Showing posts with label Linda Lerner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Linda Lerner. Show all posts

Excerpts of Poems



















FOR DINO
from It Serves You Right To Suffer (1997)

The Beach is dead
The blood thin red
Dino the bartender lives
In a graveyard
Chief undertaker
Dispensing pain
Like low grade cocaine

There was a time when
I might have invited him outside
Only the tough guy image
Long ago died

The Beach is dead
The poets have left
Dino the bartender
Walks with spade and shovel
Having found his niche in life

The Beach is dead
The ghosts cry in despair
Mad cowboys rope my visions
Hog tie my poems

The curse of Kerouac serenades
The demons of sleep
The Beach is dead
from Sleeping With Demons (2003)

EARLY MORNING INSOMNIA

sitting here alone with
a perpetual hard-on
4 in the morning
insomnia tearing at my guts
can’t sleep, can’t write
pussy on my mind
and people keep writing
and telling me I’m a legend
so why am I sitting here alone
staring into the dark
like a sniper fingering
a hair trigger
restless, unheroic
waiting on words that
won’t come



from North Beach Poems (1977)

FOR PADDY O’SULLIVAN

Paddy O’Sullivan
home again wearing
the scars of the past
like an engraved bracelet
passed on from one lover to another
walking the streets of north beach
in search of old visions now only
memories in the nightmare mirror
of madness—swapping tales
with obscene priests hung over in
the drunkenness of eternal failure.

Paddy O’Sullivan of Kerouac tales
and Cassady visions
Paddy O’Sullivan walking
Washington Square
the bulldozer death lurking everywhere.

Paddy O’Sullivan does your typewriter
still talk to you in
the lonely hours of the night?

Paddy O’Sullivan alone in
San Francisco
city of suicides past and present
waiting for that lady poet
who will forgive you in the morning
for forgetting her name in
the hour of dawn when our needs are soothed
with the power of the written word
that stirs moves inside us
like a runaway express train stalled
on the freeway
like the haunting breath
of a hound dog closing in for
the kill.

Paddy O’Sullivan where
have all the poets gone walking
straightjackets trapped by time
the sun is not as you see it now
everything changes and yet remains the same
the streets are no more or less intense
the lines on your face are the lines
on my face as we move back into
the body into the inner flesh measured by
the amnesia of yesterday.

this town coughs up its dead most rudely
the raw nerves of time returning to haunt me
oblivious to the thirst lying still at
the edge of the river.

the blueprint of our life etched in
the dark shadows of
the soul.

POEM FOR MY FATHER

It took me decades after his death
Before I could write a poem about him
It was as if a small part of him
Had entered my heart
And remained behind the barbed-
Wire fence he so carefully constructed
Over those long years
Stayed there all that time
Building an invisible umbilical cord
Reaching out for un unseen love connection
Sending signals carried on the sealed lips
Of blackbirds circling invisible graveyards
Finding in death
What we had never known in life
Those ghostly white hands scratching upward
From the grave
Desperately trying to cup the tiny flame
Flickering inside the valve of my heart

SAN FRANCISCO POEMS by A. D. Winans

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A. D. WINANS 
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  A D Winans     
 
A. D. WINANS

A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet, writer and photographer. His poetry, prose, book reviews, and essays have appeared in over 1500 literary magazines and anthologies, including City Lights Journal, Margie, Rattle, Poetry Australia, the New York Quarterly, the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, and the Beatitude 50th Anniversary Anthology. He is the author of numerous books and chapbooks of poetry and prose. In 2002 a song poem of his was performed at New York's Alice Tully Hall. In 2006 he was awarded a PEN National Josephine Miles award for excellence in literature. In 2009 he was given a PEN Oakland Lifetime Achievement Award.
SAN FRANCISCO POEMS by A. D. WINANS    



SAN FRANCISCO POEMS
by A. D. Winans 
((7" X 10") Paperback, 190 pages)

San Francisco Poems

ADVANCE PRAISE


"A. D. Winans is the poet heart of San Francisco. He tells it like it was and is. This splendid collection of his nomadic movements through the city through the decades is like no other. His eye, sense of the observed detail, his empathy for the ruin and resurrection, is unique. The melancholia of the old days contend with sharp updated quick shots of the city on the move.  A rich offering." 
    David Meltzer 
 

"A. D. Winans set his poet's eye on San Francisco, native ground, with all the passion of a true elder in the art of poetry. Here are the sounds and sites of a city of poets, wonderfully knit. A reader will find the deep humors of San Francisco alive and well in the hands of a master." 
    Neeli Cherkovski 

"As a poet, A. D Winans is one of the best writing in the U.S. today.  His work is powerful, human, humane and deals with primary issues." 
    Hugh Fox 
_____________________________________________________________ 
 

In his Introduction, Charles Plymell, writes: 
 
