S.F. poet AD Winans Reflects on Life, Works

S.F. poet AD Winans reflects on life, works                      
by Evan Karp
Published 5:05 p.m., Thursday, July 19, 2012 originally in the San Francisco Chronicle

The line between the life of AD Winans and his poetry is a fine one. To Winans himself, it doesn't exist.

"My poems and my life are one and the same," said the San Francisco-born Winans, 75. "They simply can't be separated."

Raised in the Haight-Ashbury and Glen Park, where he lives, Winans served in the Air Force, stationed in Panama, from 1956 to '58, where he "became disillusioned with the American system." By the time he returned, North Beach had become ground zero for the Beat Generation, and Winans embraced the bohemian lifestyle.

Over the ensuing decades, he walked the streets of the city and captured what he saw and felt in more than 50 books of poetry. His devastating snapshots document the indelible heart of an inconstant place and form a stunning portrait in the new collection "San Francisco Poems" (Little Red Tree).

The book follows the 2010 release of Winans' selected life works, "Drowning Like Li Po in a River of Red Wine" (Bottle of Smoke).

Until the late '80s, Winans spent much of his time in North Beach, where poets Bob Kaufman and Jack Micheline became role models and long-lasting friends. When Kaufman broke his 10-year vow of silence, which lasted from John F. Kennedy's assassination to the end of the Vietnam War, with "a half-hour nonstop recitation of poems" at Specs' bar, Winans was so affected he skipped the after-party to write a tribute to his friend on bar napkins. The poem was framed outside Specs' and remained there for more than 15 years.

Working to write
In the '60s, as hippies flocked to Winans' childhood neighborhood, the poet slogged through a number of jobs to enable him to keep writing. He worked the late-night shift at the post office, as a juvenile probation officer, as a security guard at St. Francis Hospital and as an equal-opportunity specialist for the U.S. Department of Education. He often left these jobs feeling disgruntled, and eventually quit working to write full time.

In 1972 he started publishing the Second Coming Press, which evolved into a regular, perfect-bound journal and then a publishing house that put out more than 25 books. Of note was the ambitious and acclaimed "California Bicentennial Poet's Anthology." The journal's second issue was devoted to Charles Bukowski, who had yet to achieve mainstream popularity. Bukowski and Winans became friends and enjoyed a regular correspondence for 17 years. More than 80 of their letters are housed at Brown University with the rest of Winans' archives. His memoir, "Holy Grail: Charles Bukowski & the Second Coming Revolution," was published in 2002.

'In search of his soul'
It was a year after he started the press that Winans quit his government work, which enabled him to land a coveted job as editor-writer at the San Francisco Arts Commission in 1975 - a gig that would last five years. This gave Winans enough time and energy to focus on his own writing while expanding the press. His book "North Beach Poems" was published in '77, and in 1980 he organized the three-county, seven-day Second Coming Music and Poetry Festival to honor poet and critic Josephine Miles and blues musician John Lee Hooker.

Often classified as Beat because he was there, and Meat because he talks about "the meat-and-potato issues of the day" in straightforward, conversational language, Winans defies categorization. His creative process mirrors his nonconformist behavior: "I never sit down with any set intent on how it's going to come out," he said of his poetry.

His work is a record, as Micheline once said, of "a man in search of his soul," and his poetry often focuses on the homeless, the lost and those left by the side of the road by various cultural movements Winans has lived through.

Since 1995, Winans has enjoyed a daily routine of coffee and a newspaper, a few hours writing at the computer, a walk to the post office and around the neighborhood, and a few more hours writing and listening to jazz records before going to bed and starting all over again.

"That's what life is pretty much about," he wrote. "The growing up, the learning, the wild years, the mellowing, the settling into a routine, and then one day it's over."

Taking an easier pace
Lately, Winans has begun to take things easier. As he sat outside a packed XO Cafe, there was a gleam in the poet's eye as he talked about his body of work. With "San Francisco Poems" just out and a forthcoming collection of political poems by New York Quarterly, almost all of his poems will have been published.

