Philip Whalen’s Rhythmic Inventions: Thelonious Monk, Calligraphy and Zen Principles
by Keith Kumasen Abbott
(Originally published in Paul Kahn’s New Magazine #3, 2007)

img_whalen_02xSince You Asked Me
This poetry is a picture or graph of a mind moving, which is a world body being here and now which is history . . . and you.  Or think about the Wilson Cloud-chamber, not ideograms, not poetic beauty; bald-faced didacticism moving as Dr. Johnson commands all poetry should, from the particular to the general . . . .  My life has been spent in the midst of heroic landscapes which never overwhelmed me and yet I live in a single room in the city— the room a lens focusing on a sheet of paper. Or the inside of your head. How do you like your world?
 —Philip Zenshin Whalen, Memoirs of an Interglacial Age (1961) 

“…the biggest kicks in music is Rhythmic Invention; the tune is the easy part, etc.  which, I hope, is what my poetry is, if anybody had ears to hear, feet to tap. Chaucer, Skelton, Ben Jonson, Dryden, Pope, Shelley, Blake, Hopkins, Yeats”
—Philip Zenshin Whalen, journal entry:11:IX:67

“[Whalen] is a greatly learned man, more in the mainstream of international avant-garde literature, . . . a man of profound insights and the most delicate discriminations. It all seems so effortless, you never notice it until it has stolen up and captivated you, the highly wrought music of his verse.  It all sounds so casual and conversational, . . .”
—Kenneth Rexroth, With Eye and Ear (1970)



Hymnus Ad Patrem Sinensis (Praise Be Our Chinese Forefathers) embodies three of Whalen’s interests—first, his adaptation and/or assimilation of blues or jazz techniques.  Whalen’s rhythmic experimentations are evident in his manipulations of accent and tone via shifts in diction, syntax and grammar, his unique morphing of meter for syncopation inside regular measures, and his use of the line lengths, enjambment and spacing to speed or retard time.  A Thelonious Monk composition, Rhythm-a-ning, was chosen as a title to highlight Whalen and Monk’s shared idiosyncratic skills for rhythmic improvisations.

Second, Whalen adapts and/or assimilates Chinese, Japanese and Buddhist artistic principles, such as brush practice its aesthetics and epistemology.  “This poetry is a picture or graph of a mind moving, which is a world body being here and now which is history . . .and you.”  This artistic credo mirrors Shodo, the way of the brush, where changing relationships of man, heaven and earth are experienced live in painting and calligraphy.

And third, his adaptation and/or assimilation of Zen concepts of compassion occur within Whalen’s ruminations on our human passions and our teachers–but with humor.   His brush sketch of two Chinese Zenbos with its hilarious sleeping tiger, three wine cups, wine cask and plum blossom float above his idiosyncratic Italic pen calligraphic version of Hymnus and exhibits the confluence of these three interests.



Whalen’s short lyric poetry offers us several characteristics: his rhythmic musicality, his startling imagery, and his remarkable and often comic freedom of his diction and vocabulary.   His ability to shift vocal gears—from mutters to acerbic social commentary up to joyous prophecies—creates his irascible and mercurial Zen monk personae: we experience closely this character’s wide range of his best and worse moods.

Whalen’s pioneering inventions were founded on his traditional lyric forms such as the ode, epigram, hymn, or ballad.  Traditional subjects, such as praise of past poets, epigrammatic portraits, pleas to the muse and witty renditions of lovesick blues, tested his powers of innovation.  Just as one of Whalen’s favorite musicians, Thelonious Monk, re-arranged church, big band, Tin Pan Alley and Harlem stride music for his own artistic ends, Whalen felt free to adapt and restructure his poetic models.  Whalen’s originality, humor and musical ability allowed him to shadow, parody or mime previous metrical conventions as he places them in new frames and combos.  In his youth Whalen played piano, read music and studied music theory.  Although in an interview he modestly downplayed this training, he admitted that on the organ he still played Bach, Buxtehude, Sweelinck and Frescobaldi.  What interested Whalen was

“ . . . what form in time is, which is what music actually does.  . .even in a Bach Invention or in the Well-Tempered Clavier you get this, or I eventually got around to where I was feeling these shapes or forms arranged and moving in certain ways and at the same time making a composition. . . .” (Off the Wall, Interviews with Philip Whalen, 1978)

These forms in time include counterpoint, harmony, syncopation and improvisational rhythmic techniques.  In his writing he couples those skills with low to high diction, Buddhist koans, American folk sayings and/or popular songs, Tin Pan Alley burlesques and/or vaudeville routines.  (See Endnote for samples of the appreciative fascination of Monk by Whalen and his artist friends in the 1950s.)


A Close Reading                                                                                               

Hymnus Ad Patrem Sinensis 

I praise those ancient Chinamen
Who left me a few words,
Usually a pointless joke or a silly question
A line of poetry drunkenly scrawled on the margin 
                 of a quick splashed picture—bug, leaf,
                 caricature of Teacher
on paper held together now by little more than ink
& their own strength brushed momentarily over it

Their world & several others since
Gone to hell in a handbasket, they knew it—
Cheered as it whizzed by—
& conked out among the busted spring rain cherry blossom winejars
            Happy to have saved us all                        
                                         31: VIII: 58

The poem starts with the formulaic phrase, “I praise . . . .” a standard for Latin or Greek hymns and/or odes.  However off-hand and colloquial this poem sounds, its rhythmic changes are remarkably complex and bear a close reading to confirm what Rexroth claims is “the highly wrought music of his verse.” In Cultural Amnesia: Necessary Memories from History and the Arts (2007) Clive James reminds us in an essay on American jazz, “For syncopation to exist, there must be a regular pulse.”  Throughout this poem Whalen improvises syncopations off a ballad’s iambic tetrameter, trimeter, and also off iambic pentameters, often concealing and rearranging these cadenced metrical structures within enjambed lines. Whalen’s enjambment of cadences creates contrapuntal improvisations and metrical compressions against their primary rhythms.

Whalen opens with an unrhymed English ballad four/three measure, a four-beat iambic first line the stresses on every other syllable. (Stressed syllables in bold)

I praise those an-cient Chi-na-men

He follows with a three beat variation of that iambic line, changing the stresses at the third and sixth and seventh syllables with two anapests and a syncope foot of one single stress.

Who left me with a few words

These rhythmic variations to the couplet create syncopation off the iambic feet: every other accented syllable changing to every third syllable accented before ending on a single stress “words”—the first of several metrical compressions that Whalen uses to cut new rhythms.

Then an aside doubles and condenses the four beat/three beat pattern into one line.  The first four stresses shifting from a trochee followed by three iambs, followed with a caesura and then the second half after the caesura he syncopates the last three iambic feet with three trochees.

U-su-al-ly a pointless joke / or a silly question

The tone of a nicely haphazard afterthought conceals a complex pattern.   The accented last syllables in “U-su-al-ly” creates an inversion for an internal rhyme by an unstressed or weak last syllable rhyme on “or a sil-ly” and so this internal rhyme also produces syncopation.

Zen art’s penchant for demonstrating impermanence is described in the next three lines while simultaneously Whalen’s rhythms extemporize by compressing the meters, their quantitative duration and tempo. The fourth line opens with iambs; then it reverses on the fourth accent to a trochee and back to a single stress –ly for an irregular iambic pentameter. These two words echo the syncopated internal rhyme “usually/or a silly” before it.

A line of po-e-try drunk-en-ly  / scrawled

The words po-e-try and drunk-en-ly create an internal end rhyme with similar iambic accent patterns.  However  “po” a short vowel and “drunk” a long vowel slows down the line, despite the light “try” and “ly” rhymes.

Then Whalen’s mimetic rhythm drags the tempo down further into a bleary alky moment when, after the caesura, the long vowel “scrawled” signals a variation from the blank verse of the first cadence.  Whalen’s three accelerating pentameter cadences are simultaneously compressed by enjambments and short choppy diction. (Underlined words are assonantal unstressed or stressed rhymes.)

A line of poetry drunkenly /scrawled on the margin of a
quick splashed picture/bug, leafcaricature of Teacher/

These three submerged blank verse lines are sparked with assonantal rhymes of quick, pic- and –ic.   To my ear these last two pentameter cadences end in jazzy percussive high hat cymbal sounds mimed by the three internal “-ur/-ture/er” feminine or unaccented rhymes.  Whalen concurrently alternates a very complex, volatile and rapid construction/expansion with a deconstruction/condensation of poetic measures here.

Both the poem’s aural and visual presentations recall Martin William’s remarks on Thelonious Monk’s similarly rhythmic expansions and contractions and what this technique achieves.

 “on ‘Five Spot Blues’ . . . an archaic triplet figure is elaborated within a traditional framework. It is perhaps a measure of Monk’s talent that he is willing to undertake something so totally unpretentious. And yet in his solos, he stretches out that little triplet motif, then abruptly condenses it into half the space it is supposed to occupy, embellishes it until it is almost lost, then rediscovers it and restores its unapologetic simplicity. Almost anyone with an ear for melody and rhythm could follow him exactly, I think, yet in its small way ‘Five Spot Blues’ is also a measure of his sense of order, of his rhythmic virtuosity, his originality, and his greatness.” (Williams, quoted in Leslie Gourse’s Straight, No Chaser,1997)

Williams’ description applies to Whalen’s opening six lines and explicates some of his percussive and compressive strategies, sonically.

HAPSTo shift to the Italic version, visually in Whalen’s eccentric calligraphy these three lines compress and hump up—losing any sense of the proper right angle guideline for Italic script.  And these shortened lines also are embellished with festive ascending letters (f, k, l sh, l, f and h) and descending letters (q, p, p g, f, and f).  And just for a visual emphasis Whalen scribes a disproportionately tall plain T on Teacher, a brief serif at its foot, a nod and a wink to a formal Italic calligraphy’s normal swash serif capital letters.  Of course, just as Monk was able to play “Five Spot Blues” straight, Whalen was perfectly capable of performing a standard calligraphic version, with properly proportioned letters in straight lines and accepted angles.  But these calligraphic irregularities perform as a jazz improv while also embodying the asymmetric Zen aesthetic.

For Zen brush works D.T. Suzuki says (Zen and the Japanese Culture, 1959) the art must radiate mugaku no koto or “a thing of no learning” which is produced by the state of “no-mind (mushin) or of no thought (munen).” An acolyte artist’s long training first produces multiple copies of great calligraphic works and this ideally allows the acolyte to access that artist’s spirit without any trace of training. As D.T. Suzuki notes the performance of a Zen sword master or artist arises from “the fluidity of mentation and the lightning rapidity of action.”

Whalen’s brush cartoon of the two sages with three wine cups lounging behind a drowsy or drunk tiger (with a suspiciously dragon-like snout and a drunk expression) radiates Zen fluidity of perceptions with rapid brushwork, while the rhythms of his Italic calligraphy also embody those traits as the poet himself announces in his poem that strategy (“quick splashed picture”).  Whalen’s celebratory poem, painting and calligraphy visually glow with mushin; Whalen’s “mind moving . . . is a world body” could stand as an alternate translation of Shodo. 

What is worth also noting stylistically is that literal translations of Chinese verse characters often may be rendered as “bug, leaf, caricature Teacher” before adding any usual English articles and/or prepositions.

                 “a/the bug, a/the leaf, a/the caricature of a/the/my/our Teacher

Such run-on shortcuts in English also recall the percussive musical phrasing and blocky syncopated rhythms of Thelonious Monk.  Monk may improvise on a Tin Pan Alley melody, say “Between The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea” by rearranging a few notes or chords from a measure of Harold Arlen’s song.  He drops the rest of the song’s melodic phrasing or chord resolutions so he may enter into improvisations off selected notes and/or chords, doubling, tripling or sustaining them to fill out the usual bars.  Writing out their lyrics as Monk plays them, something like this cadenced four/three ballad pattern emerges (sustained notes or chords in Bold caps):

BeTWEEN the/ the devil AND/between the DE/ DEVIL and//
devil deep BLUE/ BLUE sea SEA  

Martin Williams, in The Thelonious Monk Reader (2001), describes this technique thusly:  “The core of Monk’s style is a rhythmic virtuosity. He is a master of displaced accents, shifting meters, shaded delays, and anticipations.  There he is a master of effective pause and of meaningfully employed space, rest and silence. Fundamentally his practices in harmony and line are organized around his insights into rhythm.”

Each pause, hesitation or thunderous sustained chord at end of a measure become aural blinks, where the mind clears and/or resets, in the same way a cut in film signals change. Like Whalen, Monk’s improvisational skill creates new ways of hearing an old tune and marks off new measures of rhythmic intensity and duration. 

After Whalen’s agile “bug, leaf, caricature” excursion into extended and fluid improvisation, he returns to the pulse of a four-three iambic cadenced couplet in the seventh line, but again without the lineation of a ballad couplet.

on pa-per held to-geth-er now / by lit-tle more than ink
& their own strength brushed / momentarily over it

Then the eighth line’s first cadence places three stresses among five syllables, by jamming three accents together last, an anapest and a spondee.   Then the second cadence or measure is straight iambic.  The eighth line’s cadence pattern reverses the ballad couplet meter to three/four accompanied by consonantal and assonantal alliteration between both lines: more, own, mo-, and over.

& their own strength brushed / momentarily over it

How exactly these accents are distributed by metrical feet is problematic even though this eighth line is not at all difficult to say.  The oral performance of this line depends on the reader sensing how the tempo/speed builds up in the previous lines “bug, leaf, caricature” and where the reader feeling a percussive rhythm of accents or pauses falls, rather than a reading following the standard accents in a dictionary.  With the following nine through eleven lines Whalen also achieves a blurred or bent-note dissonance, via assonantal overtones in ink and strength, since and whizzed, (which strikes my ear as very much a Thelonious Monk move, fluidly varying overtones via intensity and duration).  Leslie Gourse (Straight, No Chaser, 1997) describes how Monk arrived at producing such effects for his music.

“Some musicians marveled at Monk’s use of dissonance—for example, he would play two notes simultaneously to suggest the sound of the higher note in a chord, or overtone, and two more notes that did the same thing, and on and on, sometimes augmented by Monk’s use of the pedals.  Monk made seemingly simple changes in chords to achieve his signature sound, for example, a C7 chord with flat 9 would normally be played as C-B flat with the left hand, and E-G-D flat with the right hand.  But Monk played C-D flat with his left hand, with the two dissonant notes eight-and-a-half notes apart, fighting with each other, dominating the chord and creating his signature sound.”

Whalen’s progression of “ink” “ength” “ince” and “izzed” performs in a congruent fashion to Monk’s technique for dissonant notes, and their casual off-kilter domination also defines Whalen’s sound.