     Feminine force has sometimes been assigned to that beautiful City by the Bay, so it's natural it undergoes periodical changes. It is sometimes forgotten that it's a port, and, one it seems for every stormy life that landed there. A. D. Winans is the first person I know who was born in San Francisco.  During my love affair(s) there, it seemed I lived on all her streets, climbed her hills and while high on top of Twin Peaks, marveled at her jewel-like lights strung on streets below. She is almost surrounded by water; a fact the poet Lew Welch often reminded me of.  Fog could intertwine in the breath of sailors sipping martinis at the Top of the Mark, as I watched ships pass each other as lovers in the night, a reminder of the old Barbary Coast, or Mammy Pleasant building her neighborhoods through sex slaves and transients, newer captives with each experience a lifetime etched in memory. I certainly left my heart there, at least the presentiment that makes the heart see quicker than the eye. It demands an extraordinary vision to record this city. A. D. Winans has brought its inhabitants to life again for another look, however quick, however deep.  
    My sister, who died on the street there in front of an Indian bar was a transient, I was a transient, certainly the people of the tribes were transient as a Chinese lantern of the western moon, but the city always gave up its special feeling of home with all that implies.  I met the Frisco Kid back east at a book convention some years later. It took until this day to realize he was a native to this city, and in his poems he identifies places he went as a child that I was to know later and stake a claim to the magical image that always changed yet remained steady.  
    As presentiment is to heart, sensitivity is to creativity and the transient nature of this most beautiful city became the fiction that shed periodically like the snakeskin, the lines of itself.  Crooners claim to have indeed left their hearts there. Soul singers and philosophers worked on the docks. Jazz claimed it; Opera claimed it; Movies claimed it; Detective Novels claimed it; Rock and Roll claimed it (even built on it) Religious Vision claimed it; Madness claimed it; and yes Poetry claimed it! Even the Police claimed it. A. D. Winans lived it.

"His mind destroyed by shock treatments
And one too many police batons."

It was always the large canvas artist forever recorded lines where the real and unreal blurred and sometimes struck. Winans warns,

"Never place your hand over
your heart the
Marksman might think
you're marking his target..."


    There were/are many different kinds of poets who gravitated into that feminine energy. Like fish they traveled in two, even in schools, or more notably cliques. San Francisco was a natural basin for poets and was even known for destroying itself at times. When I arrived there, older poets I admired like Rexroth and Patchen were closing shop. On arriving in the city, Dave Haselwood, a fellow Kansan, gave me a copy of John Weiner's Hotel Wently Poems (which A. D. Winans says was an influence on his own writing).  It was during a short stay there that I had an altercation with a sailor and Neal Cassady in Anne's room and would eat a rather naked lunch with Leary and Ginsberg below the hotel at Foster's Cafeteria in "Polk Gulch." Events in that city seemed linked, too, a fishnet never quite ending. 

    Rexroth organized the famous reading of Howl in the '5Os that led to the famous obscenity trial where Ginsberg's vision of Marlon Brando, the Icon of the year, led to such hyperbole, even the best minds of San Francisco became forever obsessed.  To this day, City Lights Bookstore enjoys the tourist trade from the publicity of the trial. While the author certainly didn't "abandon" his moloch and had no reserve for taking thousands from " Moloch the stunned governments," it changed lives with such force as to create a Beatnik millionaire from a Navy officer and graduate of the Sorbonne, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. A similar institution arose in the Fillmore by another NYC city cat Bill Graham who saw fame in the old Palladium and plunged his vision to the depths of this city. To imagine being a poet who was born in and grew up in this city is to see a history that A. D. Winans records so accurately through his poetry.   
    While poets protested against money and government while building religious and sexual constituencies in visionary fervor, or became jaded, or "trippy" Winans kept his style. Jack Spicer frequented and conversed with Winans at Gino & Carlos. Jack Micheline, his friend, who had the chops, wanted to really turn over those ash cans of millionaire dollars seen prudishly by Ginsberg as "Filth! "Ugliness!" before the politically correct safe, academic mainstream took over. Turf also didn't bother another of A. D. Winans' friends, the late George Tsongas.  Tsongas wasn't a political poet, but he talked politics every day. I, like them, didn't care for the labels.  I could see as much in a Wyeth as in a Blake. The scene shifted again towards the Haight Ashbury (where A.D. Winans grew up a child).  The Go-Go clubs flourished while Sonny Rollins played at North Beach dives for a two-drink minimum. At the old Avalon Ballroom I saw a handful of hippies turn out to hear an "unknown" Bo Diddley. Meanwhile, if one looked closer at Winans' poetry, there were constants.

"
I have observed old women
fumble in broken down purses
for non existent dreams."

In the city where Winans was born, he grew up with those truths that were etched in faces that changed as well, but probably not what the tourists were seeing.
 