"I'd be happy doing twelve poems a year," he said as the J line rumbled past. "I'd be happy just working on what I have left to get out, and then I'll feel like I've left a good body behind. No driving need to have to produce - if something happens, it happens."

AD Winans: Reads from "San Francisco Poems." 2 p.m. Sunday. Bird & Beckett, 653 Chenery St., S.F. (415) 586-3733.

Evan Karp is a San Francisco freelance writer and founder of the Quiet Lightning reading series. E-mail: datebookletters@sfchronicle.com



Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/books/article/S-F-poet-AD-Winans-reflects-on-life-works-3721130.php#ixzz23freONDb

POEM FOR A GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN FRIEND

POEM FOR A GONE BUT
NOT FORGOTTEN FRIEND

The mind silent like
a whisper in
the still of night
you stiff like a mannequin
laid out in hospital gown
eyes fixed to ceiling
silent poems spinning in  your mind
weaving present into past
until you're back on the docks
lifting crates with hooks and beefy hands
waiting to clock out
hit Gino and Carlo's bar                                           
with other white cap longshoremen
young women eying your masculinity
tasting your loins
your head buried between
nectar sweet limbs
now lying in solitude
fluids not whiskey racing
through your veins

nurses pass your room
pay no notice
tubes in your nose
breathing labored
no longer the he-man
this is the way of life
the angel of death
no angel at all
but a minion from  hell

growing old was not supposed
to be like this
dreams reduced to confetti
fall slowly to the ground
stepped on or around

death waits like a sadist
spits in the wind
plays your mind
like a card shark
your breathing ragged
as a rat's claws

the hours pass at horse
and buggy speed
the bones bleed
death waits like
a faceless mugger
in the shadow
of the tattooed dawn

by AD Winans

WIND ON HIS WINGS

sitting here
at Martha's Coffee Shop
my eyes lock in
on a petite young woman
with a body only the young possess   
my mind on fire
with lost adonis visions
my body bartering for timeshe seemingly unaware
of my eyes undressing her
she oozing sex
me an old man with groaning limbs
a once proud hawk turned                    
into a buzzard groveling
for road kill

she with near perfection
picks up her cell phone
speaks in an angel's voice
a smile on her lips
my imagination undressing her
tasting the rose between
her legs
the warmth of flesh
the warmth of youth surrenders
to this old man
who becomes young in mind
the rhythm in my blood
strong as a young hawk tasting
the wind on his wings

-A D Winans


A Collage Featuring Poet, A D Winans

"The Traveled Poet" collage by Ginger Eades
Photographs taken by various people of poet, AD Winans

LEAST WE FORGET




turn on the TV
nightly news
Vietnam, 1972
South Vietnamese airplane swoops low
dropping canisters of death
tails of yellow and purple smoke bombs
curl around the village where
a fierce battle had been raging for days between
North and South Vietnamese soldiers

a nine-year-old girl looks up caught
in a ball of fire, canisters descending
from the sky
like pigeon dropping at a ballpark

the young girl looks up 
caught in a ball of fire
her clothes evaporate
trees lit up like
a string of Christmas lights

the young child flees naked
down the roadway
American troops behind her
her clothes burned from her body
from blistering  inferno heat
yelling, “Too hot Too hot”
as she runs down the road
away from  her burned out village
tears running down  innocent face
blobs of sticky napalm melted through
her clothes and layers of skin
like intense lava from a volcano
30% of her body scorched raw
as TV pundits played their spin
This war that we could never win
Those eyes those innocent eyes
Forever burned inside my head
                            - by A D Winans


Collage by Ginger Eades



San Francisco Arts Commission Honors A D Winans

In 2007, the Oaxaca, Mexico International Arts Festival honored U.S poets A.D. Winans and Neeli Cherkovski, who participated in literary panels and read their work at the town square and at the local university.