In lines nine to eleven Whalen’s pace picks up with returning to blank verse but then by enjambment condensing tetrameter and trimeter cadences as the poem rushes to its close.

Their world & several others since
Gone to hell in a handbasket, // they knew it

Cheered as it whizzed by

Much like a musical quote or show tune sample that Monk might introduce inside an improvisation, Whalen quotes a proverb (“Gone to hell in a handbasket”) that relies on alliteration while he adds two more speedy asides or digressions.   He again condenses a ballad four/three couplet into the tenth line via a caesura, compressing the iambic pattern even more–if you may allow that the phrase “they knew it” is three consecutive stressed syllables.  Technically this effect is a common one in blues and jazz, especially with singers.  For example, in her “Billie’s Blues” the composer/singer Billie Holliday sometimes phrases her couplet “Some people tell me baby you /built for speed.”

These compressed three sustained accents in Whalen’s tenth line prepare the reader for the same double and triple-stress effects in the twelfth line.  There, at that time with the wonderful American slang “conk” and “conked” —“to strike on the head (conk) with a weapon or bludgeon and rendered senseless” (Dictionary of American Underworld Lingo, 1950)—Whalen opens out the poem to its second rush of improvised translationese. 

                    Conked out among the busted spring rain cherry blossom winejars

This line seems hurried yet also dense, as its rhythm has ten accented syllables jammed among five unaccented syllables without any cadenced caesuras.  It has no internal rhymes and one bubbly bu-blo alliterative effect. Each of the words stands out alone, and this to my eye and ear again imitates characters in a line of Chinese poetry.   The adjective busted is placed before two more ambiguous modifying phrases spring rain and cherry blossom and then we get to their subject, winejars.  In English this strategy makes the line end even more a rushed literal translation off the top of someone’s head.

This line also induces Monk-like hesitations or suspensions of cohesive rhythm, prompting repeated glitches in the sonic meaning/measure while we mentally reset which noun or noun cluster takes what modifier. The words also shed syntax and break up into just sounds.  Gourse quotes Martin Williams on Monk’s artistic use of this phenomenon:

“Besides its highly original rhythmic subtleties, there is the question of Monk’s quite advanced harmonic ear, which has led one critic to say that ‘he has pushed jazz to the brink of atonality.’  I am not sure that the term ‘harmony’ is accurate with Monk: he seems much more interested in sound and in original and arresting combinations of sounds than in harmony per se.” (Straight, No Chaser, 1997)

Whalen suspends our syntactical harmonic comprehension in a similar way that Monk repeats, splits, and fragments chords and measures from the pop song phrases, displacing accents and suspending their resolutions for very similar sonic effects as Whalen gets with his floating syntax.

busted spring                                    between the
busted  rain                                       the devil and
busted spring rain                           between the de-
busted cherry                                   devil and
busted cherry blossom                   devil deep blue blue
busted winejars                               blue sea sea

Happy to have saved us all” fast forwards us into the style of Zen koans, where the conclusions often exist in another dimension from the body of the story.  Salvation never makes the Buddhist top ten lists of things to do, because Buddhas don’t save Buddhas.  In other words, everyone has Buddhamind, so there are no candidates for salvation.  In this case, not so much as a leap of faith is required of the reader or listener as mushin—a lightning liberation from mental obstacles (ignorance or delusion) so there is only a now.

To end on a stylistic note, that last line of Whalen reminds me of a poem by sword master Tesshu, who was especially skilled in Zen poetry and painting.  He once wrote on a bamboo fan these sage words of advice. 

       as soon as the flies retreat
the mosquitoes advance
      don’t miss the June bargain sales!

Translated by John Stevens
The Sword of No-Sword (1987)

With a witty insouciance Tesshu reminds us that our present reality is kept firmly in mind—but not your subconscious gossip mind—in your ordinary mind.  The task is to attend to each day’s minute particulars.  To receive such a quotidian command from a Zen master in expectation of something far grander may just be the shock to enlighten one and flood the student’s mind with the big picture of Buddhamind.

And I believe it is just such productions as Tesshu provided his patron that Whalen has in mind to praise, imitate, improvise on and embody with his Hymnus Ad Patrem Sinensis.  By doing so we may be happy and delighted each time we hear or read his Hymn (or Tesshu’s Spring Sales poem).

Nothing lasts save our ability to inhabit those moments, perhaps leave a poetic or calligraphic version, and thereby our perpetual joy in these arts has liberated us all.


Whalen’s acquaintances shared his appreciation for Thelonious Monk.  On January 27, 1960 Whalen’s friend, poet Lew Welch, writes to Whalen about what an inspiration and mentor Monk was for him as a writer.  In what sounds like a continuation of an ongoing discussion between them, Welch states “To get back to the writing: when I took Ann to hear Thelonious [Monk] I had a tremendous affirmation.  His hardness, his willingness to pause and wait.  His absolute disdain of transitions and developments.  The mind THERE, working.” (I Remain, 1980)

Grover Sales, Whalen and Welch’s friend, reviewed Monk’s 1959 gig at the Blackhawk in San Francisco. He wrote that Monk had “. . . taken the blues and altered them, transmogrified them and bestowed upon them brazenly new harmonic and rhythmic dimensions.”  (The Thelonious Monk Reader. 2001)

Whalen’s poem, “The Ode To Music” dedicated to composer Morton Subotnik, sets forth his passion for music’s powers of liberation and for Thelonious Monk’s total commitment.  Whalen’s friend, Allen Ginsberg, provides a quote.

What do I know or care about life and death
My concern is to arrange immediate BREAKTHROUGH
Into this heaven where we live
                        as music 


fingers that hear it as it happens
as it is being made, Thelonious Monk
“has the music going on all the time,” AG told me
“You hear it while he’s at the piano,
you see him listening to it when he’s out walking around
it’s going all the time.”

(Everyday, 1965)

Professor emeritus Keith Kumasen Abbott is the author Downstream from Trout Fishing In America, A Memoir of Richard Brautigan as well as four novels, and short story and poetry collections.  His calligraphic art has appeared in numerous art shows from Shanghai to San Antonio. The memoir of his Zen teacher, Cloud Phoenix, A Memoir of Kobun Chino Otogawa Roshi” is online at www.keithabbottwriter.com.

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At A Secret Location

To: The Membership & Interested Parties
From: Chinee, Grand Poobah, NBBPS
Subject: At A Secret Location

citylights1There once was a poetry treasure trove in a basement in North Beach in San Francisco.  It was accessed by wooden stairs leading down into a brick lined cellar arrayed with book shelves, both freestanding and fastened to the walls, this being earthquake country after all.  Scattered throughout were a few round topped café tables, one of which hosted a conversation between Neal Cassady and Allen Ginsburg back in the hoary Beatnik past.  That little bit of history was but a mere diversion when compared to the literary wealth that could be found in a little alcove off to one side of the main book displays.  This was where the indie small press and little magazine section was located, crammed with the latest from university sponsored literary quarterlies and independent publishers to on-the-fly one-shot mimeograph productions.  That cellar belonged to City Lights Bookstore.

City Lights Bookstore, a world renowned cultural and literary landmark, had drawn many a young aspiring writer to its doors in the early 60’s, particularly after its Pocket Poets Series published Ginsberg’s Howl and appeared to be the crucible of what became known as the San Francisco Renaissance.  And City Lights, like similar independent bookstores across the U.S. in those days, such as the Eighth Street Book Shop and Ed Sanders’ Peace Eye in New York City, and the Asphodel Bookstore in Cleveland, served as the hubs of an informal distribution network, each of the little magazines and cheaply produced chapbooks functioning as a node and feeding into that hub a vital innovative literature.  Nor should the radical vortex of Moe’s, Cody’s, and Shakespeare & Co located all within one block of each other on Telegraph Ave in Berkeley go unmentioned. This network was, as were the times, subversive in its ubiquity.  Alternate information sources were methods of undermining the social as well as literary order and proclaiming that elusive quantum, truth.  Small presses and mimeograph machines were at the heart of that revolution.  Once you accepted the idea that a sheaf of paper stapled on the left vertical edge and whose text was printed on a mimeograph machine with a crudely hand drawn cover is a book or magazine, you have taken one step further into the adjacent possibility of an alternate appreciation of what constitutes literature.  Here then was evidence of the vitality of an unaffiliated post-war American poetry.

As Donald Allen stated in the Introduction to his epoch defining New American Poetry, 1945-1960, the poetry presented in his anthology had one common characteristic: “a total rejection of all those qualities typical of academic verse.  Following the practice and precepts of Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams, it has built on their achievements and gone on to evolve new conceptions of the poem.  These poets have already created their own tradition, their own press, their own public.  They are our avant-garde, the true continuers of the modern movement in American poetry.”  What is also important about the Allen anthology is that he defined certain trends in American writing that did not follow the academic party line.  As the editor of one of the most visible mid-century avant-garde publications, Evergreen Review, Allen was in a unique position to identify groups of young writers who were at the leading edge of the second wave of modernist thinking.  By grouping the poets by esthetic bent rather than the conventions of region and hierarchy, The New American Poetry highlighted the vibrancy of the homegrown American literary movements that had distanced themselves from the institutionalized Anglo–American canon, and were capable of sustaining themselves separate from the accepting sanctions of academe’s literary mandarins.

Not surprisingly the magazines in the small press section of City Lights had a strong regional bias, Northern California and West Coast, and included such publications as Beatitude, City Lights Journal, Renaissance, and San Francisco Earthquake.  Clifford Burke’s Cranium Press, featuring chapbooks by Peter Wild, Keith Abbott, and Steve Carey, and his irregularly published literary magazine, Hollow Orange, all distinguished by their fastidious production values, were also on display. IO edited by Richard Grossinger and Lindy Hough was produced in Berkeley, as was David Sandberg’s short lived Or.  George Hitchcock’s Kayak, from down the coast in Santa Cruz published some of the early work by Raymond Carver.  Dust and Dust Books came from rural Paradise and was edited by the indefatigable Len Fulton, tireless chronicler and bibliographer of the little magazine scene.  DR Wagner published Runcible Spoon out of Sacramento.  The State Capital was also home to Doug Blazek, publisher of Open Skull Press (not to be confused with the later Soft Skull Press) as well as the professionally produced, Ole’, one of the first small mimeograph magazines to reach a nationwide audience, and publishing many non-establishment poets such as Brown Miller, Lyn Lifshin, d.a. levy, and Charles Bukowski who could not get published or would not publish in mainstream literary publications such as Poetry Magazine.  James Koller’s Coyote Journal featured the poetry of Ed Dorn and Larry Eigner, as well as championing the work of Philip Whalen, and in partnership with Harcourt, Brace, was instrumental in publishing Whalen’s game changing On Bear’s Head in 1969.  Oregon was also the launch site of Intransit.

Among the locally produced poetry books from letterpress and offset indie publishers were those of Oyez and Graham Mackintosh’s White Rabbit Press in Berkeley.  Their authors’ lists were somewhat similar in that they both featured representations of work by Jack Spicer, Robert Duncan, Mary Korte and Larry Eigner.  Clifford Burke’s Cranium Press, Dave Hazelwood’s Auerhahn Press, and later Holbrook Teter’s Zephyrus Image Press were among the purveyors of finely printed poetry objects such as broadsides and limited edition chapbooks.  Clifford Burke wrote the book on placement of the poem on the page.  Haselwood’s Auerhahn Press printed exquisite examples of bookwork such as Jack Spicer’s The Heads of the Town Up to Aether, Philip Whalen’s Memoirs of An Interglacial Age, and John Wiener’s The Hotel Wentley Poems.

The importance of the role the indie bookstore played as a distribution hub for this alternate source of literature should not be underestimated.  The evidence was in the number of magazines and publications filling up the display racks and stacked on the shelves from other parts of the world: Margaret Randall’s El Corno Emplumado from Mexico City, The Ant’s Forefoot and bp Nichol’s Ganglia from Toronto, Imago out of Vancouver, Change and The Artist Workshop Press publications edited by John Sinclair in Detroit, the seminal Big Table from Chicago, Grist, John Fowler’s poetry magazine out of Lawrence, Kansas, and Jim Haining’s Salt Lick wandering from Illinois to Texas to Oregon featuring the poetry of the renowned and irascible Gerald Burns. Cape Goliard Press in London provided their American confreres with The Maximus Poems by Charles Olson as well as editions of works by Ted Berrigan, Tom Raworth, Allen Ginsberg, Anselm Hollo, and Robert Creeley.  Also from London, Fulcrum Press issued books by Ed Dorn, Jerome Rothenberg, and Gary Snyder.

By far the greatest number of out of region publications seemed to come from New York City or the East Coast. David Henderson’s Umbra publishing primarily African American writers was a Big Apple production as was Bill Berkson’s Best & Co, a single shot compendium that presaged the Anthology of New York Poets. Amiri Baraka (then LeRoi Jones) published Yugen beginning in the late fifties, and with Diane DiPrima, the mimeo newsletter, The Floating Bear. The slick professionally printed avant-garde Evergreen Review helmed by Donald Allen, editor of the revolutionary The New American Poetry, contrasted with the just as vital C Magazine, Ted Berrigan’s ardent guerrilla mimeo publication, and the radical Fuck You, A magazine of the arts, both printed at secret locations on the Lower East Side.  Caterpillar (anyone remember Clayton Eshelman?) started in New York City before moving to California.  Joglar, Clark Coolidge’s magazine, issued from Connecticut, as did Keith and Rosemary Waldrop’s poetry flame, Burning DeckMother, a wandering vehicle of literature edited in part by Lewis McAdams and Peter Schjeldahl was published variously from Minnesota, Illinois, NYC, and Buffalo, renowned for its scandalous Ted Berrigan faux interview with John Cage.

Call it outlaw or outlier, but always call it authentic. The homespun literary underground was a kind of American samizdat manuscript distribution system that sidestepped the sanctioning establishment by getting out the news of poetry with the immediacy of its crucial message.  There, in the City Lights cellar among the ranks of professionally produced slick spines, was a dusty chaotic corner where what might be called loiterature could be found, the kind of reading material that went with hanging out. It can probably be said with certainty that few of those young readers leaning against the alcove’s arches or basement pillars or squatting on the floor in front of the magazine display were there to buy the diverse literary productions.  Like a grotto, the alcove was a place of pilgrimage. It functioned as the terminus, the portal, the bulletin board of an unaffiliated Americano literature.  For the fledgling poet the little mag alcove served as a classroom and a library from which to sample the visceral realism of Americano poetry.  Underground Lit was a world abuzz with makeshift energy, and for a few crucial decades the mimeograph machine was the engine of poetry.

cover secret1This nostalgic stroll through a scrappier, scruffier time in the history of a legitimate Americano literature was enabled by the recovery and rediscovery on the Poetry Society’s shelves of A Secret Location on the Lower East Side: Adventures in Writing 1960-1980: A Sourcebook of Information edited and compiled by Steven Clay and Rodney Phillips (The New York Public Library./Granary Books, 1998).  Much of the treasure trove available in the basement of the City Lights Bookstore is cataloged in its pages and presents a picture of the rich texture and diversity, granularity, we’d say today, of a marginalized literature within the time frame of those twenty years.  In his introduction, Jerome Rothenberg (no mean anthologist and literary historian himself) identifies that populist American grounding as “the part by which it has been & will be known, has long been on the margins, carried forward, vibrant, in the margins.  As mainstream & margin both, it represents our underground economy as poets, the gray market for our spiritual/ corporeal exchanges.  It is the creation as such of those poets who have seized or often have invented their own means of production and of distribution.”