    I don't know if poets see differently than other folks. I have certainly been in the presence of some who missed what I saw, and I've certainly seen things I didn't want to see. It's obvious some poets are compelled to write what they didn't want to see in the first place. That was the impression I had from Bob Kaufman, one of Winans' companions, who took a vow of silence.

A. D. Winans and Bob Kaufman

A. D. Winans (left) and Bob Kaufman (right) 


In San Francisco Poems Winans records a lifetime of the streets.  They are photographic in that they can see a line in a face added by time, even the atavistic lines, that might cause one to avert one's eyes. For his is the city of many poets, and as Robert Peters offered, "poetry munchkins." So there is definitely turf. But Winans reminds us  
"...that every meat packer 
And fisherman, every waitress 
And construction worker, knows more 
About life than your average poet."  
     I connect with Winans' poetry in memories when I walked the streets south of Market down to the docks always in pairs, if not in groups, with our longshoreman hooks prominently displayed in our belts, for it's an area a tourist would go at his peril, and poets, not that many.  But Winans is one of them who did.

"You can see from the 
Look in his eyes the 
Scar on his face 
That he's someone 
You don't want to mess with 
His eyes survey the scene 
Like a periscope 

He's a two-bit thug 
Looking for action 
An old beat cop looking 
For a head to bash 
He's Boston Blackie 
And Al Capone rolled into one..." 

    In these lines, Winans not only reveals the faces on the street, but the tragedy therein, where a transient, like Jack Black could find a home. Where the hoboes, hookers, "rounders," and finally hipster poets came to the tenderloin, walked on Turk Street, and ate at Compton's Cafeteria. Her history keeps sucking up the changes, the tragedies of every phony, every dreamer, every hero, and every loser. And Winans' city is unique with the many poets it has embraced. Harte Crane didn't have that situation in Akron. And within that change, that turf, that carnival, that mainstream of visionary-cum-academic, there is an importance to me that I claimed as my home, that space no matter the physical changes, there was the emotion of that space, the space Winans keeps occupied with his poems, that street where my epiphany is his and the poets he knew. It's the hometown he saw both as a child and as a grown up, that very scene that must be read by its inhabitants, its tourists who run into the bookstore, or its poets who must live the boundless postcard, however briefly. 

"I have sat 
One too many evenings watching 
Old men and women 
Eat their last meal 
One eye on the desert the 
Other on the obituary column"      
 



________________________________________________________  

This book is available online at www.littleredtree.com, but for your convenience you can use the link below:

   Buy Now 
$19.95 
SAN FRANCISCO
by A. D. Winans       


($4.00 shipping within the US. Overseas orders will be
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Michael Linnard
Little Red Tree Publishing, LLC
635 Ocean Avenue,
New London, CT 06320 

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POEM FOR ROBERTO VARGAS AND THE NICARAGUAN FREEDOM FIGHTERS

POEM FOR ROBERTO VARGAS
AND THE NICARAGUAN FREEDOM FIGHTERS


this poem is for you Roberto
and for Ed “Foots” Lipman too
this poem is for every poet
who ever paced the cellblocks of San Quentin
Folsom, Attica, and Neil Island
or fought the people’s struggle in Chile
Cuba or Nicaragua


this poem is for those who walk
the dream of freedom
with guerilla visions
in their hearts and eyes


this poem is for those
who gave their lifeblood
to wash the streets free of oppression
for those who rest in heroic
and not so heroic graves
in the struggle for human dignity


I sit here in my seventy-fifth year
thinking of young boys
who have fought the real war
of grieving mothers and widows
thinking of young girls with color-book eyes
young women in black suspender belts
and knee high leather boots
with revolutionary roots


thinking of how the words come too late
and never say enough
knowing that in the Buddha Temple of life
all things must die
knowing there is no survival
no tarot cards horoscopes or incantations
to bring back the dead


I walk the midnight supermarket of death
thinking of Lorca and that long dirt road
thinking of the execution wall


the hangman’s noose
ethnic cleansing ovens
and genocide
hearing the gypsy ballad
that sings to the heavens
knowing there is a strange code
to this language
we are addicted too
as Gene Fowler pointed out
evil spelled backwards is live
being made into a State
automated robot is evil
but dying is not evil
for it is in its whole
the disintegration
the bacterial feeding which
in turn is a live process
and so the fight goes on
and must go on until every street
has been cleared of assassins
until every newborn
is encircled in a poem
the spirit living on
in those passed the baton


the vision cannot be killed
even as we retreat into
the depths of our being
listening to the blood
beat solid against the walls
of the heart knowing
there are secrets in the bones
that cannot be denied
or sold out to the whims
of others


Sleep well my comrades
Only the flesh is gone
Your strength lives on
in those who dared
to reach out and kiss
the sun

A LINDA LERNER REVIEW of WINANS' SELECTED POETRY BOOK

Drowning Like LiPo in a River of Red Wine (Selected Poems 1970--2010) by A.D.Winans 
Reviewed by Linda Lerner
 
In a book that spans forty years of a man’s life, we are given a close up of the American soul by this San Francisco poet whose vision ranges across a country he both loves and mourns.  “This Land is Not My Land,” (1996)  a collection of poems dealing with three years he  served in Panama during the mid fifties, encapsulates themes that recur throughout this unique collection. “Panama city could have been / any slum city in America;” disillusioned with the corruption he sees there, he views the price paid for not fitting in, being poor, black, elderly and refusing to “Buy...into the system” here as well.