Winans and Cherkovski , two San Francisco icons, have been honored by the San Francisco Arts Commission, who in conjunction with the Department of Public Works, has paid recognition to the many poets, writers, film makers and literary figures from the Beat and post-Beat era, who have contributed to the rich literary history of San Francisco’s North Beach, the home of the West Coast Beat movement.

The project known as The Language of the Birds is located at the corner of Broadway and Columbus Avenue. In addition to their names being inscribed on a bronze plaque, Words from those honored are embedded in the sidewalk, taken from the writings of over 90 authors with ties to North Beach and nearby Chinatown.

The following wording is taken from one of two plaques adorning the wall of the site: “Historically speaking the Language of the birds is considered a divine language birds use to communicate with the initiated. Here, at the site, a flock of books take off from the plaza to fly to the urban gullies of the city. The fluttering pages high overhead leaves a gentle imprint of words beneath them. These serendipitously configured bits of local literature reveal layers of human culture, nature and consciousness.”



The 90 literary figures embedded on a separate steel plaque at the corner of the building include Francis Coppola, Kenneth Patchen, Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghettti, Bob Kaufman, Philip Lamatina, Michael Mc Clure, Joane Kyger, Jack Micheline, Kenneth Rextoth, Gary Snyder, Lew Welch, Lenore Kendel, A. D. Winans, Neeli Cherkovski, Herbert Gold, Ruth Weiss and Charles Bukowski.

Winans is the lone native San Francisco poet so honored.

A full list of the names on the plaque can be obtained from the North Beach Public Library.





Photograph on the top of the post on the right is Lawrence Ferlinghettti & AD Winans
Photograph on the left side at the bottom is Neeli Cherkovski with A D Winans

San Francisco Chronicle Review on The Holy Grail

San Francisco Chronicle Review

The Holy Grail
Charles Bukowski and the
Second Coming Revolution

By A. D. Winans

DustBooks 189 pages
With center photo section
$9.95 paperback. $19.95 hardback

Insider accounts of any industry offer a certain amount of titillation, but San Francisco native A.D. Winan’s “The Holy Grail” delivers that and a lot more as he recounts over 40 years inside the small press revolution as publisher of Second Coming Press and Second Coming Magazine.

Winans, a respectable post Beat poet himself builds his memoir cum literary history around his long friendship with he most notorious, and probably the best writer to come out of the American small press scene; the late Los Angeles novelist and poete maudit, Charles Bukowski.

“The Holy Grail” comes closer than any book yet published in showing how and why the small press revolution broke the iron clad hold of stodgy traditional publishers back in the early 1960s, enabling a whole new generation of radical and counter cultural writers to get their work before the public and, as in the case of Bukowski and others, to become outlaw artist celebrities on a par with rock stars. Winans reminds us that even publishers like City Lights (which first published Ginsberg) and Black Sparrow, began as small publishers.


Bay Area readers will doubtless revel in Winans’ intimate gossip about dozens of our more outrageous local writers, especially the North Beach Beat and post-Beat gang –
including Bob Kaufman, Gregory Corso, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Micheline, Harold Norse, and Kaye McDonough – that dominated the San Francisco literary scene, at least the sensational side of it, throughout much of the 1970s and 1980s. Most remarkably, for all the infighting among that gang, Winans writes of it in a very evenhanded manner, admitting hi own grudges but not taking time to grind his own ax.


As it all this weren’t enough for the price of admission, “The Holy Grail” also gives one of the most honest and compelling portraits of Bukowski yet in print, destroying almost every myth about him still current. The supposedly cantankerous, drunken, degenerate, womanizing Bukowski turns out to be a fiercely loyal friend who stands up for Winans in a battle between Winans and Ferlinghetti, despite the fact that Bukowski was seeking publication from City Lights. He graciously bows out when he discovers himself and Winans pursuing the same woman, and he even advises Winans to cut down on his drinking because in words we never expect to hear from the Buk – the “body asks for a bit of kindness.”

