Say you are the Bard (and let me tell you you’ll never be the Bard unless you say it), and it’s time to say good-bye. During that period towards the waning of what is generally recognized as the Second Millennium, on that section of the planet Earth known as the United States, the defining point of poetry, the Bard Himself, has been a Jewish Buddhist Queer Beat name of Allen Ginsberg. And his death, like his life, was a defining, orchestrated moment: a beautifully choreographed departure reminiscent of the final lines of “The Ballad of the Skeletons,” his venture into rock stardom at the age of 70: “That’s all Goodnight.” Note the lack of punctuation. Note the to-the-bone concision. Allen Ginsberg always made the tight definition; he’d learned the trade from Williams and Pound, and his dad. He did not rage against the dying of the light. He just said that’s all good night. April 5, 1997...
The first night of the new world, The World A.G. (After Ginsberg), I hosted the War Resister’s League Benefit Poetry Reading at Washington Square Church. David McReynolds, the peace and socialist activist, told a beautiful story of Allen’s bodhisattvahood. This state was ascertained one Saturday night at Gem Spa, when Allen disappeared inside at Orlovsky’s command to purchase two Sunday Times, one for David, one for Peter and himself. When Allen emerged, it was into one of those archetypal St. Mark’s scenes: a junkie couple having at it on the sidewalk, with the boyfriend (“Get up you bitch you Bitch!”) tugging at his girlfriend’s claw-like hand (“Let go ya Bastid motherfucker!”). Allen, papers cradled, stopped and said to the boyfriend, “You don’t want to be doing this,” and to the suddenly frozen woman on the sidewalk, “Would you care for a Fig Newton? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Allen Ginsberg, this is Peter Orlovsky and David McReynolds -- what did you say your name was?” defusing the situation completely, handed David his paper, the woman rose to her feet, and everybody just went home. (This was after the era when Allen and Peter tried to get David in on their Romilar highs.)
Grace Paley, too, spoke of and to Allen, lovingly, then read a great story of history gone personal: her mother and sister’s bus trip South, when the Blacks and Whites had to segregate in Washington. Kimiko Hahn read the “tomb” lines from the Moloch section of “Howl” and her searing sequence about her mother’s death from Unbearable Heart. And David Henderson read the Bob Kaufman poem from Solitudes Crowded With Loneliness, “Ginsberg (for Allen)”: “I love him because his eyes leak,” and a thrilling overview of his own poems from the last 30 years. (Henderson, author of Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky: The Biography of Jimi Hendrix, possesses the lushest voice in pobiz and is one of our most underrated poets.) I read the section from “America” beginning “America you don’t really want to go to war,” “After Lelon,” “The Ballad of the Skeletons,” and “(New Verses for) Amazing Grace.” I also read my back pocket poem (def: a poem freshly written, stashed in back pocket):
I was 16, 1964,
New Richmond, Ohio,
curses under breath,
weeding, the weekly chore,
Pocket Poets Series touchstone
scored in back pocket
HOWL of sanity, poetry.
It had been a busy time for Allen, but when was he ever not? In the six months before his death, he opened the season for the St. Mark’s Poetry Project with an epic concert/reading with Sonic Youth, Lenny Kaye, oodles of other musical stars, his Selected Poems 1947-1995 came out (Harper Collins), his raree show with artist Eric Drooker, Illuminated Poems (4 Walls 8 Windows) was released, and his first record with major distribution, The Ballad of the Skeletons b/w (New Verses for) Amazing Grace was released on the Mouth Almighty/Mercury label (where I toiled with my partners Sekou Sundiata and Bill Adler). We released Skeletons just in time for the 1996 Presidential election, and Ginsberg’s anti-bullshit, a-pox-on-both-your-parties jeremiad became an MTV Buzz Clip. Directed by Gus Van Sant, this was the first “poetry video” on regular rotation on MTV; Ginsberg’s band included Paul McCartney and Philip Glass, Lenny Kaye and Marc Ribot, with Hal Willner, who had also produced the St. Mark’s concert reading, turning the dials.
Bob Rosenthal, Allen’s adroit secretary and a wonderful poet, had warned me that Allen might not show up at the first-ever NYU Poetry Slam in February 1997, that he wasn’t well. But Allen was punctual as usual, although very weak, complaining that he was doing the gig primarily because Beau Sia, an incredible and incredibly funny poet and ranter and NYU student, had asked. During the sound check, cantankerous as ever, Allen demanded the lights solely function for his reading, not audience engagement, and that the sound be for amplification only. The Slam poets were all-stars from across the country, and many had never seen Allen. The event quickly sold out, with people turned away. I introduced Allen, as I had many times over the years, as “The Bard Hisself,” and without further adon’t, Allen settled in... “Pull My Daisy,” “Ballad of the Skeletons,” “Hum Bom!” After a somewhat slow and quiet start, he warmed, the audience got into it, started roaring. After “Hum Bom!” he suddenly stopped and looked at me. “How much time do I have left?” he asked. Usually, Allen was meticulous about how long he read, not ever wishing to take more than his allotted time, which he was now over. “One more!” I said, and he launched into “Put Down Your Cigarette Rag (Don’t Smoke),” so perfect, and uproariously appreciated by this hip college crowd, most of whom were smokers, I’m sure. Seated but rocking, sweating, crazily cavorting, Allen Ginsberg was once again redefining poetry, for yet another generation. One more, Allen. That means, one more, and then one more...
~Bob Holman