“I have watched / listened / observed / only to return home/ and close the door” behind which he shares his revelations in poems written in a deceptively simple style  that startle us with the astuteness of his insights.  The book is divided  chronologically, beginning with Carmel Clowns (1970) in which we meet the poet in Golden Gate Park picking a flower only to look up into the face of a part-time policeman, the first of many authority figures. Winans tries to ignore him and to “Concentrate on the flower” as the poet throughout his life tries to ignore the dishonesty and hypocrisy he sees in the literary world, paralleled in America, and focus on being true to himself, to his own values.

This is a poet who has never felt comfortable with being called a poet, who would have preferred being blessed with “the skills of a union carpenter” and yet the contradiction:  “Poetry and writing have kept me going all these years” he writes in his  introductory essay. This dichotomy is at the heart of this collection:  how to keep from falling into the American literary success trap and yet be successful for the work one does.

For forty years he’s walked the same streets of San Francisco, of North Beach, “stoned on words” observing the misfits, those who’ve never quite made it into corporate America, people struggling to get by, to keep the demons at bay, walked out of the 20th century into the 21st. where everything and nothing changed.

Crazy John (from Tales of Crazy John, 1975) is a local poet who symbolically embodies them along with poets like Bob Kaufman, Jack Micheline, Bukowski,  Kenneth Patchen, A.D. Levya among others,  whose visionary genius puts them outside the mainstream and labeled crazy.  He’s the guy whose laugh “never failed to frighten the establishment” who can’t handle a simple job,  who “invented his own cloud” the guy who “could be seen / dancing a raindance only / flowers understood.” Doctors  locked him up in a padded cell, then “with unbelieving eyes (watched) him / create buterflies / from building blocks/ then turn into a frog / forced to devour his creation / in order to survive.” Crazy John represents those poets, jazz musicians, artists who’ve kept Winans going, helped him to believe in what he is doing, to keep his sanity.

The influence of LiPo, in the book’s title, can be seen in some of the latter poems where Winans has written several Haikus, and some shorter imagistic poems along those lines as in “Rain Poem.” In LiPo on my mind” The poet expresses a kinship with this Chinese poet when he concludes saying,  “I mark time / like LiPo / mixing words with / wine.”
As he does, he still hears “the shrill cry of dead / jazz greats ring out”, and  in North Beach sees “Ghosts at every bar stool” recollecting a time when it “was alive/with creativity.”

There are the ghosts of women he’s loved,  poets, and Jazz musician friends who’ve passed on. Tribute is paid to them in his very moving poem, “I Kiss the Feet of Angels.”Among the poets is Bob Kaufman who took a Buddhist vow of silence for ten years after Kennedy was shot, D.A. Levy who knew that you can’t beat the system and was killed trying, Charles Bukowski who twenty days before his death from Leukemia, sent a poem to Wormwood Review, “ perhaps a wry smile /on his face/ for the doctor/ and a hand on the ass/ of the nurse” a man who  played “out the game to the end /like only the old man / was capable of doing,  Jack Micheline, “A shaman a con man / a vagabond poet ...His poems racing across the / Streets of America / Pure innocence / Pure genius, ...Drunk on the / Pollen of life,  Kell Robertson wondering around the country with his guitar, “Nearly 66 / Hard as the highway...Still scrapping / Like the rest of us / For whatever / time is left.”

They are not dead for Winans.  As he walks along those same San Francisco streets he’s walked along his whole life, he writes
           “I hear the drums
              I feel the beat
              I kiss the feet
              of angels.”

Early in his life, Winans wrote, “america is no place for / a poet to grow old in” which in the new century, by his own admission, he has become.  The poet who in the 1970’s watched old men eat their last meals,” now in his seventies, has become one of them. But, it hasn’t lessened his anger, his determination to stay true to his own values. In “How to Spot a Yuppie” (from South of Market, 2006) he writes, “they are young and have ambitious / looks about them.... like they want something / and are willing to kill / to get it.”


So, go out and get this book;  walk along with A.D.Winans down those same streets. Cross one decade into the next; leave one century behind and begin a new one. Take a  journey you’ll never forget.



