As much as I had looked forward to the festival, it turned out to be even more fun than I imagined... why? Because as I sat and listened to the Beat poems I learned something. About rhythm. About delivery. About structure. For a long time I have been trying to clarify in my head WHAT makes a poem BEAT. And I discovered that it's not so much the content as it is the attitude. Some truly truly great things happened at the center that day... here's a sample....
To a New Beat
Keith Tornheim
Government
of the people, by the people, for the people
did not
perish―
it was
just bought out.
So now
it is just for some of the people
…maybe
more than that one percent.
What
opens some doors
closes
some ears.
So if
you want to be heard,
you may
have to howl.
What Poets Do
Lawrence Kessenich
I can walk along the river
with ear buds jammed into my ears
but if I want to be a poet
I must listen to the mating calls
of red winged blackbirds, the scuffle
of mammals in the underbrush,
the silent movement of green waters.
I can drive through the city
in my air-conditioned car, windows
rolled
up tight, but if I want to be a poet
I must feel the oven breezes on my
face,
the thump of rap from passing cars,
observe lines of sweat sliding down
the cleavages of luscious men and
women.
I can watch television, feeding on
pabulum, but if I want to be a poet
I must dig into the complexities
of Rilke, Shakespeare, Dickinson,
listen
to street musicians wail the blues,
learn from dancers and soccer players,
whose grace trumps brute strength.
I can go out on a date with anyone
who comes along, but if I want to be
a poet, I must fall madly in love,
pick daisies from a dusty field and
thrust them
into my beloved’s hands. And when love
dies, part of me must die, too,
shriveling
like a plum on a Tuscan tree.
Last
Night at the Holiday Inn
Brad Rose
The rain patters on the roof, like soft applause. I’m
listening, closely. Very closely. Constant acceleration. You can hear the sky,
swarming, shivering. Listen. Low altitude velocity. Before I know it, it’s just
like fun. But harder to enjoy. In the next room, I hear laughter, like a little
boat, bobbing. Just laughter. And at the end of my bed, my suitcase, small as a
monosyllable. I’m visiting. Only visiting. I can’t stay. Really, I can’t. Goedel’s
incompleteness theorem. Always something missing. The letter J is not in the periodic table. What am
I waiting for? Something tells me, it could get ugly. Something tells me shut
up and concentrate. Something keeps telling me. Everything is ticking, the
wallpaper, the air conditioner, the rain. Sharp, bright, ticking. I’m
listening. It ticks faster. Nine bullets. By the time you read this, everything
will be different. Nine Bullets. What am I waiting for? Faster. No, faster.
Everything will be different.
They’re
Reading My Mind Again
Brad Rose
I
feel it when I’m asleep. Sometimes when I’m awake, too. Those damn magnetic
fields. My girlfriend, Raylene, says I should relax. I tell her it’s hard to
relax when you’re in Demolition. It makes you jumpy. Especially when you’re on
the thirteenth floor. Raylene says that when I get back on my feet I should try
out for the Devil’s stunt team. Says I’m a natural for the Devil’s stunt team. Besides, she says, they’ve got the best uniforms and you never have to pay for your time
at the shooting range. I’ll probably have to have plastic surgery first–maybe
change my finger prints, too. But I’ve been practicing. Practicing painting
pictures of lava. Mostly red and orange, with a little black here and there.
I’m pretty good, even if it’s hard to get the volcanoes just right. You’d think
that would be the easy part? What are volcanoes, anyway? Just exploding
mountains. No big deal. But when the volcano painting isn’t going too good, I
like to get in the car and go for a drive. Doesn’t matter where I go. Sometimes,
I drive all night. Roll the windows down, listen to the wind. It sounds like
nails hissing through wood. Have you ever noticed that? Maybe that’s just me? I don’t know. I like to drive out into the
desert, way past Pahrump; watch the sun come up. Did you know there’s no word
for ‘smile’ in Latin? I read that in a book, once. Those poor Romans. At least
they had swimming pools. The trouble with the desert is that it’s running out
of easy-to-kill prey. They say the planet is getting warmer, and it’s affecting
the wildlife. I love wildlife. They’re not really that different from you and
me. Not really. The snakes and the bugs, they just live their lives. Just do
snake and bug things. They even sleep at night. Hey, I hope nothing terrible
happens. That would be a shame. The snakes and the bugs. Coyotes too. All gone.