Letter From Rod McKuen to A D Winans

Dear AD,
I put off reading Akbar's interview with you until I could safely squirrel away some time to really read it. I knew it would be worthwhile and as I suspected the answers blew away the questions. You always exceed my expectations of you.

Lots of excuses for setting aside pure and thoughtful enjoyment such as perusing words from a poet and human being I admire and respect. A member of the family wasted away and died - just a cat to anyone who thinks being owned by a feline, silly, stupid or just plain weird, but Kubby was the closest thing I had left to a family.

I haven't heard from one brother since he was, after much petitioning brought handcuffed by plain clothed guards, from some penitentiary or another, to Mom's funeral some decades past. Long ago we had stopped getting along when we were just getting along and not relating. The other brother? We are too close. Life was never easy with him and I'm sure his appraisal of me would be the same. Still I love him and would do anything for him but our life together seems increasingly a series of threats and demands by him and negotiations or silence from me. I am too old to quarrel and find it a waste of time so the silences between us grow longer.

Last month I turned 74 and he, like you, is 71 - born three years and two days apart we celebrate our birthdays on the day between . . . so on April 28th we turned 150.

Losing Kubby only amplified my sense of aloneness, not solitude, I covet solitude and can never get enough of it. I know you feel the same about the productivity and solace of being alone, your poetry, approach to it and your forty year fight to have time alone to write ring clear.

Other excuses; deadlines not met, promises not kept, mail unanswered, as always saying yes to every project offered and only fulfilling a portion of them. Making endless lists, feeling guilty about not cleaning up my room . ..let alone my life. And, on and on and on. (What guts to complain about every flat surface in my room being taken up with stuff when your rooms and world have recently burned down.)

I hope you have waded through all this AD because it's a preamble to what I want to say about the kinship I found in your words. Having your poetry to rely on is something, but overhearing your conversation with an interviewer starts to make a presumptive friendship with you important.

It's after 4:00 am here, as it is up north with you, and I haven't yet gotten to the meat and spuds of what I want to address, I'm rambling and growing tired -- though I know it will be another sleepless night. Even changing the trusty right hand to the left, thus attempting to entice and surprise my dick, doesn't seem to work any more but I'll get through this night and morning as I do the rest.

Wanted you to know in the meantime that I'm thinking of you and that your words are spinning in my ears. With a clearer head & maybe no scotch I'll continue, maybe even before cleaning my room.

Please remember that poets go on forever, whatever that is and the best that can be said for academians is that they had a nut named after them. All of us are out there in the same leaky boat and we should be bailing instead of throwing mud at one another.

Luv and all that goes with it,
Rod

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rod McKuen is an American poet, songwriter, composer, and singer. He was one of the best-selling poets in the United States during the late 1960s. Throughout his career, McKuen produced a wide range of recordings, which included popular music, spoken word poetry, film soundtracks, and classical music. He earned two Oscar nominations and one Pulitzer nomination for his serious music compositions.

CHAPBOOK–Black Lily by A.D. Winans

CHAPBOOK–Black Lily by A.D. Winans

by Scot
This offering is a chapbook length poem like no other from A.D. Winans.  Besides the controversial poem the chap contains street photographs from San Francisco and art from Norman Olson.
There are just a few numbered copies left
Published in 2010 by the Rusty Truck Press in a limited edition of 126 copies.
26 are lettered and signed by the author--$10.00  SOLD OUT
100 numbered --$5.00
Postage $2.00
P0stage will be adjusted on multiple orders.
Cover and inside art by Norman Olson
Simply email your order to rustytruckzine@gmail.com and you will be invoiced through PayPal or arrange to send cash.
_____________
Winans comes from a grand tradition of true San Francisco poets.  This chap finds him in top form.  Through the character of Black Lily he playfully explores the world of S&M as only a true San Francisco poet can.  The picture he paints is at once funny, erotic and sad.  And it rhymes!  Classic stuff. -William Taylor Jr.
_________________
Black Lily is still A.D. Winans, but if I didn’t see his name on the cover I would have thought the work was by the ghosts of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Baudelaire. It’s a highest-possible-tension classic, full  of wild sexual over- (and under-) tones, written with whip-lashes and  hand-slaps, you start it and you can’t stop until you get to the last  word and then wish there was more, more, more. Compelling, totally  original, a real wake-up masterpiece!
--Hugh Fox