Drowning Like LiPo in a River of Red Wine (Selected Poems 1970--2010) by A.D.Winans, Bottle of Smoke Press,  902 Wilson Drive Dover, DE 19904, www.bospress.net, 2010, 364 pp. Trade Paperback. $25.00 with shipping.
ISBN  0-97773000-8-5  hardcover
ISBN  0-97773000-9-3  paperback

Winans Photo at The Beat Museum

Creative Editing by Ginger Eades

Charles Plymell on Drowning Like Li Po in a River of Red Wine by AD Winans

From the shadows of a home town always rising from ashes with eternal fog lying in them like a heavy spirit comes... The Frisco Kid! An appreciation by Charles Plymell (Click for more info)

Drowning like Li Po in a River of Red Wine by A D Winans is a book to be proud of. It’s a pick-it-up-random poem book that gets right to it, with selected poems organized chronologically from past publications, 1970-2010. One might think that 364 pages of verse (and colophon page) would be a lot to take in, but it is not. Everything is all right, like the years went by, exactly right, bringing it all back home.

San Francisco was home to us all. She opened her doors to everyone, alone, weary, and timeless... from Jack Black to Jack Micheline. Everyone got a taste of that home, but Winans is the only one I’ve met who was born there. He must share her coiffed comeliness and spiritual highs, splashing her nacreous pearls from deep black water splayed into the fog of love, the mist from her eddies pressing back the lusty egalitarian thrust until it obeys. It always seemed a small town because it’s vertical, on different planes, each neighborhood seething with scenes.

Mason Street San Fran Circa 1960s
 During my limited tenure, it seemed I lived on every street, if not neighborhood, or knew someone who was in this or that scene. And floating through those different planes were layers to its natural beauty that gave off the essence of love but could also sink down darkly and cruel as hell. Through Winans’s eyes one can live those streets again, like a Bob Kaufman looking out the window of a Muni bus in silent study of all action passing on her streets to the last window-framed panorama.

The book too, is exactly right, as a book should be made. The poems aren’t tucked in as a filler to the pretentious pages of slick magazines; they are presented in the best selection of typeface, the poems placed correctly on the page. Li Po would have approved. It has the right feel, the right dimension, and the right geography to go back to and turn the pages like wrapping dreams.

Winans and I are about the same age, and we both discovered the Beats in the late 1950s. We both had unconventional childhoods. My best times were in the fifties. We heard the McCarthy hearings in real time. We developed a similar political philosophy somewhere between Li Po and Upton Sinclair.

Like most poets in the Bay Area grown into the sixties there was politics in our poetry. He served time in the service. Mine in the ROTC ... a Clinton/Bush deferment. I arrived in his old middle class neighborhood, the Haight, as the decade of the sixties began, before the kids took over the streets from little Russian ladies. He knew poets I did and the bars they read in, and the magazines they published in. San Francisco was constantly changing, sometimes overnight.

I didn’t know Winans in San Francisco but met him later at an Independent publishing event, “Small Press.” We took part in some of their organizations. We learned how the game was played and over the years watched it change into the “Politburo of Poetry” as all things government do with friends rewarding friends. Over the years, we’ve corresponded and shared our views on poetry, political scams and awards. We spot the phonies and neither of us much cares for labels. We’ve seen “revolutionary” poets & middle class kids get permission to protest. We’ve seen famous poets howl against Moloch and the government only to receive several thousands of government money and keep the Beatnik flack, not black, flying at the landmark tourist bookstore in North Beach. We’ve seen hypocrisy in all flavors in all the poets the city spawned. I’ve often wondered how he sees the invasion on his home turf.

AD Winans with Jack Micheline
My biggest regret is that I wasn’t with him when the great jazz clubs flourished in the days of Billie Holliday that he remembers in his poems, or the great blues legends like Johnny Lee Hooker. Yes, the times were always changing there. By the time Pam and I went to Mike’s Pool Hall with Ferlinghetti (Pam was underage), the GoGo girls were dancing in every joint. I got to see Sonny Rollins at an embarrassing two-drink minimum gig in North Beach when he was either too sick or too broken to wail. Yes, the city was built on Rock n’ Roll, Fillmore and the Avalon et. al. But the poets knew that it was really re-built, again and again. It all comes back in the works of Winans. It comes back as subtle and real as Bo Diddley’s words at the Avalon, a thriving line-in the street psychedelic hall bringing us the new sounds and lights. His words haunt me when he came to play to a handful, this “unknown” who said “and here I am now playing for you. Mercy Mercy Mercy.” I think I know what he meant. You will get the full history with Winans’s poems. They tell it real. San Francisco was always home to the outcasts from any origin. They became family. The moon on the water beckoning for all comers. The sun over the hills and bridges all bringing commerce, ships going to war. Friends and families living and dying. A changing city like the long nights and sunny days. My sister died in that Chinese Lantern of the Western Moon.

