Source of book: I own this, more or less.
The story behind this selection goes back a number of years, and follows a couple of threads. First of all, every law student studies cases about free speech and obscenity, which means at least a passing mention of Allen Ginsberg and Howl. While it was other cases that went as far as the US Supreme Court and thus became named cases to be poured over by law students since, it was the trial of Lawrence Ferlinghetti for publishing Howl that most caught the popular imagination.
After Ginsberg composed and performed Howl, Ferlinghetti proposed that the poem and some others be published by Ferlinghetti and sold at his City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco. When the book went on sale, local police arrested Ferlinghetti and his store manage and charged them with obscenity. After trial, the court ruled that the book was not obscene. In the meantime, other cases showed that the Supreme Court was unlikely to agree with book banning, and the case never was appealed. But the media coverage catapulted Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti to fame, presumably the opposite of what the pearl-clutchers intended.
Ferlinghetti ran City Lights for many years, and only passed on this last February, at the age of 101. Just prior, our book club read and discussed Big Sur by Jack Kerouac, and got off on the topic of City Lights and Ferlinghetti and the Beats and obscenity. This made me increasingly interested in locating some of Ferlinghetti’s own poems and reading them.
The final impetus came when a friend and I got to discussing poetry and decided to read and eventually get together to discuss it. We haven’t managed a discussion yet, but I figured I would jot down my thoughts.
Unfortunately, it is not easy to find a complete version of this, so I settled for a collection that had eighteen of the poems, and looked up any I saw referenced online. It’s probably not all of them, but at least the ones that people liked enough to mention as favorites.
I will admit that, having read Ginsberg, I never really warmed to his poetry. It reminds me of Whitman, who also bores me, mostly because it seems on occasion to be endless lists. Yes, there are some great lines, but you have to wade through the stream of endless words to find them. In general, I like shorter poetic works, as they seem more focused and careful. Likewise, I gravitate toward poems with form: meter and rhyme. But not exclusively, obviously. There are so many exceptions that I cannot even consider myself as having a rule. But generally, traditional over modern, short rather than long, and not that into Beat poetry.
I was somewhat surprised, therefore, to find that Ferlinghetti really spoke to me. Several of the poems were outstanding, and the craft and language was superb. So, I kind of have to wonder if the reason Ginsberg became the most famous Beat poet is some combination of his explicit sexuality and his reputation as “dangerous.”
Ferlinghetti is firmly in the Beat tradition, with his poems looking askance at post-war American culture, bourgeois self-righteousness, and capitalist greed. The forms are recognizable of specifically of their time, and the settings the kind of gritty urban coastal cities you would expect. He is deliciously anti-establishment in tone. His execution, however, is spot on in several of the poems, and even the weaker ones are pretty solid.
My collection starts off with a bang, with this one, which is probably still my favorite.
In Goya’s Greatest Scenes
In Goya’s greatest scenes we seem to see
the people of the world
exactly at the moment when
they first attained the title of
‘suffering humanity’
They writhe upon the page
in a veritable rage
of adversity
Heaped up
groaning with babies and bayonets
under cement skies
in an abstract landscape of blasted trees
bent statues bats wings and beaks
slippery gibbets
cadavers and carnivorous cocks
and all the final hollering monsters
of the
‘imagination of disaster’
they are so bloody real
it is as if they really still existed
And they do
Only the landscape is changed
They still are ranged along the roads
plagued by legionnaires
false windmills and demented roosters
They are the same people
only further from home
on freeways fifty lanes wide
on a concrete continent
spaced with bland billboards
illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness
The scene shows fewer tumbrils
but more strung-out citizens
in painted cars
and they have strange license plates
and engines
that devour America
I am a huge fan of Goya, and so many paintings sprang vividly to mind when I read this. And 2021 isn’t that much different from 1958, is it? The picture of “imbecile illusions of happiness” is genius. I loathe advertising, and have as long as I can remember. Okay, except for some of the amusing ones from my childhood. But I resent being manipulated that way, and remain suspicious that any business that spends a fortune on ads will be overpriced and underqualitied.
Next up is this bitter little portrait of a soured relationship. I kind of have a mental picture of a particular spot in Golden Gate Park to go with this too.
In Golden Gate Park That Day
In Golden Gate Park that day
a man and his wife were coming along
thru the enormous meadow
which was the meadow of the world
He was wearing green suspenders
and carrying an old beat-up flute
in one hand
while his wife had a bunch of grapes
which she kept handing out
individually
to various squirrels
as if each
were a little joke
And then the two of them came on
thru the enormous meadow
which was the meadow of the world
and then
at a very still spot where the trees dreamed
and seemed to have been waiting thru all time
for them
they sat down together on the grass
without looking at each other
and ate oranges
without looking at each other
and put the peels
in a basket which they seemed
to have brought for that purpose
without looking at each other
And then
he took his shirt and undershirt off
but kept his hat on
sideways
and without saying anything
fell asleep under it
And his wife just sat there looking
at the birds which flew about
calling to each other
in the stilly air
as if they were questioning existence
or trying to recall something forgotten
But then finally
she too lay down flat
and just lay there looking up
at nothing
yet fingering the old flute
which nobody played
and finally looking over
at him
without any particular expression
except a certain awful look
of terrible depression
Good lord I hope I never end up that way. I still look at my wife with affection, and I hope she always looks at me that way too. And we certainly cannot go and sit somewhere without looking at each other. Well, and smooching too. Ferlinghetti captures a less pleasant moment, and it feels so very real.
This next one is another favorite, about the craft of poetry.
Constantly Risking Absurdity
Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of day
performing entrechats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence
Dang, that’s good - and perfect really. I cannot think of a single weak line or phrase, and I love it more each time I read it.
There are more that I wish I could quote. The longer ones like “Autobiography” and “Junkman’s Obbligato” are quite good and compelling. I thought I might at least mention a line from “Dog,” which is worth reading in full. The last bit has a great line, though.
a real live
barking
democratic dog
engaged in real
free enterprise
with something to say
about ontology
something to say
about reality
and how to see it
and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
his picture taken
for Victor Records
listening for
His Master’s Voice
and looking
like a living questionmark
into the
great gramaphone
of puzzling existence
with its wondrous hollow horn
which always seems
just about to spout forth
some Victorious answer
to everything
“The great gramophone of puzzling existence.” Brilliant.
Finally, I want to mention “I Am Waiting,” which is superb. It is a bit long to quote in full, but you can listen to a good version of it here. Filled with literary, poetic, and musical allusions, it is a gold mine of goodness. The final line in each stanza, “I am waiting for a new rebirth of wonder” is something that I too deeply desire. Call it a poem about utopia. Call it a poem about the failure of the American Dream. Call it a poetic Godot. Or whatever. But we are all waiting.
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
My collection contains at least excerpts from a few of Ferlinghetti’s other collections, and I expect I will enjoy reading through them as well. I’m not sure exactly what I expected, but consider this to have been at least a somewhat unexpected pleasure. And a welcome addition to my poetry collection.
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