Aleksey Dayen and A.D. Winans

Aleksey Dayen and A.D. Winans




Aleksey Dayen. Photo by Pavel Antonov. New York, 2001




I was introduced to the work of A.D Winans by our mutual friend, the New York based, Russian poet Aleksey Dayen.
We met in Swansea, Wales, in 2009, where we were both performing at a poetry/music event.
We jammed together - had a lot of fun and as it
was my birthday, ended up, outside in the rain sipping Jameson's Irish
whiskey from the bottle.

Before we parted, we decided/vowed that somehow we would make an album together.
We kept in close contact, sometimes on a daily
basis and in the summer of 2010 he sent me some of Allan Winan's work
and told me he was planning on filming a documentary on his life and
work and invited me to write some songs/music for it.

It was to be called 'Bleeding Words and Restless Ghosts' The Story of San Francisco Poet A.D. Winans by Aleksey Dayen.

A few weeks later I was in Scotland for the graduation of my daughter, Amy, from Edinburgh University ... Aleksey was in San Francisco with Al scouting locations and taking lots of
photos which I collected on the road from friend's computers and internet cafes (Aleksey was a very talented photographer).
Shortly after he sent me this scan of the artwork for the planned film.





Artwork and photos by Aleksey Dayen 2010
Allan sent me some CDs and copies of his writing ... I was electrified by it.
I've been; performing, writing, recording for a
long time ... been lucky inasmuch as I've never run out of ideas but -
discovering Dayen's and Winan's words was truly inspiring.

I had collaborated a few times before  but never with poets ... and non rhyming schemes.
I've spent my time working from the templates
of all the great songwriters in rock 'n' roll, jazz, blues, pop and
country who came before me.
Being asked to work with these writings was a gift.

I don't know yet if this track/version is a
demo or if it will be the final one ... was done lo-fi on a Sony
MiniDisc and an Apple Mac.
It's actually called 'At Folsom Prison' , the
same as A.D. Winans poem. This version has me fooling around with some
train sound overdubs ... 'Foolin' with Folsom'.

I set three of Allan's poems to music for the
film, this is one of them. It comes from when he was involved in
teaching programmes at Folsom Prison, California.

Aleksy Dayen passed away suddenly in November
2010 at the the age of 38. At the time of his death I was also working
on setting some of his poems to music.

As I write,  I'm working on an album project
for 2012, writings of A.D. Winans and Aleksey Dayen and some songs I've
written as tributes/homages to the Russian prince.

Some of this text and an mp3 of 'At Folsom Prison' is published online at Outlaw Poetry Network

'The Boy From Kiev', a song I wrote for Aleksey on learning of his death, was published by Shabdaguchha, a Bengali bilingual poetry magazine which is run by Hassanal Abdullah in New York .