Gino and Cralos Bar
Jack Micheline came by to rally me to read and bring the “word” to the people. I had a good job on the docks and was starting a family. Besides, I said to him, how would you compete with the fame of sensational book trial no matter the poet and poet storeowner were (out of town) and let the Japanese-American clerk who sold the book stand trial, just in case it backfired. The days of Life and Time are over. They just want the tourist version. Micheline left dejected, but hopefully to Gino and Carlos bar to have a drink with Winans and revitalize the words again. Or the Anxious Asp to hear poets insult the poets from Cleveland in their hippy drag. It was like that. It could be a tough town. We didn’t walk to the docks with Longshoreman hooks in our belts for nothing. The town was built on many layers of compassion and destruction, giver and taker, almost religiously. I wonder sometimes how a poet would live all his life there. Probably by writing lines to William Wantling, an example of the many poets who walked the streets of his town: “Looking into the cracked lips of sorrow/I walk the harsh streets of tomorrow.” (Pg. 297) Pick it up and open it anywhere. But to really find out how the poet down South who wrote about the poet up North and what happens with the poets from the East who come to the West and drank at the bars in Winans’s home town, you’ll just have to open the book in a river of red wine on pg 183.  

-Charles Plymell on Winans's latest publication
 
Drowning Like Li Po in a River of Red Wine: Selected Poems 1970-2010 by A.D. Winans
To Purchase online click HERE for Bottle of Smoke Press
Dover, DE
$25.00 (Paperback) (Shipping Included)
365 pgs
ISBN: 0-9777300-8-5


Looking Back at the Beat Generation by A.D.Winans

Generally speaking, counter-culture describes the values and norms of behavior of a cultural group or subculture in conflict with those of the cultural mainstream of the day, a visible phenomenon that reaches critical mass and persists for some time.
Jack Micheline & A.D.Winans by Linda Lerner
The Beat Generation was composed of a group of American poets and writers who first congregated in New York and later joined their West Coast brothers and sisters.  The movement became prominent in the 1950s and 1960s. The Beats engaged in spontaneity, passionate dialogue, open sexuality, and experimentation with drugs. Their work reflected this and it began to infiltrate the established literary magazines. The influence of the Beats on postmodern literature is undeniable. I grew up in the 1950s, in an era in which you were expected to be a logically thinking, level-headed individual whose purpose was to work hard, raise a family, and be patriotic to your country.  It was a society of rules, order, and materialism.  There was little if any room for individualistic behavior. As the Fifties progressed, the Beat movement began to emerge.  It had its roots in New York (Greenwich Village) and San Francisco (North Beach).  The Beats openly challenged and defied the established order.  They spoke out in opposition to what America represented, as they rebelled against everything the Establishment stood for: the repression of dissent in the name of militarism, racism, materialism, and conformity. 

Bob Kaufman personifies the true meaning of the Beat spirit.  He was one of the original Beat voices to come out of the Fifties and is rightfully considered by many to be the most influential black poet of his era, though his poetry transcends race identification.   Like many of the Beats, he started out in New York and later found his way to San Francisco's North Beach. While Allen Ginsberg was reading his poetry to large audiences, Kaufman chose another path, becoming the undisputed street poet, who frequented the Co-existence Bagel Shop, located on Grant and Green. His poetic technique resembles the surreal school of poets, ranging from a powerful, lyrical vision to the more prophetic tone found in his political poems.  Kaufman considered himself a Buddhist. He believed a poet had a call to a higher order. He lived a life of spirituality. He denounced materialism.

People flocked to the Co-existence Bagel Shop in the hope of seeing him read.  He delighted the audience by jumping up on one of the tables and reciting a newly written poem, or by reading poems from the master poets, such as Eliot, Pound, and Blake.  When he read, there was total silence.  The audience hung on his every word. His fate was sealed, however, the day he wrote on the walls of the Bagel Shop, "Adolph Hitler, growing tired of fooling around with Eva Braun, and burning Jews, moved to San Francisco and became a cop."  This was the beginning of his regularly being harassed by the police and frequently receiving beatings at the old Kearny Street Hall of Justice.   By the late Sixties he had fallen victim to drugs and forced shock treatments at New York's Bellevue Hospital and was but a shell of what he had been in the Fifties.

The Beats were among the first to fictionalize and embellish their lives to readers worldwide who thrived on the experiences of the authors.  By the late Fifties they had cemented their role in the New American Counterculture but, much to their dismay, it was their "lifestyle," rather than their art, that began to take center stage. What distinguished them from ordinary malcontents was their talent and inner conviction.  They represented a large contingency of restless and disenchanted young people around the world.  But it was also a time when the media began to mass-produce and market the "ideal" America. The media began its drum roll to destroy a culture revolution and turn it into a cultural fad. The word Beat began to lose its significance as part of an artistic sub-culture and became instead a label for anyone choosing to live simply and humbly as a Bohemian, or who acted rebelliously. In 1958, the word beatnik was coined by the poet Bob Kaufman to characterize the physical allure of the Beats, instead of their social and intellectual radicalism. 