As depicted in the fairly representative sampling of book and magazine covers and attendant short bibliographic sketches, the story of the resistance to an outdated and reactionary literary establishment unfolds.  These books and magazines produced on the wild side demonstrate the desire to slough off the prevalent Anglo hegemony, rejecting the restrictive New Criticism’s objective correlatives. The aspiration was in identifying a unique American voice all the while recognizing the diverse international community of literature brought about by modernism.  “The autonomy of the poet is of singular importance” Rothenberg adds, “And this is because poetry as we know & want it is the language of those precisely at the margins—born there, or more often still, self-situated: a strategic position from which to struggle with the center of culture & a language we no longer choose to bear.”

This wealth of independently produced small press books and little magazines signified a revolution in American Literature, but, as is the fate of most revolutions, it got sold out.  One way to undermine a revolution is to fund it and then sit back and watch the competing factions fight over the money.  In the 70’s, through federal programs and arts foundations, money in the form of grants and awards was funneled into independent publishing and enterprising journals.  The positive side is that production values improved considerably and a few ambitious individuals legitimized, in print at least, a segment of the American avant-garde—Alan Kornblum’s Coffee House Press is a case in point. And consequently there resulted a large number of professionally produced poetry books and magazines benefiting from grants from the National Endowment for the Arts or associated organizations.  Funded also was an infrastructure comprised of community based print centers functioning as factories for the various small press projects and literary journals, distribution hubs of said books and journals as well as umbrella arts organizations and clearing houses such as CCLM, COSMEP, and Poets & Writers through which endowment programs were advertised and grants could be obtained by application to a committee of peers (or cronies).  All of which had a polarizing effect so that an otherwise benign factionalism became vitriolic, cut-throat and elitist (more than usual) due in large part to the competition for monies but also the necessity of boundary defining ideologies that were required to be spelled out on grant applications.

Much of the infrastructure that is publishing outside the mainstream today is supported by art funding and grants from State, Federal, institutional and private arts foundations.  Unfortunately the politics of government largess leads to the professionalization of the arts and requires the services of middle men or women, the arts bureaucrat aka the artistocrat. The advantage or disadvantage of government funding is an issue in of itself, too complex and divisive to be addressed here.  There is no denying, however, that it changed the equation.  Some might argue that it brought order out of chaos.  Others, that it was yet another bourgeois appropriation of the authentic.

No matter, because by the mid 80’s a Schumpeterian change was breathing down the neck of the pseudo-nouveau vague.  The digital revolution was a tidal wave in comparison to the previous three decades for access to the means of production.  Enter desktop publishing, ebooks, online magazines, print-on-demand, and blogs, all with DIY potential.  For poetry and its dissemination, the term ubiquity takes on a life of its own, like Easter Week in a petri dish.  The creative dismantling of the old order in defining the new order, such as it can be defined, continues to unravel and reanimate.  What has come full circle, though not arriving at the same exact point but in close parallel, is the readily available means of production at the disposal of the poet.  Once, all that was needed to publish a poetry book or magazine was a mimeograph machine (begged, borrowed, or appropriated), a quire or two of stencils, half a dozen reams of paper, a typewriter, preferably electric, a stapler, a good mailing list, a twelve-pack, and a passion to get’er done.  Now the requirements are a personal computer, internet access, social media, and a hosting platform.  Undeniably, the blog has come to be the mimeo magazine of today (PO’s note: such as this one).  And WordPress or Blogspot are names like Gestetner and A.B. Dick used to be.

As much as open access to so large a potential (information and productivity) is a benefit to authors, their work available at a few key strokes, there are the drawbacks of TMI (too much info). The impossibility of limitless choice contributes to an entropic leveling of the field.  The margins that Rothenberg spoke of in his introduction to A Secret Location have disappeared because there is no longer place for definable edges.  Cyber space is no place and all places at the same time. Gone are the secret locations, except maybe those in the heart, and presciently like Stein’s metaphoric Oakland, there is no there there. Not only that, but the wild new digital frontier is fraught with literary anomalies such as the poetry troll, zombie poets, and that Turing specter, robopo.  Leaning on a brick stanchion in an underground cavern reading the latest poetry books or magazines as if they contained rare and privileged communications has been replaced by gazing at a light emitting device where something like Borges’ recursive library is available at finger tip and where once again the thumb rises above its mere grasping ambitions.  Sadly though, an Archimedean balance has been lost.  There is no place to stand, fulcrum and lever are nonexistent or not up to the task, and the object, a cohesive sense of literature, has no center of gravity from which to be displaced.

lifeofcrime (1)On a positive note, however, for those aficionados of fine printing and the history of small press publishing similar to that found in A Secret Location on the Lower East Side, and who are partial to the tactile world of foolscap, ink stained aprons, hand-set type, and platen presses, there is good news. Alastair Johnston, author and publisher of many fine bibliographic histories including Poltroon Press’ Zephyrus Image, a definitive look at the Holbrook Teter/ Michael Myer collaboration, and Life of Crime, Documents in the Guerrilla War against Language Poetry, will have his long awaited history of fine printing and the literary arts, Dreaming On The Edge, Poets and Book Artists in California, an intimate look at book arts and small presses from 1877 to 2015, published by Oak Knoll Books of Delaware with a publication date set for June, 2016.  It will be a welcome addition to the Poetry Society’s shelves.

New to the Society’s Shelves
Robert Hebert, Rudiments d’us, Ecrits Des Forges (1983)
Eric Johnson, Buffalo, Rome, Split Shift Books (1997)
Bill Berkson, Expect Delays, Coffee House Press (2014)
Gloria Frym, The True Patriot, Spytun Duyvil (2015)
Pat Nolan et al, Poetry For Sale, Nualláin House, Publishers (2015)
Guillaume Apollinaire, Zone (trans, R. Padgett), New York Review of Books (2015)
Joel Dailey, ed., The Southern Testicle Review #6, (2016)


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Jack’s Haiku Letter to Gary

To: The Membership and Interested Parties
From: Keith Kumasen Abbott, Charter Member NBBPS
Subject: Jack’s Haiku Letter to Gary

Han Shan

Han Shan; calligraphy & brush work by Keith Kumasen Abbott

In December 1957 Jack Kerouac typed this letter to Gary Snyder in Japan, on the back of a letter from Allen Ginsberg.  The letter reprises what Kerouac did that summer to go up to the Lookout in Washington.  Snyder was on board the ship Sappa Creek since August-April 1957 and he only received the letter when he returned to Japan and then left for the United States to live in Marin County in California.

Before this date, Snyder had the idea for his long poem, Mountains and Rivers Without End, but had only made notes in his journals for the poem.  He was writing a long poem, Myths and Texts, where he had collaged together many smaller poems and fragments into thematic groups.  This was finished in 1958, published in 1960. That poem combined many types of language:  anthropological, poetic, colloquial, scientific, sociological, philosophical, political, religious, Buddhist and Taoist texts, naturalist memoirs, etc.  But its overall tone and rhythms were mostly formal in Myths and Texts.  There were few loose colloquial and/or dialogue or descriptions included.   

Upon his return to Japan to study Zen he wrote partial drafts of “Night Highway Ninety-Nine” by 1960.  He wrote “it’s too intellectual still, . . . & then sort of forgetting it a long time beginning to fairly spontaneously write into it.”  But when he wrote “Bubbs Creek Haircut” in May 1960 after a return to Japan and regarded it as his breakthrough poem for the larger work, showing his desire “for the rhythms of impromptu jazz, the ‘spontaneous prose’ that Kerouac was writing.” (see Anthony Hunt, Genesis, Structure, and Meaning in Gary Snyder’s Mountains an Rivers Without End, UN Press, 2004, p. 15).  

Kerouac’s letter to Snyder scattered some brilliant haikus throughout his crammed version of hitchhiking up to Skagit Valley and its adventures.  In his prose the haikus were written as one line of verse with / separating the line breaks.   I have taken the liberty of rearranging his letter to let the haiku’s each have their own space.  Even though Snyder’s breakthrough in “Night Highway Ninety-Nine” and “Bubbs Creek Haircut” came in 1960, Kerouac’s letter had shown the way about how to write both the prose and poetry and what to include. 

DEAR GARY                                                                        December 1957

Left Mill Valley June 18, hitched to Marblemount . . had salami, sharp cheese, rye krisp  dates and peanuts for trip…. washed my feet in Russian River . .. big truckdriver talked all night, bought me meal…etc…  at Crescent City I started walking on wrong side of road on purpose to be like Chinese saint wandering into void… . got rides anyway, over the Siskyous… .slept in a mountainside full of poison oak avoiding the poison oak….Grants Pass,  and on up, sweet sleep in field outside Eugene, red nightfall

of the









in the



in the



 Got into Seattle via Bremerton, on the ferry in the rain I stood before the skipper’s bridge swiggling found-bottle of Vodka, PORT OF SEATTLE big red letters, immediately old strange totem pole Alaskan Way and 1910 steam switchpot made me love Seattle, got skid row room 15 foot ceiling and read VajChePraPar







then 99 to Bremerton and. the first sight of the vast mountains…
buy belt, socks, shirt, bandana hankies…: Then up past Everett, ride from big lumberman who stays “Skagit valley land looks like butterfat”– . . .Quick short rides up the Skagit Valley, from a fast talking logger-prospector and his mother, thru Sedro -Wooley to Hamilton, he’s going uranium hunting—from a Min n Bill couple—to a grocery store in Sauk—from a sweet young kid logger like kids in back wood of Dracut Mass with a naïve believing side look—and from a mad drunk fast swerving dark guitar to dusty flying stop at Ranger Station. .  .Long talks spinning wheel for kids in bunkhouse….”The only way to achieve a perfect vacuum,” says I to them as they argue senselessly about scientifics, “is to stop thinking”—“Because mind is matter and matter is mind”—

And then I go out, buy wine bottle in Marb, sit on bank of rushing cool green Skagit, afternoon and later by moonlight, along writing hokkus

of the
. . . .








of the












in the




jiggling sunshine






of the




Notebook say:  “Found letter from Gary Snyder on cookhouse table, telling me to hike to where Dave just went today and asked me to come too—2 Hanshan poems making me more’n  ever want to find me ‘a mountain to be kept forever’—
“….etc.etc. and fire school and Blacky Burns who asked about you, what is, kept talking about you, “Dat dere Gary wherever he goes he’ll always have fun….” And mad about the F.B.I. and whata a great man he is indeed, we sat quietly eating lunch together in front of truck while kids and old Fred Berry ate in other truck . . . .Blacky lit fire to be put out, wanted me to be takin charge but I said “Ah Blacky I’m jess an old bum, let these forestry kids take over”—I got good mark(s) in fire fightin . . .in baseball game which we lost wasn’t my fault because I got three times at bat, scored two runs, hit three doubles …..made friend with Tommy Buller during game, we’d almost had fight just before because he said I wasn’t bein paid to think and I said “I am”— Blacky is a sweet old Pa….Finally Andy the Packer come to get me and we go to store and get my groceries then to Ross Barge for a night or two, where I dig latrines on shore, then up the Lake on the bargepull boat in rain and the mule slash (sic) onshore and we start up (with Ghohlke) in sleet, rain, and snow, higher, higher, up Desolation, sweet Desolation, where I learned all and I’ll write you a huge long letter from Europe  (no, right next 2 week from my Maw’s house in south) describing it all ….

.have no time now, just adding p.s. to Allen’s letter, I haven’t written to you for the odd Mexico reasons of no post offices and stamp facilities for overseas etc. and couldn’t get up in time …….but I think of you all the time….more than you know—— On Desolation, well I’ll tell you later, it’s a long beautiful tale quietude….Meanwhile I have been writing furious, for this  year for instance I have three new novels and new perms (poems??) and now all of a sudden 2 contracts with publishers in NY here this very day it’s taking place…..have great new way of transliterating Diamond Sutra that will at last spread the diamond sutra in the west and maybe even in the east, all Sanskrit terms out of it, but translated into simple English, I cry when I read it sometimes and I read it every day……that too I’ll send you later….meanwhile be you the Gary Snyder of my dreams…be you sad deep Gary, sad funny crazy Gary, and be bejesus god we’ll go climb mountains again soon              Jack

Jack’s notebook dialogue entries serve to point out that samples job talk and travel preparations sets up a narrative later used as plot points for leaving or arriving at Desolation.  Anthony Hunt cites that a Snyder shirt pocket journal dated 4:October: 57 had “Snyder’s first inklings of what would become “Night Highway 99” [Hunt: p. 71] the first substantial section of Mountain And Rivers.

Professor emeritus Keith Kumasen Abbott, poet and calligrapher, is the author Downstream from Trout Fishing In America, A Memoir of Richard Brautigan as well as four novels, and short story and poetry collections.    His calligraphic art has appeared in numerous art shows from Shanghai to San Antonio, and in a recent issue of Mark Young’s Otolith. The memoir of his Zen teacher, Cloud Phoenix, A Memoir of Kobun Chino Otogawa Roshi” is online at www.keithabbottwriter.com.

New to the Society’s Shelves

David Ball, New Lulu (Sand Project Press, Northamption, MA, 2011)
Dennis Maloney, Listening To Tao Yuan Ming (Glass Lyre Press, Glen view, IL, 2016)
Mike Tuggle, The Motioning In (Petaluma River Press, Bodega, CA, 2016)


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Epilegomena To The Prolegomena

To: The Membership & Interested Parties
From: Pat Nolan. Charter Member, NBBPS
Subject: Epilegomena to the Prolegomena

PWcoverIn October of 2015 I took part in a group reading for the new edition of Philip Whalen’s Prolegomena to a Study of The Universe & Other Prose Takes, a selection of prose poems and outtakes from various Whalen notebooks published by Alastair Johnston’s Poltroon Press.  The other readers were Alastair Johnston, Owen Hill, Steven Lavoie, Tinker Greene, David Brazil, and Michael Rothenberg. The event was held at Moe’s Bookstore in Berkeley.  Johnston’s press had originally published Prolegomena in the seventies accompanied by Kevin Power’s lucid introduction. The latest edition combines both the Prolegomena with the Power intro and a selection of prose takes recovered from notebooks and published as a little chapbook, in memoriam, after Whalen’s passing in 2002.  This edition is also tastefully illustrated with Tinker Greene’s photographs.  Johnston’s afterword provides an historical overview of the source of the material as well as the process of their publication.  The works represented are from the late fifties and early sixties, and the breadth of Whalen’s field of interest is evident from his titling of work from this period.  Not only is there a Prolegomena to the Study of the Universe, there is also Memoirs of an Interglacial Age, published in 1960 by Dave Hazelwood’s Auerhahn Press.  Whalen was never one to shy from cosmic concerns and implications.