They’re just like us. They don’t like heat. Not really. Not even in the desert.
The snakes and bugs and coyotes. At least there aren’t any volcanoes. Not yet.
But you never know. I might drive out there one day, and there’ll be nothing
but lava; the wildlife all burnt-up. You never know for sure. They say
everything is getting hotter. With all this damn radiation, there’s no telling.
But don’t worry. Not about the coyotes, anyway. Coyotes are smart. They’ve got
brains. Not like bugs and snakes. They think like us. At night, you can read
their minds; you can tell what they’re thinking. Sometimes even before they’re
thinking it. If anything happens to the coyotes, I’ll let you know. Ditto, the
volcanoes.
1971
Richard Fox
When
Allen Ginsberg visited Webster College
supplicants
filled the Loretto-Hilton Theatre
the
beat opened with Howl
heard
many lines echoed
pausing
for sips of water
he
surveyed the suits the chic the freaks
offered
the house his thermostat
a
baritone Please Master
hippies
nodded their heads
waved
peace signs
he
swallowed a sly smile
rumbled
through America
there
was a VIP reception
there
was a VIP banquet
there
was a VIP apartment
instead
Allen
Ginsberg strolled dormitory halls
room
to room he considered canvases
slid
proffered poems into his pouch
kvelled
over a newly fired goblet
in
the kitchen he called out ingredients
assembled
a macrobiotic meal
guitars
sax fiddle set a meter
matched
by knife to board
lotus
in a circle sharing common bowls
he
led chants a meditation
pulled
out finger cymbals danced
shadowed
by young feet
on
an empty bed in someone’s room
dirty
sheets stained quilt patchouli
he
flopped snored the night
endured
cafeteria breakfast
Allen
Ginsberg rode to the airport
in
a car bereft of reverse and first gears
grateful
the window rolled down
Bullseye
Richard Fox
Joe
likes his martini dry, Just dip the olive in vermouth, willya?
married
ladies seeking the forbidden—initials on his calendar.
it's
summer, he's at South Schroon—the lake house with listing stairs,
windows
propped open by Beefeater bottles, slivers anywhere you lean.
the
barn hides paint, palettes, easels, shrouded canvasses
after
lunch, we drink Narragansett tall boys—
my
gift, gaunt beer from the hometown.
when we have ten empties, it's time
to bowl.
we don't have a ball but a
cantaloupe is handy.
to our eyes, it rolls straight and
true.
after a dozen frames, Joe nods at
the china cabinet—
open
the top left drawer, bring me my knife.
I
hand him a foot long bowie knife, oiled and edged.
he
tosses the cantaloupe in the air.
a
flick of the wrist, it splits in two.
My father sent me this knife when I
was overseas.
Told me to use it to kill Nazis. How
the fuck was I
going to kill Nazis with a knife at
28,000 feet?
Throw it at a Messerschmidt? Bean an
ack ack gunner?
Joe
fluffs my hair, you're a real hippie, huh?
Dylan
and Baez? Those two are punks. Never paid dues.
Hippies
are copycats. You're all ersatz beats.
I visit his Greenwich Village loft.
there is a fragrance, sugary but
musty
on his clothes, in the air, on Coke
bottle butts.
he hands me Ginsberg, Levertov,
Ferlinghetti, Bukowski.
This is real poetry not that crap
they teach in school.
any book in his digs is mine.
I choose Upton Sinclair, the man in
the signed photograph.
the
next July Fourth at Schroon, after a swim, he rails on flower children.
my
response—beats are just watered down ‘20s Socialists.
he
smiles, nods, clasps my shoulder.
after
breakfast, before beer-martinis-weed,
he
pulls out a pair of hand carved bows.