When I returned from Panama in 1958, the Beats were already beginning to move out of San Francisco's North Beach, migrating to places like Mexico and Venice Beach, California.  The term beatnik became the brunt of jokes, rather than representative of a serious revolution.   The mass media depicted the only two things publishers and tycoons wanted to exploit about the Beats: their image and their lifestyle.   

Jack Kerouac
In order to comprehend the creative surge that took place in North Beach during this time, it is first necessary to understand the literary tradition of San Francisco. It was only natural that the Beat movement flourished there, where it blossomed and came to fruition. But the truth is a literary Bohemia existed in San Francisco long before Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady and other Beat souls came to the city.  

The North Beach creative hub took place in a six-block radius from lower to upper Grant Avenue, centered around a large number of bars, cafés and coffee houses, frequented by poets, artists, and jazz musicians. While Grant Avenue was the center stage of creativity, the bevy of Beat oriented cafés and bars actually extended from Broadway and Columbus, and all the way to the produce district, where the self-proclaimed king of the Beats, Big Daddy Nord, held court in a large warehouse. Eric's Pad, as it was known, remained open at all hours. You could walk in any night of the week and see blacks and whites freely mingling and dancing to the music of bongo and conga drums.  On the upstairs roof there was a string of mattresses, with couples fornicating in full view of onlookers, some quite agog, others blasé.

But two decades earlier, San Francisco was already thriving with creative energy, during what was known as the "San Francisco Renaissance," a designation for a range of poetic activity centered throughout the city. Kenneth Rexroth, often referred to as the "Father of the Beats," is also generally considered to be the founding father of the Renaissance.  Rexroth was a prominent second-generation modernist poet who corresponded with Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams.  He came to the city from Chicago, where he had operated a jazz and poetry tea room known as the Green Mask, which housed an upstairs brothel, right in line with San Francisco's bawdy history.  Rexroth was not only a poet and writer but also a union organizer. He hung out on San Francisco's Waterfront encouraging dockworkers to become union members. 

Rexroth held regular readings in his apartment, located over a record store in the Fillmore District.  Among the many poets who frequented the meetings was Philip Whalen, who later appeared in Kerouac's novels as "Ben Fagin" and "Warren Coughlin."  The poets who attended the meetings represented a wide range of writing styles, from the ballads of Helen Adams to the bawdy rhymes of poet and filmmaker James Broughton.  The readings were a haven for both young and old poets as well as visiting luminaries.

If Rexroth was the father of the Beats, then Madeline Gleason was the founding mother.  During the 1940s, both Rexroth and Gleason befriended a group of younger Berkeley poets, including Jack Spicer and Robert Duncan.   

In 1952, Dylan Thomas came to the city and captivated a standing-room audience, which came to see the Welshman drunkenly read his work.  A year later, Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Peter Martin opened City Lights Bookstore, partly to finance City Lights Journal, which, at the time, was publishing the surreal poet Philip Lamantia. 

Young Allen Ginsberg
When Ginsberg came to the city in the early Fifties it was only natural he would find his way to Rexroth's weekly gatherings.   In 1954, Ginsberg had not yet acknowledged his homosexuality, but this same year he met Peter Orlovsky, and the two became life partners. During this same time, Rexroth was reading his poetry to jazz accompaniment at a small cellar bar on Green and Columbus streets, while Jack Spicer presided over the famous "Blabbermouth Night" at a bar called "The Place" on upper Grant Avenue.  It was around this time that Ginsberg began writing the first lines of his epic poem Howl. Encouraged by Kerouac, Ginsberg began searching for a place to showcase the poem.  Rexroth organized a reading at the Six Gallery, located at Fillmore and Greenwich streets.  The reading featured Ginsberg, Snyder, Whalen, Michael McClure, and Philip Lamantia, with Rexroth serving as master of ceremonies.   Kerouac was not on the bill but did attend the event.  The reading drew a large crowd, with Kerouac drunkenly passing large jugs of red wine through the audience.  Ginsberg was the last poet to read and, urged on by Kerouac, gave a passionate reading, a reading which held the crowd spellbound and which launched him on his way to fame.   

The most important accomplishment of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Cassady was to make rebellious young people throughout the land aware that there was others out there who felt the way they felt.  This was expressed by Diane di Prima, who is quoted as saying that Howl encouraged her and others to step forward and make their voices heard.  She was in effect heralding the cause of a new clan of poets who would become known as the Beat Generation. 