Each of the participants in the reading was asked to stake their claim to a passage or passages that would fit their allotted time at the podium.  I didn’t do myself any favors by choosing one of the longer more difficult Prose Takes, a section dated 28,29.vii.60.  Not only does the language fill the mouth with phonetic intensity, it also features hairpin syntactic curves and semantic flips.  Read aloud, the piece also reveals numerous tongue trippers and whistle twisters.  On the other hand, even as an outtake this selection has the merit of being illustrative of Whalen’s method of shaping work from his notebook jottings and recasting the extant material much as a film editor will work with a multitude of images to shape a movement through time, the vaunted “picture of the mind moving.”

Philip Whalen was a polymath who schooled himself in a variety of subjects and disciplines, from the arcane to the cutting edge, curious and restlessly absorbing information that eventually, through his unique neuronal filtering, found its way into his notebooks as a ramble or observation or rant or spontaneous lyric intellection.  Examined closely, Whalen’s work offers a clue to his reading.

The structure of 28,29.vii.60 is serial, movements of prose juxtaposed as in a musical composition, achieving at times an anarchy and cacophony that fits the concerns of atonal production.  It begins:

 Timeskip dazzle of China rainking Mafe render serpent wrestling there in the sun man battles time endlessly i.e. a deep space cold/warm quite safe Brineking the pickle magnate but compasses float in alcohol dear Arab World distillery (S. Mary Gyp)(the bain marie a primitive still) they thought it was juice that put them where they weren’t supposed to be among sweet peas and roses brass nightingales.

The jumble of tones, dissonant, unpredictable, like an orchestra tuning up or the opening bars of a composition by Henry Threadgill resolve lyrically in a more or less conventional manner: they thought it was juice that put them where they weren’t supposed to be among sweet peas and roses brass nightingales. Yet the beginning is a confounding paratactic mélange of stops and starts, phrases coupled together in a long train of mismatched thought that synthesizes random rumination.  Whalen’s hand is at work as he cuts up Mafeking, a significant battle site in the Boer War, to make rainking which then contributes to the internal rhyme of Brineking as free associated states of consciousness unfold or unravel from the fermentation of pickles to a compass needle floating in alcohol which leads to the Arab World distillation of the word alcohol whose source is the original Arabic al kohl.  That in turn prompts the parenthetic aside (S. Mary Gyp) which points to St. Mary Jacob also known as St. Mary the Gypsy who had accompanied Mary Magdalene (the goddess Isis) from the eastern Mediterranean to the shores of France in the area around Marseilles and figures in the Holy Grail legend of Languedoc. The bain marie association hinges on the reference to Mary and maintains its arcane source as an alchemical (Arabic) device.

 Besides the fountains of the Alhambra picking jewels off the marble wall, I was chargé d’affaires then among the windy fragments orangeblossom ladies black white and green a side trip to Ireland, the instantaneous transport of watermelons delivered not later than the 17th of June into the land of Goshen where the water caltrop faints and blooms. 

What this section accomplishes is a faux bombast similar to the previous paragraph though to call them paragraphs may be stretch—fragments of fragmented prose? At any rate they echo each other in tone and rhythm where once again a harmony is resolved, reinforced by the internal rhyme of June and blooms.  The continuation along these lines is paused by the interjection or aside,

Up until now

and works as an ironic negation of what has come before.  It signals a break in the movement, breath before continuing with the improvisation, a grounding before stepping off the cliff into a bed of rosy and/or thorny language petals, stems, and tangles.

When I read Whalen’s poetry and attempt to hear his voice in my head, what I imagine is a delivery akin to that of W.C. Fields’ playful pomposity with the pun filled wit of Groucho Marx and the hip musical language improvisation of Lord Buckley.  Too often readers expecting conventional professorial rhetoric in poetry are not ready for the learned zigs and zags of Whalen’s shapely mind.  He confounds expectations to the point that expectations are best left at home.  To anticipate is to trip over your own assumptions.  You have entered the PW universe and your orientation will be slightly skewed.  Fear not, the path is linear (most of the time) and at the end you will be safely deposited back in your own brain case with the added benefit that you now have something new to think about.

28,29.vii.60 continues after the interlude as an unsubordinated language flow in the form of a list of priestly vestments, alb, surplice, etc, introduced by the Latin Feliks Kulpe, an arcane spelling of the phrase whose literal meaning is “happy fault” and can be glossed as “fortuitous accident” or “chance”.  But one must not be diverted by these little eddies and side galleries as the religious terminology rapidly moves from Russian emeralds worth a Pope’s ransom to the listing of exotic locations such as the Taj Mahal, and Sanchi Tope whose sonority becomes their purpose (a French submarine, a mandoline) then resolved as a Pentecostal image of divine enlightenment in such matters as the alphabet, the musical saw, the art of marriage and the packsaddle are conveyed to our (man’s) consciousness.

The scene then shifts to a high point in the landscape, Smith Tower and looking out across Elliot Bay in Seattle, whose view induces New Testament diction, verily verily I say unto you (John 3:3), although the subject of the inspired speech is electromagnetic induction, a toroid antenna, and oscilloscopes.  Here Whalen’s training as a radio operator  and instructor in the Army Air Force provides the knowledgeable lexical frame of reference.

With the same mock affectedness, he continues but now the naming consists of internal body parts, the adenoids, the tonsils, the vermiform appendix (adenoid apparently triggered by the earlier toroid). Then in a parenthetical aside Whalen introduces a semantic flip switcheroo (technical term) that vectors the prose in an entirely different direction: (scituate at or near McBurney’s Point one clear and cloudless afternoon. . .).  At first scituate might appear to be one of two things: a creative or archaic spelling for the word situate whose pronunciation is slightly warped by the vowel following the two consonants or that it is the name of another internal body part.  Yet it is somewhere “at or near McBurney’s Point”, and where exactly is that?  This is where the literary legerdemain occurs.  McBurney’s Point is the name given to the point over the right side of the abdomen that is one-third of the distance from the anterior superior iliac spine to the umbilicus (navel). And scituate, puzzling in its lower case predicate cloak, once made a proper noun becomes Scituate, a seacoast town in Plymouth County, Massachusetts, United States, on the South Shore, midway between Boston and Plymouth.

pw12This arch playfulness is prevalent in Whalen’s work though this particular piece may be an extreme example.  Suffice it to say that the sources of his jottings are often extra lyrical or appropriated from his wide and obsessive reading.  As a poet he is the repository of strange and arcane lore.  It was speculated the night of the group reading that perhaps Whalen was following his contemporary, William S. Burroughs, in using the cut and paste technique.  Perhaps, but the poets and writers of Whalen’s coterie were inclined to follow Ezra Pound’s exhortation to “make it new.” Whalen described his old pal Jack Kerouac as an “experimental writer” and there is no doubt in reading Whalen’s oeuvre, especially this piece, that he had a similar predilection for pushing the accepted envelope toward the forging of a new American poetry.

The text is then lifted verbatim from (I’m guessing by the formality of the language) a 19th Century admonition: The result is best left to be described in pages other than these, in some work reserved to the perusal of men versed in the knowledge of the physiological disciplines. This passage is immediately mocked in the tone of Whalen’s own hyper testimonial pitch beginning Know ye, my children, and bringing in the previous association with radio electronics and pairing it with high church references: that the way from the transistor to Edward the Confessor is both easy and unnatural, and continuing in this manner of moral injunction with Forego spectacles and avoid the sight of evil.  Do not uncover navels.  Please put the feather bottle on the whatnot. Once again, as the last sentence illustrates, Whalen relies on a lighthearted sonority to wrap up a movement in this composition.

What follows is an interlude of sorts in the form of a notation by a fictitious ornithologist on a monograph about crossbreeding dragonflies in Prince Rupert Sound.  While keeping the quasi elevated tone of the previous section, it provides a distancing humor in the form of academic stuffiness.  But soon enough the reader is led back into the fray by an ellipsis and reality limits approaching infinity without the use of twins. A dose of lycopodium to induce invisibility, the end of summer lightly boxed, the Atlantic a sheer fabrication, a recidivist world of eucalyptus wombat heaven.  Whalen’s humorous pronouncements end with a lyrical word salad in which recidivist sounds a contrapuntal harmonic with eucalyptus, and world enables wombat heaven.

Whalen’s ear and his incongruous constructions determine much of what has gone on thus far.  Out of chaos comes order (more or less).  On the other hand, it is useful to note another determining factor, and that is the fact that Whalen’s texts are handwritten, and in a graceful italic calligraphy.  As the seemingly random assemblages indicate, no tangent is too quirky to be followed. A similar fluidity is present in the act of conscious penmanship, the joining of one letter to the next, precisely and elegantly, aware only of the shape and form, its lexical significance a secondary concern.  To paraphrase Wittgenstein, his head often was not aware of what his hand was writing, and the liquid loops of ink on paper were an end in themselves.

PW CaligraphyCalligraphy is what I am reminded of at this point. All in caps Whalen announces LATER THE SAME THURSDAY as if it were a placard in a silent feature.  On the notebook page it must have been rendered with the arabesques of imposing calligraphic pomp. Following this announcement, text elements fly by like odd items caught in the swirling updraft of a twister: Roses all year round [. . .] airforce blue milkbottles [. . .]anemones and the old siren voices boiling beeswax.  Think of the calligraphic potential of phrases like “Roses all year round” and words like airforce, milkbottles, anemones and beeswax—oh what fun! And progressing toward the lyric denouement, Stevenson’s Treasure Island is evoked (pieces of 8, Darby Graw) as are numbers (40, 109, 95), and any number of random associations (tennis scores, tundra oxen) hurtling toward the crescendo of Everybody keeps trying not to stop me but I have run out of tape.

This last sentence is conclusive. The assumption also is that the “tape” belongs to a tape recorder, further reinforcing the spoken/musical characteristics of the piece, or it is wrapping tape used to glue together all the words of the collage—my preference is for the former.  The conclusiveness is supported by the fact that Whalen at this point leaves the left aligned conventions of prose and opts for poetry’s open field.  With it comes a change of tenor.  The multiplicity of voices and tones dissolve into a reflective mode as if the orchestral cacophony had gone silent to allow the soloist room for a quiet etude.

A long hot summer in New Mexico and Texas

yes yes yes

                                    2 high rock buttes at the end of the

Alamogordo runway.

I’ve been to El Paso.  So the war was over.

With the end of the war, Whalen’s enlistment was also over, and he reflects upon that moment some dozen years later.  Texas and New Mexico was the terrain over which the training missions were flown, landing in Alamogordo, and El Paso, possibly the last destination as the war came to a close.

all strung out and falling apart but always (alewise)

to regroup, to knock another (HENRY MOORE) hole through

                        whatever wall, barrier, etc.

Out of the pandemonium of the prose text rises the singularity of poetry, an inward stocktaking that has resulted from the distillation of the semiotic soup in the crucible of the page.  With the last image reminiscent of an animated cartoon from that era in which smashing a window transforms the pane into a

 sheet of bubblegum envelopes me

 S T R E T C H

and I am pink gum all over.

The physicality of the action is supported by further calligraphic emphasis of the word STRETCH.  And all that has come before requires a conclusion, a harmonious resolution, a way out of the lexical maze and into the light of comprehension, a moral as spoken by a Greek chorus and in what I hear as Whalen’s authentic voice.

which puts us where? I wont answer your questions I

had no right to listen, everything speaks to me

I try not to let it make any difference, but listening

to it

                                    changes it

The chaos of the preceding text rests on this final point, an inverted pyramid, and resolves as the clear reverberation of a single note in the present.  Whalen’s little lessons in the quantum of perception are what make reading him, really reading him, really worthwhile. Here the prose take has a dimensional presence that comes with an awareness of the layers, strata,  depth, and granularity.  There are many facets to attend to, from the surface of the page to the abstract shape of discourse that includes the Boer War, a pickle magnate, alchemical distillation, nomenclature, both sacred and profane, geography and anatomy, ornithology (briefly), and wry associative tangents among much else (the fabric of language that clothes consciousness?). Within the circumstance of Whalen’s work, sentience, often raw, is framed, visceral, chaotic, and well-informed. That his poetry continually challenges convention is a given, and as for meaning, as Whalen himself has said, “let it mean itself.”

The upshot of this evening in which everyone acquitted themselves marvelously in serving up the erudite, sometimes obscure or arcane, always delightful prose of the Prolegomena to a Study of the Universe was the resolve to do more readings of Philip Whalen’s work, and regularly.  Since the date for this particularly reading was close by a few days to Whalen’s birthday (October 20th), it was suggested that on that date in 2016 we all get together for a marathon reading of Whalen’s book length poem, Scenes from Life at the Capital.  Details to follow.

Prolegomena for a Study of the Universe is available only from the publisher, Poltroon Press.  Please see their website for ordering information.

Pat Nolan is a charter member of the New Black Bart Poetry Society and was founder of the original Black Bart Society as well as co-editor of its newsletter, Life Of Crime.  He currently maintains the NBBPS blog, ParoleLife Of Crime, Documents in the Guerrilla War against Language Poetry, a compilation of all the original Society newsletters, was published in 2010 by Poltroon Press.  Nolan’s latest book is Poetry For Sale, Haikai no Renga, now available from Nualláin House, Publishers.


New To The Society’s Shelves:

Jim Wilson, Shorter Cinquain Journeys, (privately printed, Sebastopol, 2015)
Joel Dailey, Elements of Style, Scram Press (Northampton, MA, 2016)
James Haug, An Unpleasant Sense of Being Frank,  Fell Swoop 141 (New Orleans, 2015)
Samuel Green, The Grace of Necessity, Carnage Mellon University Press
(Pittsburgh, 2008)
David Edelman, After The Translation, Brooding Heron Press, (Waldron, WA, 2001)
Gary Holthaus, If You Were Here, I Would Have Hands, Brooding Heron Press, (Waldron, WA, 1999)
Sandy Berrigan, 100 Collages (covers by George Schneeman; privately printed,
Albion, CA, 2015)


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Philip Whalen; Beset By Irony

To: The Membership & Interested Parties
From: Chinee, Grand Poobah, NBBPS
Subject: Philip Whalen, Beset By Irony

whalen coverIf Philip Whalen is crowded by beauty as the title of David Schneider’s biography, Crowded By Beauty, The Life And Zen of Poet Philip Whalen (University of California Press, 2015) suggests, he is also beset by irony.  Crowded By Beauty traces the life arc of the most remarkable American poet of the latter half of the 20th century.  The irony is that he is practically unknown in the world of American letters.