I
grab a couple of quivers, Joe a fresh cigar.
in front of the beach sit two
targets.
my spot is less than a stone's throw
from the bullseye.
his, across the street past the edge
of the property.
on
a good day, I put two arrows in the outer rings.
he
always buries five in the center circle.
Mine were just for fun....
Jack
Kerouac's Grave
Robin
Strattton
Years ago I went to a cemetery in Lowell, Massachusetts to look for Jack
Kerouac's grave with a boy who vowed to quit smoking for me. Sexy, brilliant,
Hollywood hair and potting soil colored eyes. Kerouac, not the boy. The boy? He
and I searched for hours and then gave up. Ah, Kerouac, who lives in my
bookcase, emerging glorious when I quote everyone's favorite line from On The Road: "The only people for
me are the mad ones..." who would be the first to scorn my search for his
grave! He quit smoking for me. The boy, not Kerouac.
To Be Like Allen
Ginsberg
Robin Stratton
I
often wonder what it would be like
to
be like Allen Ginsberg
Brilliant
misfit
Anxious
teen
Had
crazy Communist mother
Liked
boys
Was
suspended from Columbia for writing on a dusty windowsill
that the dean had no balls
Signed
the paperwork giving the hospital permission to perform a
frontal lobotomy on his mother
Was
unwittingly involved in a burglary ring and arrested and forced
to spend time in a mental institute
Worked
as a baggage handler at a Grayhound bus station
Wrote
Howl which landed the publisher/bookseller
in jail for
seeking to “willfully and lewdly print,
publish and sell obscene
and indecent writings, papers, and books”
Was
voted King of the May in Prague
Was
kicked out of Prague
Formed
the Committee of Poetry in an attempt to channel tax
payer money into poetry, not the Vietnam
war
Chanted
Om for seven hours at the National
Democratic
Convention
Witnessed
the interconnectedness of the universe
Was
not interested in making a social revolution but wanted to
propose his own soul to himself
Was
“the most unharried Krishna” William F. Buckley ever heard
Signed
a copy of his book for me two years before he died
Holy,
happy Buddhist
Wrote
poems that were lists
Some of our other readers....
Doug Holder
Craig Fishbane (came all the way from NYC!)
Karen Friedland
Lori Desrosiers
Yvon Cormier, one of the festival's co-founders
Colin Haskins, the other co-founder, with me and AmyWoronick -
they drove up from Connecticut and their energy added so much to the day!
Yup.
We concluded the festival with a group reading of "I Am Waiting" by
Lawrence Ferlinghetti... it was just phenomenal... the vibe was
really something special !
And of course it was all captured on film by our beloved photographer,
Glenn Bowie... he's the greatest!
Here's the vid:
And here's the poem:
I AM WAITING
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
I am waiting for my
case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of
wonder
and I am waiting
for someone
to really discover
America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic
western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American
Eagle
to really spread
its wings
and straighten up
and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of
Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be
fought
which will make the
world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final
withering away
of all governments
and I am
perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for
the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious
revival
to sweep thru the
state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of
Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really
American
and I am waiting
to see God on
television
piped onto church
altars
if only they can
find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper
to be served again
with a strange new
appetizer
and I am
perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my
number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation
Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be
blessed
and inherit the
earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and
animals
to reclaim the
earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be
devised
to destroy all
nationalisms
without killing
anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and
planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting
for lovers and weepers
to lie down
together again
in a new rebirth of
wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously
waiting
for the secret of
eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure
general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of
life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for
happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed
Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture
story and tv rights
sold in advance to
the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music
to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of
wonder
I am waiting for
the day
that maketh all
things clear
and I am awaiting
retribution
for what America
did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in
Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of
innocence
and I am waiting
for Child Roland to
come
to the final
darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final
disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of
wonder
I am waiting
to get some
intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my
early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green
mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green
fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of
unpremeditated art
to shake my
typewriter
and I am waiting to
write
the great indelible
poem
and I am waiting
for the last long
careless rapture
and I am
perpetually waiting
for the fleeing
lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other
up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and
forever
a renaissance of
wonder
SEE YOU ALL NEXT YEAR!