Photo from The 1957 Howl Trial
The single most important event that helped the Beats gain notoriety occurred on March 25, 1957, when agents from the U.S. Customs Bureau seized the first shipment of Howl and declared the book obscene. Ferlinghetti and Shig Muro (the manager of the City Lights)) were charged with selling obscene literature.  The American Civil Liberties Union intervened, providing free legal assistance.  Writers and critics testified on behalf of City Lights, and Judge Clayton Horn set a precedent by ruling that if a book has "the slightest redeeming social importance, it is protected under the First and Fourteenth Amendments to the U.S. and California Constitutions and therefore can not be declared obscene."  This legal precedent allowed D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover and Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer to be published by Grove Press.   

It's equally important to note the influence of jazz on the work of the Beats.  Charlie Parker and Charles Mingus were among the many jazz musicians to whom the Beats were drawn.  In the late Fifties and into the Sixties, Jazz was central to what was happening.  Wes Montgomery and Cal Tjader were very much part of the scene. The Fillmore District, a largely black community, was known as "Bop City," a hangout for musician such as Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan. 

It was common to see New York jazz musicians visiting San Francisco's Fillmore District, and it was here that musicians and lovers of jazz gathered in the early hours of the morning. The Beats and bebop were like twins.  Carter Monroe points out, "When discussing the Bebop movement in terms of Beat Literature, you are talking about the freedom it represents."

A great deal of Beat literature in terms of influence is all about content and challenging social mores.  Bebop challenged the existing parameters of music. You can see this influence in the work of Jack Kerouac and perhaps even more so in the work of the poet Bob Kaufman.  In North Beach, Kaufman was regarded as the Bebop poet, and much of his poetry is infused with jazz.

William S Burroughs photo by Ginger Eades
Today both literary critics and academics alike recognize the Beats as legitimate poets, writers, and artists, but the legitimacy did not come without a cost.  As is often the case, success comes with a price tag, and so it came for some of the Beats. Many of the Beat poets were co-opted into the system.  Ginsberg applied for and received not one but three NEA writing grants and he sold his archives to Stanford University for over a million dollars.  William Burroughs made commercials and had a small role in a movie.  Ferlinghetti's once avant-garde bookstore can't be distinguished today from other commercial bookstores, and he is second only to Ginsberg in marketing himself, commanding thousands of dollars for a reading.  It was poets such as Jack Kerouac, Micheline, Kaufman, Corso and Ray Bremser who remained true to the Beat spirit right up until the time of their deaths.  And while today's youth remain intrigued by, if not directly influenced by, the Beat Generation, there hasn't been a real counter-culture revolution in the U.S. since the hippie phenomenon, which was a youth movement that began in the U.S. during the early 1960s and, as was the case with the Beats, soon spread around the world.

The word hippie is said to have derived from the word "hipster" and was initially used to describe beatniks who had moved into San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury district.  These people embraced the counter-culture values of the Beat Generation, forming their own communities, listening to Psychedelic Rock, embracing sexual revolution, and experimenting with drugs like LSD, grass, and peyote in order to explore alternate states of consciousness.   

In 1967, a "human be-in" was held, leading to the legendary 1967 Summer of Love and two years later to the 1969 Woodstock Festival on the East Coast.  Hippie fashions and values had a major effect on the broader culture, influencing popular music, film, literature, and the arts.  The hippie legacy can be observed in contemporary culture in many forms...from health food to music festivals to today's sexual mores.   

I had the good fortune of experiencing the tail end of the Beat Generation, the Post-Beat Generation that followed and the birth and the death of the Hippie Generation.   

Allen Ginsberg

POEM FOR GINSBERG

I saw the best minds of my generation
destroyed by greed, not so starving
hysterical, naked under their fashion designer clothes
driving themselves through congested city streets
looking for non-existent parking spaces
aging hormone-driven biological clock mothers
offering their purple-veined breasts to baby suckling
zombies, in and out of public
Whose stock market-driven and laser vision perception
sipped Starbuck's coffee under protective awnings
while watching street cops shoo off the homeless
who chatted aimlessly on their cell phones
making reservations at trendy restaurants
while whining about the quality of the wine
who fucked only by appointment, dutifully expecting
a climax in sixty seconds or less
who shopped at organic food markets looking
for eternal youth while seeking cash rebates
with no idea what to do with them
who saw the Savior while vacationing in Palm Springs
and God on Turner TV
who taught their children how to use ATM machines
while devising clever tax-evasion schemes
who gave up writing to save a tree
and claimed it as a tax deduction
who drove their cars in the bicycle lane
hoping for some excitement
who pierced their nipples cocks and tongues
wanting to be among the hip and young
who pledged their allegiance to the Almighty Dollar
while writing protest letters to their daily newspaper
Holy is the sock.  Holy is Swiss cheese.
Holy is the Bank of America. Holy is cable television.
Holy is the condom.  Holy is the U.N.
Holy is pop culture.
Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching is the new
Holy Order
the holy of the unholy
the best minds of my generation