As Schneider, himself a Zen priest and archaya in the Shambala lineage, points out in his introduction, “Whatever Philip Whalen’s accomplishments, when it came out in ordinary conversation that I was writing his biography, the response was very often a blank look and an uncomfortable silence. To furnish identification I might say “poet,” then “Zen master,” and finally “one of the Beat poets.” This inevitably led to a list of three of the most famous: Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Gary Snyder. For those who don’t know Philip Whalen, it seemed initially necessary to name these names, though they constitute a very incomplete list both of Beat poets and of Whalen’s friends.”

In some ways, Philip Whalen was an anachronism, a throwback to an era when writing was done with a pen and music was made in a parlor.  Though seemingly out of his time, he was very much of his time when he came into his own in the latter half of the 20th Century, tuned in to jazz and modern art, sharpening his contemplative skills on the whetstone of poetry.  He may have come across as an old fashioned guy who admired Samuel Johnson as much as the ancient Chinese masters, a real fuddy-duddy by all accounts, an old school autodidact (think Kenneth Rexroth) yet his was a radically modern turn of mind as reflected in his approach to poetry.

“A continuous fabric (nerve movie?) exactly as wide as these lines” is how Whalen explains what he was attempting with his poetry, “continuous” within a certain time-limit, say a few hours of total attention and pleasure: to move smoothly past the reader’s eyes, across his brain: the moving sheet has shaped holes in it which trip the synapse finger-levers of reader’s brain causing great sections of his nervous system—distant galaxies hitherto unsuspected (now added into International Galactic Catalog)—to LIGHT UP.  Bring out new masses, maps old happy memory.”  Elsewhere, Whalen likens his poetry to “a picture or a graph of a mind moving, which is a world body being here and now which is history. . . and you.”  Reading Whalen’s poetry is to partake of a continuous stream of consciousness monologue/dialogue dream nerve movie echoing Heraclitus in that the poem, as framed sentience, is a shape shifting undulation which one can step in and out of in the process of being.

Schneider’s approach to his biography of Philip Whalen, a Zen pioneer in the West who was also an extraordinary American poet, is to present a base of testimonials from the afore-mentioned literary figures of Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Snyder as well as from Lew Welch, Joanne Kyger, and Michael McClure among other literary sources. Gleaned from letters, interviews and anecdotal material, Whalen’s accomplishments as an important American poet is described through his close relationship with his contemporaries to assure that he is not dismissed as merely some ancillary fixture to the Beat phenomenon. The literary material is followed by the biographical tracing of Whalen’s eventual commitment to Buddhism.  Whalen’s literary aspect looms larger because it is richer in documentation (notebooks, letters, interviews, lectures) as well as a body of work, The Collected Poems Of Philip Whalen (Wesleyan, 2007).

In the early chapters of Crowded By Beauty Whalen’s friendship with Jack Kerouac is shown to be of a genuine sort.  Theirs was a fraternal camaraderie in which Whalen served as the older brother who also functioned as a kindly mentor and adult sensibility. In their correspondence, Kerouac and Whalen make clear the respect and brotherly esteem they had for each other.  And that Allen Ginsberg’s friendship with Whalen elicited a lifelong proprietary concern and mutual respect as well as a free ride on the ‘G Train’ even though Ginsberg is quoted as saying he didn’t really “get” Whalen’s poetry. Over the long years of their friendship, Allen Ginsberg looked after Philip Whalen’s interests, including him in land deals in the Sierra foothills and regularly inviting him to lecture during the heady early days of the Naropa University Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. As well the relationship with Gary Snyder and Lew Welch, Whalen’s Reed College cohorts in Portland, is given close attention. It was Gary Snyder who often provided his older friend with shelter from the storms of unemployment and uncertainty.  And it was due to Snyder’s efforts that Whalen found employment in Japan teaching English which afforded the poet his greatest peace of mind and creative stability. Lew Welch and Whalen were running buddies, an honest affection formed while they were undergrads at Reed, searchers, similar to maverick young intellectuals everywhere, unaffiliated yet with a certain sense of personal destiny. They both loved Stein and Williams, Dickinson, too, and based their aesthetic on the irregularities of spoken language.

The surprising portrait in this biography is that of Michael McClure, depicted as Whalen’s Frisco chum, a family guy with wife and kid, someone with the common sense and empathy to check in on an indigent poet at loose ends, to let him sleep on the couch, and feed him when he was hungry.  Phil Whalen and Mike McClure were the odd couple, the handsome young poet and the older pear-shaped walking encyclopedia. McClure’s iconoclasm served as a counterbalance to Whalen’s scholarly reserve. Joanne Kyger, an exceptionally talented young poet in the Bay Area literary scene of the late fifties, was introduced to Whalen in the early days of her relationship with Gary Snyder, a fortuitous meeting that led to a lifetime of friendship and devoted affection. Of all the poets, Joanne Kyger’s and Philip Whalen’s poetry reflect similar concerns and approaches to the making of their art.

The picture of Whalen that emerges from the biography is of an intellect preoccupied with the practice of poetry. Much as the mendicant monks of old, he believed that because he was a poet the world would provide as it always did for holy men. If there were a soundtrack for this section, it would be Joe Cocker singing With A Little Help From My Friends. This is not to suggest that all is sweetness and light in the literary milieu.  Jack Spicer despised Whalen’s poetry and once offered to pay Whalen not to read his poems in public.  Robert Duncan resented the Northwestern backwoodsmen’s intrusion into his domain, especially after one of them ran off with the princess.  Charles Olson found Whalen an exasperation, and called him “a great big vegetable.” Even today Whalen is often conveniently overlooked in anthologies representative of American poetry.

Crowded By Beauty gathers a narrative out of the literary specific biographical material that clearly illustrates the importance of Whalen as a significant poet in the American canon. Primary among that designation are three American poets who have opened the door to the adjacent possible for a unique native prosody. Walt Whitman turned ancient praise songs briefly glimpsed in the Bhagavad Gita on himself as a view into the luminous self.  William Carlos Williams abolished the past (goodbye ubi sunt) with the immediacy of the moment in the lightening flash of perception.  Philip Whalen graphs the remembered present as pictures of the mind moving against a field of attentiveness and cerebration.

To appreciate Whalen and his poetry one must first understand his place in relation to the rest of AmLit and the maverick lineage of Whitman, Dickinson, Stein, and Carlos Williams.  His is an intrinsic understanding of musing and amusement, of how a savvy sense of music composition (Bach, Schopenhauer, Jazz ) combined with an intuitive comprehension of the modern can be recorded as the lyricism of being in the world attentively. There is never any doubt that his poems are shaped by an artist.

PW lyndillin

Copyright © Lyn Dillin

An interesting point of literary taxonomy is briefly raised in that, with the exception of Kerouac and Ginsberg, most of the poets of Whalen’s orbit are mislabeled. They are lumped in with the Beat writers largely through their association with Ginsberg and Kerouac, the historic Six Gallery’s reading, in which Whalen and Snyder participated, and the recreation of that event in Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums.  These poets, along with Welch, McClure, Kyger among many others of that and subsequent generations, are in fact better served by being viewed as Pacific Rim writers.  The Pacific, as Rexroth pointed out, like the steppes, joins as well as separates. There is natural empathy, a curiosity for cross water Eastern cultures.  The sensibilities of the East inform these writers and it should be of no surprise when they embrace aspects of that enculturation as the result of the post-war occupation of Japan.  Whalen and Snyder work the most complete synthesis by rigorously following the path to Buddhism.

In contrast to Gary Snyder’s stature as a major contributor to American poetry, his old college pal, Philip Whalen, suffers the ignominy of being known as a poet’s poet, too good (and too difficult) for the hoi-polloi which serves to damn him with those who think poetry is too obscure to begin with.  Yet Whalen’s poetry is the most brilliant expression of personal awareness ever set down (appreciated) by the modern mind.  In the vast field of the epic length poem Scenes From Life At The Capital written while living in Kyoto, the picture of a mind moving comes together as a full length neural feature.  Although the breadth of Whalen’s poetry is consistently brilliant from the beginning, it is in work from his time in Japan that his poetry reaches the apex of excellence.

Whalen’s entry into the dharma life is a different story and as such begins with his birth. Whalen was born in 1923 and raised in eastern Oregon, a creative young man with a penchant for drama and music.  He was bookish in the parlance of those days.  Drafted into the Army Air Corps toward the end of the Second World War, he later attended Reed College in Portland, most likely on the GI Bill.  San Francisco acted like a big culture magnet on Whalen and his cohorts, Welch and Snyder, and drew them to a sense of place amenable to their pan-Pacific sensibilities.  Gary Snyder’s commitment to Zen was mirrored, though less rigorously, in Whalen’s intermittent attempts and profound intellectual struggle with what Zen entailed, a negation of that illusory mental property.  Whalen’s sojourn in Japan as a teacher of English reinforced certain conclusions and intuitions about the practice of Buddhism.  Subsequently Baker Roshi offered Whalen sanctuary at the San Francisco Zen Center. The poet, then in his fiftieth year with no likely prospects of employment, accepted the succor.  For the next thirty years Philip Whalen, who finally accepted the transmission and became known as Zenshin, lived his life as a Buddhist monk of the Soto Zen lineage, primarily in San Francisco, ending his days as the abbot at the Hartford Street Zen Center.  He achieved personal entropy in June of 2002.

PhilipWhalen3As a contemplative, Whalen finally found a job that he liked, one that suited him. The self comfort of contemplation was an increment above the relentless cerebration of self consciousness. He no longer had anything to complain about (not that he ever stopped complaining) and so the poems stopped.  The complaints were taken care of in the practice of meditation.  As he said in an interview (Beneath a Single Moon, 1991), “A far as meditation is concerned I’m a professional.  I’ve been a professional since 1973. And that’s my job. Maybe that’s where poetry comes into all this, that it has to be an articulation of my practice and an encouragement to you to enter into Buddhist practice.”  And you have to take him at his word.

If there is a lesson in the life and Zen of poet Philip Whalen, it is about comportment and humility, about the value of being a poet, of practice over product and self-aggrandizement.  Here modern Western Buddhism is served on the plate (or bowl) of what Donald Allen termed “the new American poetry” as exemplified by Philip Whalen. In his later life, the dharma path subsumes the egocentricity of the poet in allowing him a way out of the world of red dust.

Commenting on the Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara when it was first published in 1971, Whalen compared the tome to a tombstone.  Perhaps the 550 plus pages seemed a trifle excessive at the time, yet Whalen’s own posthumous collection of poems weighs in at a hefty 900 pages. In an elegiac vein Crowded By Beauty might be viewed as an eulogy, touching on the associations, the milieu, and the context of Whalen’s scholarship and writing.  It serves as a reminder that among all the celebrity and cachet of rebelliously prescient intellects, the one most radical in his approach to American poetry has been overlooked.  With Crowded By Beauty providing a time line and anecdotal reference on the one hand, and the chronological arrangement of the poems in the Collected Poems Of Philip Whalen supplying the corpus on the other, perhaps now the real work of appreciation and acknowledgement can begin.

New To The Society’s Shelves

From Almost Everywhere, Selected Poems 1965-1995, Franco Beltrametti (Blackberry Books, Nobleboro, ME, 1916)

Salutations; a Festschrift for Burton Watson; Jesse Glass & Philip F. Williams, eds (Ahadada/ Ekleksographia Plain Editions, Tokyo, 2015)

Follow the  continuing adventures of a peripatetic poet at Ode To Sunset.

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Quantum Redux

To: The Membership and Interested Parties
From: Pat Nolan, Charter Member, NBBPS
Subject: The Quantum Of Kerouac

Note:  Pat Nolan’s The Quantum of Kerouac originally appeared in Poetry Flash in June of 2013

The Quantum of Kerouac

 “I know that I am just an imagery blossom.”
—Jean-Louis Kerouac

The Language of Jazz
Jack Kerouac. I was seventeen when I came across the name, just getting my first taste of jazz listening to WJLB, an R&B station out of Inkster, Michigan. The late night DJ liked to throw in some Jimmy Smith Hammond organ jazz grooves. I was also boning up on jazz in Metronome, a music magazine, and one issue featured an article by Kerouac. The on_the_road_book_cover1contributor’s notes spoke of his sensational novel, On The Road, published a few years earlier. A novel about jazz I had to read. I was in for a big surprise. It wasn’t about jazz in the way I thought it would be. But it was life changing, and the beginning of an education. Because of Jack Kerouac and On The Road, I picked up on Baudelaire and Rimbaud, the New American Poetry, the San Francisco scene, spontaneous bop prosody, and most of all, the pantheon of jazz greats, the gods of bebop. Jack Kerouac was their prophet.

My curiosity about jazz led me to Kerouac, and over the years that association has remained. I’ve tried to understand jazz as Kerouac had, as music and as a language. As music, its basis is polyrhythmic and percussive. And as a language, it speaks in metered polytonal phrases. Layered rhythms and counter rhythms add a redundancy and nuance to what is being said. Kenneth Rexroth’s comment, that Kerouac knew nothing about jazz or Negroes, notwithstanding, Jack Kerouac understood both the music and the language, intuitively grasping the essential idiom of bop, readily receptive to the underlying message of liberation. He heard it say, “The world belongs to me because I am poor.” And he was keen for the spoken word associated with jazz and its performers, the secret and joyful lexicon of hep cats as epitomized by that style-setting paragon of cool, Lester Young, and in Lord Buckley’s jazzy scat-like monologues. On The Road illustrates that there can be music in the telling of a story and in the rhythmic digressions of improvisation.

Getting On The Road
Gilbert Milstein’s 1957 New York Times review still stands as one of the most perceptive and prescient assessments of On The Road. Significant, perhaps, is that Milstein was also a music critic, specifically jazz. The review opens unequivocally claiming the novel as an “historic occasion in so far as the exposure of an authentic work of art is of any great moment in an age in which the attention is fragmented and the sensibilities are blunted by the superlatives of fashion (multiplied a millionfold by the speed and pound of communications).” Adding “On the Road is the most beautifully executed, the clearest and the most important utterance…by turns, awesome, tender and funny…that has never been equaled in American fiction, either for insight, style or technical virtuosity,” Milstein proclaimed On the Road “a major novel.”  Milstein also predicted the opposition On The Road would face when he writes “it will be condescended to by, or make uneasy, the neo-academicians and the ‘official’ avant-garde critics, and that it will be dealt with superficially elsewhere as merely ‘absorbing’ or ‘intriguing’ or ‘picaresque’ or any of a dozen convenient banalities, not excluding ‘off beat.’”  He could not have anticipated the tidal wave of vitriol directed at the novel or the public disparagement of its author. To the white Anglo Saxon Protestant ethos prevalent among the entrenched literati and salon mavens of the Atlantic shore, Canuck Kerouac represented a threat to the shaky partisan edifice they had constructed. The unsanctioned (and unwashed) anti-intellectual autodidacts of Beatdom gave them Bolshevik nightmares.

