peabody

Peabody thinks I’m nobody

The photograph above is from a little later in the day, a benefit reading at Folio Books in 1977, with Lally, Winch, Lang & Dreyer all in plain sight.

History Project part 1




History Project part 1

This material was written about five or six years ago for the History Project at the DC Poetry homepage. The questions in italics were given to various poets who had been involved in the DC scene.

1) what brought you to d.c. and when, or if you already lived in the area, what were you doing?
I arrived at Dulles from London in the mid-afternoon of April 4, 1973, one week before my 32nd birthday. I was married to Andrea Wyatt, an American poet, born in Brooklyn, and raised there, and in DC. I came here for the waters. I was misinformed.

2) what were your initial contacts with the poetry community at that time? who were your first acquaintances, how did you first meet and/or continue to meet?
The first poet I got to know in Washington was Peter Inman. We both worked at the Savile Bookshop on “P” Street in Georgetown. We became very close friends, and remain so. I spent a lot of time with Pete socially in 1973 and early 1974, and with Michael Sappol, who was also a writer, and who published the fabulous Personal Injury magazine in NYC a few years later. At the end of 1973, Pete and I put together the first issue of the fabulous poetry magazine everybody’s ex-lover, the name later amended to EEL under P.’s solo editorship.

3) what were the primary venues for the gathering of the community at the time? reading serieses, performances, bookstores, publishing ventures,etc.
The Community Bookstore on “P” Street near Dupont Circle had a small selection of small press poetry books. Discount Books and Records on Connecticut Avenue, on the other side of the circle (where Terry Winch was the poetry buyer) had a small selection, too – a pretty good one. Savile also had some small press publications, including the whole run of SOUP chapbooks. When I first came to DC I was shocked to discover that American poetry of all varieties was much more difficult to locate in Washington than it had been in London. Compendium Books (in London) had an entire room full of American poetry, thousands of volumes, as opposed to maybe a couple of hundred a piece at the Community Bookstore and Discount Books.

The Mass Transit open readings were the center of the scene then, and the more formal readings at the Pyramid Gallery were crucial, also. The usual format of the Pyramid series featured a visiting poet (usually from NYC) with a DC poet, and became the model for the Folio reading series of 1976-78.

Five issues of Mass Transit magazine were published.

#1 Summer 1973, edited by Terence Winch, featured work by:
Claudia Jay Lane
Ellen Carter
P. Inman
Ed Zahniser
Ron Morgan
Laura Goldberg
Michael Lally & Terence Winch
Michael Lally
Terence Winch
Laurie Summers
Lee Gamson
Tim Dlugos
Dominick Cannon
Terence Hegerty
(Ed) Sullivan
Beth Baruch (Joselow)
Deirdra Baldwin
Jesse Winch
David Hilton

#2 Fall/Winter 1974, edited by Michael Lally, featured work by:
Danny Frankel
Terence Winch
Liz Higginbotham
Terry McClymonds
Ed Zahniser
Bernard Welt
Ron Morgan
Lynne Dreyer
Ed Cox
Anne Sue Hirshorn
Michael Lally
Ahmos Zu-Bolton II

#3 January 1974, edited by Ed Cox & Tina Darragh, featured work by:
Tim Corbett
Phyllis Rosenzweig
Michael Lally
Bernard Welt
Sheila Zubrod
Tina Darragh
Ron (Liam) Rector
Ed Zahniser
Ron Morgan
Terry McClymonds
Claudia Lane
Beth Joselow
Terence Winch
Ed Sullivan
Ahmos Zu-Bolton II
Tim Dlugos
Ed Cox
Lynne Dreyer

#4 Spring/Summer 1974, edited by Michael Lally, featured work by:
Michael Lally
Jim Everhard
Terence Winch
P. Inman
J. Hagarty
Michael Sappol
Karen Allen
Tim Dlugos
Terry McClymonds
Martina Darragh
Sheila Zubrod
Terence Winch & Michael Lally
Beth Joselow
“Lee”
Bernard Welt
Ed Cox

#5 Fall 1974, edited by Beth Joselow and Peter Inman, featured work by:
Ron (Liam) Rector
Tim Dlugos
Bob Nechin
Sheila Zubrod
Terence Winch
Jim Everhard
Marta Tabor
Karen Allen
Bernard Welt
Ron Weber
Karlis Freivalds
Michael Lally
Martina Darragh
Ed Zahniser
Casper Shaw
Michael Sappol
E. Waverly Land
Beth Joselow

Some Of Us Press (SOUP), the Community Bookstore/Mass Transit publishing collective, published seventeen chapbooks:

Michael Lally – The South Orange Sonnets
Lee Lally – These Days
Terence Winch – Boning Up
Ed Cox – Blocks
Bruce Andrews – Edge
Robert Slater - A Rumor of Inhabitants
Susan Baker – “She’s a Jim Dandy”
Len Randolph – Scar Tissue
Gabrielle Edgecomb – Moving Violation
Simon Schuchat – Blue Skies
Margaret Gibson – Lunes
Tim Dlugos – High There
Beth Joselow – Ice Fishing
P, Inman – What Happens Next
William Holland – How Us White Folk Discovered Rock & Roll
Ed Zahiser - The Ultimate Double Play
Lynne Dreyer – Lamplights Used to Feed the Deer

Michael Lally and Terry Winch were the central figures in that scene. Michael was the driving force, making things happen, celebrating himself and everyone else, and embodying the spirit of the whole enterprise. It was Michael, more than anyone else, who created that great community. And, for all its flaws and faults, it was a great community, full of the excitement of new possibilities. The scene (later) around the Folio Bookstore was Michael’s legacy, both directly and indirectly. Michael arranged the first reading at Folio, just after I had taken over as manager of the store, in January, 1976 – Michael read there with Ted Greenwald. The Folio reading series continued as a natural extension of that event, and as a continuation of all that had passed up to that point. Terry’s role during the Mass Transit/SOUP era was extremely crucial, too, but more difficult to characterize. In some ways, Michael’s more flamboyant public presence was grounded by Terry’s sardonic demeanor. Personality cannot be ignored. It has too much impact. The Winch-Lally combination was a powerful one, and a sum greater than its parts in the shaping of the DC scene. Terry contributed a great deal to those beginnings, both in a practical sense, and as a leader.

I attended the Mass Transit readings at the Community Bookstore only twice. In some ways it was all very awkward. There would be long silences in between readers, often. Then, someone would say, "I've got something," and they would read. During my second visit, there was a woman sitting on a sofa, knitting intently. At one point, she put down her knitting, said, "I've got something," and then totally blew my mind. That was my introduction to Lynne Dreyer.

Andrea and I moved to California in May 1974, and by the time we came back from Berkeley in October that year, much had changed. Mass Transit was over. Michael Lally was preparing to move to New York. Pete and Tina had hooked up. Nixon was fucked. It was great to back in DC.