It will soon be published by Leah Angstman's Alternating Current in Poiesis #5





The Boy From Kiev (for Aleksey Dayen)

1
Kiev to Coney Island
is a long way to go
political refugees
dream in neon, vodka and snow
see paradise at f.22
hear surf guitars at dawn
Prospero said life's wrapped in sleep
now let the sleepy boy yawn


Chorus
At the end of the life
at the end of the day
my brother the prince
will just slip away
footprints in the sand
from Kiev to Coney Island      Avenue

2
Kiev to Coney Island
where flowers die in the trash
ghost radio plays Elvis
the liquor store takes cash
I've got a big guitar
I've got a funeral suit
we'll take the train to nowhere
find where they hid the loot
Chorus

3
Kiev to Coney Island
leather jacket packet of smokes
you fill in the spaces
with what an image evokes
Russian jazz and blues
Irish girl behind the door
you think that you can choose
but truth always wipes the floor
Chorus
Lyric & Music by Terry Clarke © Bucks Music
This is an early version/draft of the song.
Terry Clarke; Guild 12 string acoustic guitar, Joseph Clarke on Gretsch
1962 Country Classic, both on Jose Cuervo Especial.
The Boy From Kiev (for Aleksey Dayen) connect
See the Links page of this site for Aleksey Dayen and A.D. Winans.

I'll be posting more on this page as I progress
with the album project. As I say above, Aleksey was to use three of my
songs/tracks for the planned film. All being my adaptations of poems by
A.D. Winans, they are; The Old Men of Aquatic Park, At Folsom Prison and
On San Francisco Streets.
Below are Al's original recordings of him
reading followed by my song interpretations, at the moment they are
basic guitar and vocal versions which I'll be building on.
A.D. Winans
At Folsom Prison Connect
San Francisco Streets Connect
The Old Men of Aquatic Park Connect
From My Window Connect


Terry Clarke
At Folsom Prison Connect
San Francisco Streets Connect
The Old Men of Aquatic Park Connect
From My Window Connect

Fourth of July Poem by A D Winans


       FOURTH OF JULY POEM
                                                
stepped on, pissed on
       cheated and abused
       taken advantage of blue collar man
       caught up in the American scam
       don’t tell me anyone
       can be anything they want to be
       if they put their mind to it

       save your message for
       the deaf dumb and blind
       it’ll never sell in the ghetto
       or to the immigrants
       you’ve  turned your back on

       take your message to the church
       tell it to the men on death row
       tell it to the starving poor
       tell it to the sick and lame
       tell it to the rich folks
       tell it to the politicians
       tell it to the serial killers
       tell it to Wall Street
       tell it to the man on the gallows
       tell it to the chiseled faces
       on Mount Rushmore
       tell it to the street whore
       tell it to the last wino
       on the bowery

       tell it to the banker
       tell it to the butcher
       tell it to the unemployed
       tell it to the circus clown
       tell it to the insane
       tell it to the outlaw
       tell it to the panhandler
       tell it to the con man
       tell it to the baby
       found stuffed
       in a garbage can

       tell it to the displaced
       factory worker
       tell it to the elderly
       tell it to the last space alien
       hiding out in Roswell
       tell it to the militia
       tell it to the FBI sharpshooters
       at Ruby Ridge 
       tell it to the arsonists
       at Waco, Texas

       tell it to the junkie
       with dry heaves
       tell it to the farm worker
       tell it to the dishwasher
       tell it to the orderlies
       tell it to the flag waver
       tell it to the Chinese peasant
       toiling in the rice fields
       for a dollar a day

       tell it to the garment worker
       slaving away in sweat shops
       in Chinatown
       and the Latin Quarter
       tell it to the garbage man
       tell it to big business
       tell it to the Fascist Congress
       tell it to the oil barons
       tell it to the tobacco merchants
       tell it to the fur industry
       who club baby seals to death
       for the clothing merchants

       tell it to the molested children
       tell it to the priests
       who stole their innocence
       tell it to the battered wives of America
       tell it to the pharmacy industry
       growing rich off the sick and lame
       tell it to the millions of people
       dying from air pollution
       in Mexico, China and India

       tell it to the man on his deathbed
       not sure why he lived
       or what he is dying for
       tell it to Jesus Christ
       shout it to the stars
       line the traitors up against the wall
       rewrite the Ten Commandments
       and start all over again

by A D Winans