Even to this day I am continually taken aback by the vehemence with which Kerouac is denounced and the bland, senseless dismissals his writing still encounters. Kerouac confounds those in the thrall of the idea that there is such a thing as proper English. He, in fact, writes in the vernacular, Americain, Americano, or as Lew Welch called it, ‘Murican. In its rollicking headlong slapstick peregrinations, On The Road resembles the vaudevillian human comedy of Gogol’s Dead Souls. Similarly, it is also the work of troubled genius.

A Perfect Storm
A perfect storm of Kerouac related activity over the last year drew me back into the orbit of my main literary progenitor. First there was talk that On The Road was being made into a major motion picture. Around that time I also read Gerald Nicosia’s One And Only, The True Story Behind On The Road. Perhaps not so coincidentally, Gerald Nicosia was a consultant on the movie production and provided Kristen Stewart, the star attraction, with tape recordings of his interview with Lu Anne Henderson to help her get into the role of Marylou. And not least, I also read, with much pleasure and anticipation, Joyce Johnson’s new biography The Voice Is All, The Lonely Victory of Jack Kerouac which places a significant emphasis on Kerouac’s French Canadian background.

Personally, I have always doubted that a Hollywood adaptation of On The Road could be successful. On The Road is too vast a work to be captured within the constraints of a conventional production. And the literary aspects of On The Road, the attributes that make it a great and unique work of literature, are next to impossible to translate into a viable cinematic expression. Perhaps Eisenstein might have managed a mind-bending montage approximation of Buster Keaton pratfalls and near misses that would have left the viewers dizzy and exhausted. Terrence Malick could have made a go at it, capturing the range, the breadth, the pace with panoramic filmscapes and judicious lyrical voiceovers in a little over three hours. Nonetheless, there would still be gaps, stretches that are not visually accessible. The question is, can a mere two hours do justice to On The Road and be anything more than a road trip buddy flick given gravitas through association with the great novel of the Beat generation? Popular young actor Kristen Stewart of Twilight vampire movie fame, cast as Marylou, Dean Moriarty’s child bride, will undoubtedly be the focus of this feature. In the novel she plays a critical though ancillary role. Funny how Hollywood thinks group sex and mutual masturbation are the bases of great literature. But not to judge too harshly a movie I haven’t seen and don’t intend to see, perhaps some young readers drawn to the star power of their favorite young actor will pick up a copy of On The Road and have their lives transformed by the novel as was mine.

One and Only
In One And Only; The Untold Story of On The Road & Lu Anne Henderson, The Woman Who Started Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady On Their Journey authored by Gerald Nicosia and Anne Marie Santos, Marylou can be found as her real life counterpart, Lu Anne Henderson. As depicted in the novel, Marylou is sexually promiscuous and sexual partner to both Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise. Kerouac scholar and biographer Nicosia states in the introduction to One And Only that Lu Anne Henderson is the one who brought the two men together, helping them overcome their juvenile competitiveness and forging the bond that drives the novel. Lu Anne’s words give a depth and humanity to the relationship between the real life Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise, and Marylou.

one and onlyAt the core of One And Only is the transcription of seven hours of Lu Anne Henderson’s recollections of her relationship with Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac taped in 1978 by Nicosia who was then fashioning his definitive Kerouac biography, Memory Babe. Nicosia provides an introduction for this oral history, detailing the circumstances of the interview and the reason why it has remained under wraps until now. And he brackets the interview with a critical afterword, drawing on his extensive knowledge of the life and work of Jack Kerouac.

To his credit, Nicosia allows Lu Anne Henderson to speak for herself, and her voice is palpable. That Neal was Lu Anne’s first love is evident from her testimony, as it is in that of Lu Anne’s daughter, Anne Marie Santos, and Ed Hinkle’s addendums rounding out this slim volume. The bond of affection, both physical and emotional, between Lu Anne and Neal continued long after they separated and Neal had married Carolyn, the mother of his children. The authenticity and immediacy of Lu Anne’s voice in the transcription highlights a self-effacement that downplays her role in what is arguably the great picaresque novel of the twentieth century. What comes through is an unflinching account of Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac as young men, their dreams and aspirations, their strengths and their faults.

Reading the transcription of the taped interview, recorded twelve years after Kerouac’s death, the impression is of someone sympathetic and warm, recounting in an unaffected way her relationship with Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady. Young Jack is recalled as goofy, serious, and trying too hard to joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world while emulating the great saints and writers of history of whom he and Neal talked endlessly. These weren’t university kids. They were autodidacts, outlaws, seekers, pilgrims in search of a grail, the flash of enlightenment that would give meaning to the mundane. Kerouac’s novels are all about the mundane, the pitiless circumstances of daily existence as the source of human sorrow, and why we should go “moan for man.”

Kerouac apologized to his friends, Lu Anne relates, for portraying them so nakedly in On The Road, and for what he felt was a betrayal of their trust. They forgave him, but it is likely that he continued to harbor that guilt, especially after the notoriety began to pile up, and he saw how it affected his friendships. And it was to change everything. As Jack wrote to Allen Ginsberg, “Fame makes you stop writing.”

For me, this is where the needle skips the groove. There are two Kerouacs, a pre media-burn Jack, and a fried to a crisp post-On The Road Kerouac. These two recent books, by Nicosia and Johnson, center on early Jack. Lu Anne’s story relates an eyewitness account of much of the autobiographical basis for the novel. Joyce Johnson chooses to halt her biographical narrative in 1951.

Full Disclosure
I was struck by the truth of both the title and subhead of Joyce Johnson’s biography, The Voice Is All, The Lonely Victory of Jack Kerouac. The title speaks to the ethnic root of Kerouac’s language, and the lonely victory, at this remove, quite evident in the public self-destruction under the continued media assault surrounding his person and his writing.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit to a bias: I am also French Canadian. Don’t let the name fool you. I was born in Montreal. French is my first language and the one I spoke exclusively up until I was ten (outside of compulsory English schooling where to even speak the language of my birth was a disciplinary offense). Then my family moved to the States; I got my green card, and the opportunities to speak Quebecois were severely limited.

My early years as a French speaker were in many ways similar to those of Kerouac’s. I guess that makes me bilingual. Jack Kerouac was as well, though not many people think of him as a bilingual author, as a writer who got his start in a language other than the Anglo coin of the realm.

It’s been my experience that the original language, while no longer functioning as the primary lexical source, will often make its influence known, sometimes in subversive ways. An idea can begin in French only to end up articulated in English. Or vice versa. As a code-switching youngster, I spoke the language that best expressed what I wanted to say. Word choices are often affected or are archaic in usage. I personally have a tendency toward reflexive verbs and prepositional phrases. Adjectival modifiers often get misplaced. I doubt that any of this is at all unusual to anyone who has more than one language as their experience. French, like Swedish, Chinese and some African languages, is nuanced in tone. This lends itself to ambiguity and the bane of proper English, puns. Jazz can be that way, in the punning improvisations of solos. So too is Jack’s prose, whose playfulness owes much to the language of his birth, and to bebop.

To my Canuck ear the most glaringly obvious example of word play in On The Road is the name of the novel’s protagonist, Sal Paradise. ‘Sal’ is a diminutive of ‘salaud’ which denotes a slob, someone who needs to take a shower. Sal Paradise is ‘Dirty’ Paradise, the unwashed working class hero. That’s Jack’s in-joke, and in perfect keeping with the clannish conventions of self-deprecation, of not making yourself out to be better than anyone else, a polite humility common to rural French Canadians.

The cultural environment Johnson describes in The Voice Is All resonates as being close to what I remember growing up in a French Canadian household. As late as the fifties Quebec was slow in joining the twentieth century. Horse drawn plows were a common sight in farm fields worked by descendants of Breton peasants whose brand of Catholicism had hardly changed since the seventeenth century. It was lean and mean with no thought to Vatican II appeasements. The indoctrination was rigorous and thorough. Every youngster aspired to a halo.

Another aspect of French Canadian family life of that time was the ubiquity of original radio soap operas or radioromans, unique in expressing Quebecker morality and ethos in a language that owed much to its early peasant influence. We tend to forget what an anciently deep and primitive source that tradition draws on, one that up until recently was only marginally affected by the modern world. Kerouac was heir to that tradition, including the child terrifying hair-raising tales of loup garou, or les sauvages whose blood also trickled through their veins, and perhaps above all, the fabled characters of one of the longest running soap operas broadcast on CBF, the French Canadian radio network. “Un homme et son péché/A Man and His Sin,” was a highly moral saga continually confronting the treachery, greed and jealousy of the most sinful of men, Seraphin. It was entertainment with a worldview deeply steeped in a primal religious austerity redeemed through the salvation of hope. Families gathered around the kitchen tables listening to radio tales of the cold cruel world in a language and idiom unique to their culture.

The Voice Is All
Joyce Johnson recreates, in her 2012 biography, Kerouac’s emergence as a writer from the shaping world of his adolescence to the self-torture of his impulsive genius that put him always on the precipice of failure while alternately making him wildly optimistic and messianic. She outlines the underpinnings of what will eventually find its way into On The Road. There is a realization that the vivacity with which Kerouac is charging his writing is the balladeering, myth-making praise songs of self-made heroics and legends of him and his pals. It attains the grandeur of a spiritual quest because that is Kerouac’s turn of mind. He is the altar boy heretical failed priest shaman beckoning “follow me, men, I know the way!” in the great vision quest novel of the twentieth century.

the voiceAlthough some of the material in The Voice Is All has been addressed in other biographies and memoirs, Johnson brings a visceral presence, a personal insight not available to the cross section of scholars who can only rely on secondhand accounts. Her story, benefiting from a strong sense of narrative, hangs together without having to depend solely on the iterations of quote and citation, and makes reading about Kerouac’s early development as a writer compelling. For Johnson, it’s personal, and the reader is readily admitted to that sense of intimacy. By ending her biography in Kerouac’s thirtieth year, Johnson brings the reader to the brink of an incredible period of creativity that encompasses the next dozen years and rightfully deserves a volume of its own. She has a rough row to hoe, however, what with the petrified quibbles of clueless Brit reviewers on the one hand, and on the other, the sharpened knives of academic hacks protecting their miserable little slices of Kerouac turf with their internecine squabbles.

Johnson does confirm the native ancestry in Kerouac’s family, on his mother’s side, in their Iroquois blood. Though this marker is often cited as proof of greater authenticity in a nation of immigrants, among the early settlers to New France, marriage alliances with native families were not uncommon. The devastation of alcoholism among native populations is borne out in full lurid display in the last years of Jack’s life. Again, that last chapter of Kerouac’s life undoubtedly deserves its own volume as well.

Ending the narrative at that early date, Johnson preserves a picture of Kerouac as innocent, in many respects intransigently naïve, bumming about on a Rimbaudian soul-deranging mission of quasi-holy man, reaching for that epiphany, and maintaining in his writing the voice he heard in his head, a voice that shaped his writing, voice of another language, because as he well knew, language is culture, and the voice is all.

The Quantum
If you bother to look, there is much on Kerouac in print, on disk, on the Internet. Certainly more than I am ultimately interested in. On the other hand, I have read everything of Kerouac’s that has been put in print. I have also read, or attempted to read, all the biographies, memoirs, and ancillary tie-ins. I read David Amram’s delightful memoir, Offbeat, and the accounts of rent parties with the main attraction being Amram on French horn and Kerouac improvising poems, monologues like a six storey walk-up shaman. What is lost to history! Also in these pages is a vivid recounting of the recording session for the voice-over narration by Jack of Robert Frank’s Pull My Daisy. Perhaps an even ghostlier glimpse comes from unedited film footage available on YouTube, shot by Frank outside a bar in the Village. There a darkly handsome, self-assured, perhaps slightly pugnacious or drunk, or both, man with a lot of French body language swaggers through in black and white like Zelig. This is Jack on the cusp.

Critical study and commentary on Kerouac’s writing to my reckoning is overshadowed by and lags behind the biographical material. The primarily biographical focus on Kerouac reflects the fact no one can properly deal with the writing outside of that context. And he hasn’t made it easy by hewing so close to autobiography in enacting the morality play of his messianism. With a few exceptions,* the memoirs and quasi-biographies center on the author and treat the novels as thinly disguised autobiography. Kerouac’s writing seems almost beside the point and trivial compared to the iconic nature of the man himself, King of The Beats, emblem of a generation, etc.

A plainspoken assessment of On The Road is presented in John Leland’s Why Kerouac Matters. It lays out a schematic of talking points. While sometimes a little stuffy, Leland’s very smart book, which could have easily been titled ‘Kerouac for Dummies,’ outlines the salient aspects of the novel to make them read like life lessons aimed at a new generation of readers. What is missing in this deconstruction is the complexity of Jack’s voice.

Philip Whalen, someone Kerouac had great respect for, and equal in American mystic tendencies, speaking of Kerouac, said he thought of himself as an experimental writer. A Kerouac confidant, Whalen interviewed by Larry Lee and Barry Gifford in Off The Wall, a collection of Whalen interviews, provides the expected no-nonsense view of his old friend. Speaking of the novels, Whalen said, “They were not reportage. Those things were created. They were made. They were composed in a very particular way. They are very well written, beautifully composed and put together. The idea that he simply sat down at a typewriter, that he wasn’t a writer, he was a typist, that isn’t so.” Of Kerouac himself, Whalen says, “He was very interesting because he also saw so much, he was always so aware of his own experience and what he was seeing, what he was hearing, what he remembered.”

A 1964 capsule critique by Gilbert Sorrentino (The Floating Bear 30) offers a backhanded compliment, claiming that it appeared that Kerouac had bypassed the precision mitered examples offered by Flaubert, Conrad and Maddox Ford for something akin to earlier eighteenth century prose fiction. It seems like an outrageous claim because Kerouac’s first novel, The Town And The Country, owed much to Thomas Wolfe. On the other hand, eighteenth century prose had yet to rid itself of the vestiges of orality. The voice was still all-important. Kerouac realized, as had Whitman, another unique American voice vilified, that the self is the fountainhead of creativity, touchstone of great spirituality.

Professor Eric Havelock writes in The Muse Learns To Write that the reemergence of orality in the twentieth century is due in part to the radio. Over the airwaves, along with propaganda, quiz and variety shows, fireside chats, and soap operas, came musical performances, including dance music, in particular jazz, risen from a culture of vibrant orality. That sense of the spoken is on full display in Visions Of Cody. As Clark Coolidge so perceptively notes in Now It’s Jazz, Writings On Kerouac & The Sounds, “This is a wide open Kerouac voice book. All his moves in single continuant length. Best, it gets read all out in a sitting…from here to there, this to that, a graph of all mind syncline/ anticline swept on a line. Run the whole form through your head. & you miss him if you don’t hear him. Nodes of mind moving in voice moving mind. Great range of thought overtones, harmonics. The voice box of Jack Kerouac.”

A particularly visceral Kerouac document came about when Ted Berrigan and his merry troupe of New York poets descended on Jack to interview him for The Paris Review, and install him in the pantheon of great American writers with their attention. To them, he was the mystical brujo, old Father Bhikkhu Blues, Holy Jack, Saint Jack grooving to the vast sorrows of existence with his dark native look and primitive sense of fatality. We choose our gods from among those who are most like us.

Jack’s soulfulness was his fatal flaw. His spiritual side sought the uplifting of epiphany, ecstatic transport. It’s something French Canadian kids learn at a young age, the empty-phantomstranscendent experience expressed in sadomasochistic iconography. Twelve years from the publication of On The Road to his death, Kerouac had completed twelve of the fourteen stations of his agony and death. The thirteenth and fourteenth stations? Enacted by his followers who take him down from the criminal’s place and lay him to rest with the honor and reverence he deserves. Jack was crucified by misunderstanding, sensationalism, crass ignorance and the envy of the Ivy League clan. His was a slow death. Witness the progress to virtual suicide in Paul Maher’s Empty Phantoms. It is one of the saddest documents, this testimony of self-destruction. And even though the outcome is inevitable, the end still comes as a shock. As Jack would say, “Writing solves nothing.”

Or view the succession of videos and images of Jack suffering from severe media burn now available with ubiquity on the Internet or as documentaries. Watching them tries your empathy and is bound to ruin your day. Among the field of documentaries—and I have probably watched them all—the Lewis MacAdams product, What Happened to Kerouac? is probably the least cringe-worthy. Almost all the documentaries feature clips of Jack on Firing Line, a parody of himself, of the successful novelist, blaming the younger generation for misunderstanding him. He is the picture of the classic French Canadian uncle—he could have easily been one of mine—and like so many hard working Canucks, lithe and intense in their youth, beery and blowsy in their dotage. And just a little crazy. Ti Jean was a peasant, an urban country boy, whose bad habits and body followed a natural downward spiral into alcoholic depression as he obliterated himself in a messy working class orgy of self-destruction.

On The Road ultimately is about Sal Paradise, his epiphanies, the real, the imagined, the literal, and the literary. A continuum of music underlies it all. It is a dream of freedom much as Jazz, bebop in particular, is the voice of freedom. His novels are achingly autobiographical, but they are not about him as much as they are the singing of the saga of self with a galloping enthusiasm and uncompromising innocence in romantic praiseful cadences. The exuberance of hyperbole belongs to the young, the idealist. Then someone comes along and paints a bull’s eye on you.

Wind Blown Dream
On occasion I’ve wondered what would have happened if the review of On The Road had been ignored. What if someone had said, “ah, that Milstein he’s a hack, don’t pay any attention to him.” Realistically, Milstein’s review was not the only match to light the fuse to Kerouac’s rocket. There were so many other factors, not the least of them, the belief in Kerouac’s genius by his friends. It is that genius that deserves appreciation and respect.

For some, the touting of Kerouac as a great writer is a wound that will not scab. One critic in particular made his reputation in New York literary circles by attacking and demonizing Kerouac and his associates. The hysterical denouncements caught the attention of the media dogs, always ready to chase the scent of sensationalism.

In reading Nicosia’s One And Only, I was drawn back into the fold of On The Road, not having read it in many, many years. It was at once familiar and strange, dreamlike in that many things were familiar but not in that context. And as much as the adventures of Sal and Dean are compelling in their own boisterous way, this time around it was the episode with Terry (Bea Franco) that was the sweetest, most touching.

Johnson’s The Voice Is All put me back in touch with the unique culture of my childhood, and reminded me of the affiliation, in the root sense of the word, the sense of kinship, I felt with Kerouac. That it’s taken me fifty years to articulate it is another matter for another time.

Some years ago I came upon Windblown World, a selection of Kerouac’s journals and working notes from the late forties, early fifties. The title resonated with me because it reminded me of a poem by Basho. No appreciation of Kerouac would be complete without mentioning his enthusiasm for haiku and his appropriation of the Japanese verse form as American Haiku, much to the chagrin of haiku purists. For Kerouac, it was the pared down essence of seeing, at which he was so adept, as a moment of transformative experience expressed in the cadences of haiku in translation, particularly those of R.H. Blythe. Of course those who don’t care for haiku probably number among those who don’t care for Kerouac’s novels.

Along with the sketches, development notes, plot idea, word counts and pep talks in Windblown World, a young Kerouac lists his aspirations, his hopes, his dreams. He aspired to become a successful novelist and have the leisure to read all the great works of world literature, and of course write to his heart’s content. In one passage, his dream is to move to Northern California with a wife and raise a family. That gave me pause. Other than the part about being a successful novelist, I was essentially living Kerouac’s dream. Then it occurred to me: I can’t be the only one. Somewhere, down along the cove, the next ridge over, up the coast, off the beaten track there must be others who are sharing that dream.

In this collective dream, I can listen to the lords of bebop recorded live at Massey Hall or the rediscovered re-appreciated Volume Two with Davis, Johnson, and the Heath brothers, and think of Jack. I stand at my window any given morning, cup in hand, and watch wisps of mist snagged on the fir and redwood ridge across the river, and think of Jack. Or on the way back from an afternoon walk, a bank of ocean fog encroaching on the burnished orange gold of the saw-tooth skyline, I think of Jack. Yes, I think of Jack Kerouac.

* Pat Nolan adds: Since the writing and publishing of this article in Poetry Flash in 2013, I have discovered three very important and scholarly works relating to Kerouac’s work that are highly recommended to anyonewho is interested in this uniquely North American author.  They are Thomas R. Bierowski’s  Kerouac in Ecstasy: Shamanic Expression in the Writings (McFarland, 2011), and Kerouac’s Crooked Road (University of California, 1996) and The Textuality of Soul Work: Jack Kerouac’s Quest for Spontaneous Prose (University of Michigan, 2014), both by Tim Hunt.


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Minimalist Poetry


To: The Membership & Interested Parties
From: The Parole Officer, NBBPS
Subject: A Conceptual Roundtable

Fortuitous accident, chance, a throw of the dice, a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, call it what you will, is a kind of backdoor inspiration. Suddenly the sagging universe is given a shot of irony and the range of possibility is expanded.  Subsequent attempts at explanation or analysis are invariably misguided, overwrought, tiresome, and mostly miss the intent of the randomly generated.

Minimalist poetry is a poetry of opportunity, like finding a lucky penny on a rain wet sidewalk.  As Basho, no slouch as a minimalist himself, states “The basis of art is change in the universe.”  In this case, it is spare change.

A list of modern Minimalist poets or poets who have put into practice Minimalist tenets would have to include Ezra Pound, William Carlos Williams, Robert Lax, Ivan Akhmetyev, Mikhail Faynerman, Alexsandr Makarov-Krotov, John M. Bennett, Lillian Van Den Broeck, Robert Grenier, Clark Coolidge, David Gitin, Ian Hamilton Finlay, Tom Raworth, Robert  Creeley, Ed Dorn, G.P. Skratz, judi goldberg, Eric Johnson, Pat Nolan, Steven Lavoie, Alastair Johnston, and that barely scratches the surface. The Dave Morice/Joyce Holland minimalist/conceptualist collaborations, especially their one word poetry magazine, Matchbook, the tiny pages of which were stapled to the inside of an actual matchbook, cannot be overlooked.  Anselm Hollo, Ted Berrigan, Ron Padgett, Darrell Gray used aspects of minimalist and conceptualist strategies that have now worked their way into the contemporary poetry skill set. And then there’s Aram “my arms are warm” Saroyan, whose one word poem, lighght, generated an awful lot of literary and political heat for such a tiny morpheme, particularly because the poem received an NEA award of $500 in 1965 which back then was real money.

Whether it is the appropriation of an object or a typo, the effect is the same, the recognition of an inherent absurdity and its specific ironic gravity.  And depending on its critical mass, it continues to hold attention and be assimilated.  What Marcel Duchamp taught with his appropriation of a urinal designated Fountain was conceptual as well as minimalist.  Certainly by the piece’s singularity in attracting attention that still resonates to this day, it was conceptual; by the fact of the negligible expenditure of effort in its actualization, it was minimalist.  Saroyan’s poem exists within the same framework: conceptual with a minimum of effort.

Not all discussion about the controversy surrounding the validity of Saroyan’s poem as a poem and the political furor that ensued is enlightened as the appropriation of this random sampling of opinion shows.  It is, however, authentic and a median indication of relative sophistication.  Think of it as a chorus of voices attempting dialogue in a crowded room. 

Caution: some of the opinions expressed can cause despair, sarcasm, ridicule, and bouts of disgust.  Trying to explain the meaning of a poem or poetry is often the playing field of platitudes as the following discussion more than amply illustrates.

—The Parole Officer

—I remember being blown away by lighght when I was a kid, just as I was by the word “Word”, as in In the Beginning was the… and Shit, the first word of Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi. lighght was written at the heighght of the Pop Art use of onomatopoeia and is of its time. Now it’s just trite and no one’s thought about it in years.

—Now that minimalist poetry has come full circle, perhaps Saroyan will pick up his quill again and enlighghten us with more.

—The word “word” looks very much like lighght to me. I understand the ineffable mood. This reminds me of African literature when emphasis on a particular thing is increased simply by saying it twice. I suppose the emphasis can would triple if the words were combined somehow.  I see a poem in “word, I just wouldn’t expect other people to appreciate it.

—I love this guy! He is the power we’ve been weighghting for.  lighght, he says. It’s one of the heaviest looking words I’ve ever seen—a clever reversal. Very clever, man. He can’t have thought about it, as he says no one has thought about it in years. Or perhaps he means “no one who matters.” In which case, he’s even funnier. Hooray! More please.

—Wow, aren’t you an ass.  I’ll be less sarcastic/witty and a bit more straighghtforward—no more of you please.

—A complete wastetsaw of paper…


—I seem to remember (having read about) Robert Duncan having something to do with the selection of this poem for NEA support, and Duncan saying something along the lines of an angel telling him to choose it.

—Robert Duncan did say that the repeated gh is the “Silent stutter in the Presence of the Light.” He thought it brilliant to incorporate that sense of awe in the one word. If you were to transcribe ‘light’ phonetically you would only have the “l” sound, the vowel “I” sound, and the “t” consonants. The gh is silent, a leftover from a Middle English pronunciation. To find that silent sense of awe in the letters themselves is remarkable. Like a lot of things, once you’ve seen it, you GET it, but it took Aram Saroyan to Get it first.

—To me the poem’s strength lies in its calling attention to the silence in the phenomenon of energy we call lighght and which pervades our existence. The gh being silent is repeated and thus makes the new created word extensive in time and space, as lighght is, instantly and silently so. Art is not a zero-sum game. The success and admiration given this poem, or minimalist poems of its kind, in no way takes away the luster of other poetry. Value is not a limited resource that needs protection. Value is created by an aggregation of taste that gathers around any art object, no matter how humble or how grand. Much of the time, that which we may not value as art, and which may not have the lasting power that’s probably the best measure of art (and lighght has been around for a while) can still add to the vocabulary of artists. Each is a tributary to that vast riverrun.

—Strictly speaking phonetically, gh is not completely silent; it represents a sound of exhaling. So in that sense lighght “breathes.” “…and God said, ‘Let there be lighght‘” ?

—Being silent, gh is transparent, i.e., transmits radiation fully and faithfully between media, hence a metaphor for efficient transmission of idea between minds.  Still in the mind, the extra letters gh interject thought, or minimally a pause, disrupting and discouraging a literal interpretation (not unlike poetry).  In short (sorry!), a poetics in seven letters, reminiscent of certain works of Modernist Art.

—at least it’s an easy one to memorize. righght?

—I think part of the genius of lighght is that the repeated letters are silent. So it is different, yet the same.  In certain circles (e.g. spidertangle and other visual poetry discussion forums) this poem gets described, discussed, and cited as much as John Cage’s ground breaking silent musical composition 4’33”, and for the same reason: it showed a new way of looking at language. It is one of the most, if not the most effective, of Saroyan’s minimal works, though there are lots of other interesting works in that book. It makes sense that he was paid as a contributor to an anthology rather than through a standalone grant identified for that work. Of course that didn’t stop the brouhaha from the yahoos. It may also be worth mentioning that the entire book lighght was in, Aram Saroyan, was read on the NBC Nighghtly news, according to the jacket cover copy on Saroyan’s next book, Pages. Both books were published by Random House.

—C’mon, guys and gals. Call it fun, call it mystic, call it word magic, call it thought provocation, call it whatever you like. But if you insist on calling it “poetry”, language ceases to have meaning.

—FINALLY!!! Language ceases to have meaning!

—I am interested to learn about a definition of poetry that does not involve “word magic”, “thought provocation”, and potentially “fun” and “mystic[al]” qualities. Regarding these descriptions, I believe that “word magic”/the skilled use of language represents the most fundamental aspect of poetry.  In addition, I do not understand your argument that “language ceases to have meaning” if the word lighght is described as poetry. You are making the argument that poetry and meaningful language are connected. This argument is valid, but if you acknowledge that the word lighght represents a skilled use of language/”word magic” and thus gives meaning to language, you cannot logically argue that the word does not represent poetry.

—We are so hungry to validate our art (not that it needs it). We now bear witness to (and praise) another futile attempt.

—Is the measure of a poem based solely on spiritual reaction?  Maybe not. But good poetry leaves us aching, yearning, dazed, cold, terrified, anything, everything.   But this typo?

— Typesetters, typographers, anyone who has ever hand-set type, since the beginning of printing have found entertainment value in the odd anomalous and random manifestations of alphabetically composed language.  Saroyan’s poem is just a quantum glimpse into a vast junkyard of typographical hiccups that has existed since Johannes started the Print Revolution in 1439.

—I don’t rate this poem. For me it is an example of a con and when poetry like this is admired and esteemed it seems to me that it devalues real poetry. Is this some kind of literary Picasso? No it is not!

—I love lighght. As a poem and as a literary provocation.

—What definition of poetry excludes single words?  Prose tries to convey information through sentences and paragraphs; in poetry, the individual words are more important. What could be more important than a single word?  lighght is a fantastic poem (and I never saw it before). It’s not a “game”—it’s a miniature. It has its own very distinct flavor and stillness.

—Art is a provocation of thought and discussion and as such lighght is perfect.

—The same argument that this single word is poetry is the same argument that a trash can with debris on it is art if it is in a museum. Yes, it provokes thought. No, it does not provoke interesting, ennobling, or deep thought—like Jack Handy did on Saturday Nighght Live. The same people who like this stuff have warped the visual art movement beyond recognition. To see this word as profound, makes me question one’s depths. Robert Frost’s ProvideProvide is profound; Gwendolyn Brook’s We Real Cool, Robert Hayden’s Frederick Douglas, and T.S. Eliot’s Preludes all are profound.  Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy my Rothko postcards, but the oeuvre, for instance, of Max Beckman or Salvador Dali is far more significant than the perfection of a technique or maybe, in this case, a mere gimmick.  T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land in all its implications remains a much more controversial poem. That is if you think about it. Our culture today in America would be much more receptive to this lighght, then watching some American Idol, then hearing about more war casualty facts, then voting, and then maybe eating some nachos.

—Aram Saroyan is not a poet, he’s a fad.

—lighghten up, people!

—man, is this a great poem. forget its “faddiness” or its “minimalist poetry aesthetic” or whatever. . . just forget all that stuff and go back to the word/poem, and read it in the same way that you’d read any other “poem” and you’ll (hopefully) find in it exactly those things that you can find in any far-less experimental (read: narrative) poem.  and controversy around it is also what makes this an amazing and intriguing poem.  it totally nails the argument about “what makes poetry.”  it’s not the only controversial poem, but it is one of them—the waste land isn’t the only ‘controversial’ poem, in the same way that there isn’t only one strand (style) of poetry at any given time.

—Oh wow! This is pure brilliance… YAY! Thanks for putting poetry in a lab!!! YAY! Poetry it may be—in the way that anything can be poetry—but not Verse.  I’d love to go to a reading of this by the way…  This is really controversy more than poetry though… that’s what intrigues us righght—controversy. But in my generation: NOTHING IS SHOCKING—so just let it go already. . .CBGB was lame power-chording etc. Don’t mistake deconstruction for destruction. Or vice versa.

—Poetry is all about the concise use of language; from that perspective lighght is arguably a poem.

—With a first look it appears to be an early form of … typo!  But then looking/reading it again, you kinda get the feeling that he was keeping his friend waiting while he tried to get something down on paper…only to be rushed….thus typing far too quickly to realize….or maybe he is a genius, way above anyone’s head!!

—Are you people for real? Here’s a poem for you: BULL****! People that pretend to know what they’re talking about praising an idiot like Aram Saroyan for “writing” an inspirational poem like lighght. Proof that people will go along with anything that others say just to be part of the crowd.

—when I say the word in my mind it sounds like gargling.  Calling this poetry is a bit of a stretch don’t you think?

—“calling this poetry is a bit of a stretch don’t you think?” Not really. Aram Saroyan was a poet. He wrote this poem. It was published in a book of poetry. You likely think it’s a BAD poem, or doesn’t meet criteria you think all poems should have, but if you judge it purely by intent and context it’s certainly a poem.

—There are no BAD poems, only bad poets.

—“…it does not provoke interesting, ennobling, or deep thought.” Clearly it hasn’t provoked that in you, but it has provoked deep thought in some of the other comments here. I’ve enjoyed reading what others have to say about this. I believe that with all art (writing, film, music, etc), we have a visceral response first, and then try to rationalize that response afterwards. And when we have no response–or a negative response–but other people have a positive response, it can be very frustrating. So I understand where some of the negative/hostile comments are coming from: you don’t LIKE the poem. It doesn’t do anything for you. That’s perfectly reasonable, but you shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that people who like the poem are shallow thinkers, sheep, or con artists. We just have different aesthetic sensibilities. Like one of the other panelists said, assigning value in art is not a zero-sum game.  What I find fascinating is that Saroyan has made the word “light” do something: it flickers. When my eyes scan the word on the page/screen, I get a flickering sensation, like a passing motion of lighght. I think that’s cool. And he’s gotten me thinking about the relationship between how words look and how they sound, and the differences between reading something aloud versus reading it on the page.

—Most of the controversy over this “poem” is due to the wide praise it receives from pseudo-intellectuals/hipsters, the type who are quick to attack so-called “mainstream culture” (Hollywood, et al), despite the fact that no matter what you mighght think of people like Michael Bay or Dan Brown, at least they put actual EFFORT into their hack material, unlike Aram Saroyan, who is just as much if not more of a hack than those two, only difference being that while they churned out feature-length movies and novels, all he could muster up was a one-word typo, and at least Bay and Brown fans don’t analyze and intellectualize their work like Saroyan’s in-denial followers do. Also, the fact that this “thought provoking work of art” earned the man $500, which is more than a full time minimum wage worker makes from a whole week’s worth of work, only contributes to the outrage, and righghtfully so.

—I first encountered lighght when a favorite professor told our class in literary archetypes about it. He presented the poem to us with the usual details–the author’s name; the $500 prize money, but also with God as the title!

—Fine poem. Breathe with it. Wasn’t there an earlier Saroyan book? I remember Richard Kolmar as co-author?  No matter but interesting.

—Original, pithy, minimalist, provocative, thought-inspiring, emotion-provoking, the poem is all of that. It certainly is art. But it is bad art, in the same category as a Budweiser commercial. Then the question is whether it’s just plain bad art or tongue-in-cheek bad art, just as John Cage’s music never totally lost its function as a parody. I can’t help but think of lighght as a parody, and I feel sorry for all the members of the self-reinforcing intellectual community who try to find deeper meaning in it by calling something that’s entertaining for its risibility “important.” George Plimpton was at his best hosting Mousterpiece Theater on the Disney Channel, and
that’s where this poem belongs as well.

—I think it’s evident that the poem inspires a lot of frothing outrage, which in and of itself is a commentary, and in turn makes the poem important. Say what you will, but the offense that some take this as to their sensibilities is momentum enough to get this whole thing spinning on its axis again, wouldn’t you say? Sometimes you need that dorky huckster and his friend to decorate a toilet and call it art. lighght mighght seem like jibber-jabber, but it’s important merely for the fact that it pushes at the parameters of what a poem can be. Stare at a lighght. Any lighght. Go look at the sun. That resonance, that lighght blur that catches in your eye and casts a wide net of wobble in your lens? That’s lighght. It’s what lighght does that’s being described here, and in a word at that. Hence it’s minimalist. Hence it’s minimalist poetry. So it increases the parameters of what can be said in a poem. Otherwise, the parameters are saying anything in a poem that the status quo disagrees with, and censorship’s no fun. (And there are a$$es in the world who would say Gwendolyn Brooks didn’t write poetry. If this isn’t poetry, it would only be a matter of time before her words were cut for not following a meter or talking about skylarks.)

—Some years ago, I was visiting friends in New York City at Christmas time. It was cold and raining, but we wanted to go the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We walked in the rain, only to find that it was closed on Mondays. So one of them suggested that we instead go to the Guggenheim. All seven floors were featuring a tribute installation of the life’s works of Robert Rauschenberg, an artist with whom I had been previously unfamiliar. All of it looked like scrap from a textiles plant to me, except the works that looked like they were intended as a joke on the art world. the most notable (and apparently most famous) piece in the exhibition was a wooden palette, splashed with pastel paints and scattered with various items of discarded trash, upon which stood a stuffed angora goat, who wore a truck tire around his midsection, painted white.             Later, at an Italian restaurant where we were having dinner, and where the smell of the steamed clams they’d ordered as an appetizer was making me nauseous, I got into a rather fierce debate with them over whether that could even be considered art. I, frankly, had taken much greater pleasure from appreciating the Guggenheim building itself, which was created by Frank Lloyd Wrighght. They insisted that it was great art, and that Rauschenberg was a great artist. And then I posed a question, using as an example the style of myriad similar pieces in the exhibition: “If I leaned a painted plank against a wall, and draped from it a rectangle of muslin that was dyed half lime green, and half posy pink, would that be a great work of art? Is it only worthy of being called great art because Rauschenberg did it?” My friends informed me that yes, it was art because of who created it, not because of its intrinsic aesthetic properties. To me, this seemed absurd. However, I was at the time, beginning to run a high fever, as I had contracted strep throat after the long walk in the cold rain.


Perhaps it does not intrinsically lift the spirit, or convey specific exultation, but this is not required. Often, the most inspiring art is entirely in the eye of the beholder. Art is not the medium, or the creation itself, but the middle ground between art and its appreciator, the nebulous in between where each individual’s emotional reaction to the artwork is unique and indefinable. As such, art itself does not simply defy definition, it must, by its nature remain indefinable. For me, walking up seven floors looking at Rauschenberg after Rauschenberg was puzzling tedium. Walking back down, looking at the Guggenheim itself, was as much a spiritual experience as listening to Mozart. What’s more worthy of being called music, Mozart’s Twelve Variations on Ah vous dirai-je, Maman, or Tom Waits’ Dragging a Dead Priest? Art cannot be measured in degrees, nor compared in scope or scale to judge it “worthy” or “unworthy.” It IS the response it provokes. And it can be noted, concerning lighght, that seldom have seven letters ever PROVOKED such a reaction as that of the government, or these responses to it.

—People argue that lighght is not a poem mostly because it defies traditional convention; poetry must rhyme, poetry must have stanzas, poetry must contain more than one word, etc. These definitions are narrow-minded and exclusive, and disregard the fact that a single word, real or invented, can sound or look like poetry. When spoken, there are many words that could be called poetry, the way they roll off the tongue, the feeling they evoke when spoken. “Evanescent” comes to mind in particular. When simply looked at, lighght extends two silent consonants, giving the viewer more room to breathe, making the word itself even lighghter. If taken as an extra breath, it can be spoken as a slighghtly more drawn out “light”.  It may be unconventional, but in its own very unique way, lighght is poetry, and the extreme range of responses it has provoked could be used as validation that at the very least, it is worth talking about.

—I still find it amazing how that one misspelled word, lighght, changed poetic history. Not to mention that Aram Saroyan typed the word out of impatience. I find the history behind the word even more interesting due to the fact that I can relate to misspelling a word out of impatience. lighght is a one word poem you can read once or even more than once without missing anything, where as they say in the essay, a five word poem has a beginning, middle, and end. Overall lighght does not describe luminosity, but instead is luminosity and I personally feel that has a strong concept in being a poem.

—Saroyan is like the Gordon Matta-Clark of the poetry world. He tears down the mental fabric within us, which are pre-disposed to accepting traditions, and flips that script on us so we be all like “whaaaaaa?” Dude’s gnarly about them poetries and writings. Reading his poems is like watching the highghlighghts from Tomas Hertl’s four goal game against the NY Rangers back in October of 2013. #mindblown

—I’m confused. Confused in a positive way and a negative way. I want to know how to pronounce lighght and I also don’t really want to ever know. I wonder if by merely adding a few letters to a word is really making it something that transcends linguistics, or if it was just made to bewilder people. And in that case, maybe Saroyan is laughing at the fact that we have fallen for this puzzle.

—It’s fascinating that so many are against the idea of poetry as written art. People describe beautiful things as poetry but can’t fit lighght into poetry

—Poetry is playing with language. Whether that means creating a traditional poem that rhymes, something that doesn’t rhyme, writing a list, transcribing your phone notes, or compiling all your drunk texts into one document. As long as you’re playing with language and rhythm, then its poetry.  The poem lighght is a poem. lighght plays with language in that the viewer gets a mental image from it, even though lighght isn’t a real word. And even though lighght isn’t meant to be read aloud, the reader can still get a sense of rhythm from this one-word poem.

lighght has been said to defy “traditional” poetry, and people have doubted and questioned the veracity of such a poem, but then again, can poetry be defined as anything “traditional?”  Can poetry be bound and placed specifically in a box based on what people say it has been, and what it should be?  Why be restricted to “traditional” words as a form of expression?  lighght becomes more than a word that was uttered on a page. It becomes a mood, and it becomes a feeling. There is a heaviness to it.  lighght tested (in my opinion) the laws of language, and how we can communicate with one another. Everyone that has acknowledged this poem, regardless of their acceptance or complete disdain for the piece, has understood (to some degree) what was being thought. Despite the “misspelling”, the audience ultimately knew the original “correctly” spelled word. That is the power of language.  To try and assimilate poetry, or language, (to me), is foolish. A favorite quote of mine from the article that I think sums up things quite nicely is: “They never seem to pick on fiction. I guess they don’t have time to read it.”

—I’m conflicted. I’d like to say that a single word can be poetry, especially when it has ignited such a (mostly) thoughtful conversation amongst strangers, but my human nature wants to agree with the panelist who called it “word magic” in replacement of poetry. I say “human nature” because our species have been indexing and categorizing and defining things for centuries: science, math, literature. It brings us comfort to place things together that make sense. To say, “this is poetry because xyz” feels good, validating. Then again, aren’t all these ideas (systems and classifications) just a bunch of theory anyway? Wasn’t all this arbitrary at some point in time? Why do we use the decimal system instead of a binary one? Why don’t we use “!” to mean “and” or “&” to signify excitement. And now, I’m spinning out of control and lost sighght of my argument; for which lighght may take some credit.  Poetry. I guess.

—Not only is lighght more of an image than a spoken word, but it’s also more of a feeling that’s difficult to describe. When you try to pronounce lighght, it loses everything and sounds like a stutter, at most. When it’s read silently off a page, however, it makes so much sense. I keep finding this a synonym for a feeling that one has but can’t describe. A feeling that’s strongly felt, but difficult to explain to another individual. Therefore, lighght was the first time an emotion was created that was impossible to explain through verbal language. It was so controversial because explaining it’s relevance was nearly exhausting, and ambiguous as well.

—hmmmm….. this poem—and all the discussion about it—reminds me of a book I read about visual art by Thomas Wolfe called The Painted Word. This poet is very “clever,” i.e., contrived.  Some people like that.

—I think that the word lighght is poetry but also such a visual thing.  It’s the median of art and poetry together by how the word is written and also how it sounds. I think it’s strange that the people were mad at him for the word, but I also think they were just jealous that they didn’t win the money.

FROM Nualláin House, Publishers OCTOBER 2015

Poetry For Sale

Haikai No Renga (linked poetry)
Introduction by Pat Nolan, Haikai no Renga with Keith Kumasen Abbott, Sandy Berrigan, Gloria Frym, Steven Lavoie, Joen Eshima Moore, Maureen Owen, Michael Sowl, and John Veglia

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