Changes. Funny thing ... I was planning on writing a blog post today about some changes I'm planning on making here on Litkicks. The site turns 18 years old (!) this Monday, July 23, and I'm planning to shake a few things up. I was going to write about that today, and then I heard some news about the Bowery Poetry Club.
The Bowery Poetry Club has always been my favorite night spot in New York City. It opened in the spring of 2002 -- a great time for a new spoken word poetry club to open in a New York City still recovering from the shock of the previous September. The club is the handiwork of poetry raconteur Bob Holman, a guy we like a lot and think should be Poet Laureate of the United States.
For the past eleven years the BPC has been a cozy and friendly spot for amateur and professional poets and slammers and lyricists. Everybody who worked there was a poet, and you'd find Moonshine and Shappy (two good spoken word guys) mopping the floor or tending the bar. There's a Walt Whitman Lite Brite behind the stage, tasty organic coffee and tarts out near the front ... and halfway decent poetry acts at least half the time. Whenever a friend was coming in from out of town, I'd tell them to hit the Bowery Poetry Club.
Unfortunately, it's closing down. A restaurant will probably replace the club, though there is some word that the restaurant will continue to host poetry events. Bob Holman sent out an encouraging message earlier today:
The rumors of the death of the Bowery Poetry Club are greatly exaggerated!! It is true that ten years into Project Utopia, the hamster-tail chase of booking 30-35 gigs a week to allow the Poetry we know and love to live has produced a fatigued staff, a ragged Board (of Bowery Arts + Science, the nonprofit that books the Club), and a space that's crying out for a dose TLC. But toss in the Po' Towel? No Way, Joe! By spending the summer renovating and working out a partnership with a restaurant (rumors of Duane Park as our collaborators are sweet and the two entities surely do share a love for the populist arts of the Bowery, but nothing is signed yet folks), we hope to reopen come fall and be SUSTAINABLE with a neighborhood (Loisaida/Earth) focused poetry schedule, utilizing other neighborhood resources as well as the Club. Look for a fuller deployment of the POEMobile around town, state, country, solar system, and a commitment to a global poetics rooted in the Endangered Language Movement. To the communit-y/-ies who have supported us, and to our staff, deepest thanks! Stay tuned -- we love you. Come party with Sean T and Ann and all on Tues July 17. Everything is Subject to Change! -- and for our Tenth Anniversary next year, the BPC will look different. To survive and sustain. All the better to serve the world poetry.
In other words, Holman says we don't need to worry about poetry in New York City ... and from what I know of the strong slam poetry community in New York City, we definitely don't need to worry about it. It's good news that the Bowery Poetry Club organization will continue to be active, and I'm sure they'll keep it hopping on the Lower East Side.
1. What do we learn from Rub Out the Words: The Letters of William S. Burroughs 1959-1974, the second volume of letters edited by Beat Generation archivist and expert Bill Morgan? We learn that Burroughs' obsession with literary splicing and combining possessed many of his thoughts; he writes about the cut-up method constantly, to everybody. We learn that he was polite to his parents and warmly paternal to and concerned about his son Billy. We learn that he had a calm demeanor but a cutting temper, that he couldn't stand Timothy Leary but was considerate enough to offer support when Leary was arrested, that he really hated Truman Capote (and never offered Capote any support), that he had great regard for Barney Rosset of Grove Press, and none for Maurice Girodias of Olympia Press (the primary difference seemed to be that Rosset always paid Burroughs the money he owed him, and Girodias never did). Overall, this collection of letters doesn't much change my understanding of William S. Burroughs, but is worthwhile for the pleasure of spending time in the company of this erudite and broadly original brutalist/postmodernist. Especially when Burroughs paraphrases Shakespeare, as in this quip about Herbert Huncke's imdomitable sneakiness: "he is not only a junkie but a thief, strong both against the deed in the words of the immortal bard the raven himself is harsh who croaks the fatal entrance of Huncke."
It's getting to be around that time in December when I put up a wrap-up post and disappear for a week or two.
I stopped by the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City recently, and was once again energized (a visit always helps) by the spirit in that eclectic room. You know, some people have asked why I claim to be interested in poetry when I don't follow the lit journal/academic/prize scene at all. Well, the spoken word scene is quiet but very much alive. The poems are still good, the talent keeps renewing itself, and the format still works. I guess the reason I keep this Action Poetry thing still rolling on this site (it's been around since early 2001) is to try to capture some of that spoken word spirit here on this blog. Which is why I'm happy to announce the launch, on Thursday morning, of this year's Action Poetry Randomized Wrap-up. One poem per click, all the poems you can want (from the best ones posted this year), just like we always do at this time.
I reach the closing days of 2010 in a reflective mood; not exactly satisfied, not suffering either. Let's just say I feel optimistic about the year ahead. Here on Litkicks, I'm looking forward to continuing my weekend excursions into philosophy (and politics, psychology, sociology, religion, ethics and history). I'm also looking forward to continuing to work with the excellent gang of Litkicks contributors (you can see 8 of our best names in the "By Author" panel in the right sidebar, in case you haven't noticed) who will certainly help me stay on top of the literary news of the day in 2011. I'm always looking for new contributors, too, so get in touch if you'd like to be a part of Litkicks 2011.
I'm in a rush and don't have time to stir up my usual bucket of snarky literary muck today, but here are a few real quick links before I blow this popsicle stand and catch you in the new year.
1. My oldest daughter showed me this New York Times Book Review feature about what people read on the subway and said "don't you think it's cute?". Yeah, I said, and it was also cute two years ago when I thought of it first.
1. This rather remarkable painting, titled Hansel and Gretel, was painted by Zelda Fitzgerald in 1947.
2. Speaking of difficult literary ex-wives: earlier this year I wrote an article about T. S. Eliot's Possum's Book of Practical Cats and the Broadway show Cats in which I suggested that the authors must have invented the character of Grizabella to represent Vivienne Eliot, the great poet and critic's first wife, whose life ended in a quiet mental institution. A strongly-worded comment has been posted to my blog article by an anonymous person who appears to be familiar with the T. S. Eliot estate. This person agrees with my conjecture about Grizabella, and points out that a controversy remains over the Eliot estate's attitude towards Vivienne Eliot's legacy. If you're interested in this topic, please read the long comment by "Coerulescent" and judge for yourself.
3. The Moth, an excellent literary storytelling revue, wanted to hear stories about "transformations". I don't think they could have chosen a much better participant for this challenge than Laura Albert, who delivered a moving piece about becoming and unbecoming J. T. Leroy, and about the ridiculous hassles that followed her "exposure". I'm proud to say I stood by Laura even when few others did. Congrats to Laura for finding her way back as a writer; watch the video!
Every serious poet should get heckled now and then. It helps to cut through the deadly pretension and solipsism of the form. Here's a helpful guide to the joyful art, from a master who's put in his time on both sides of the heckle.
1. In between making videos for LitKicks and arguing with me about Roman Polanski, Jamelah Earle asked me to write a piece commemorating the 1000th front page feature for the wonderful "tribal photography" website Utata. I was honored to do so. I am not much of a photographer myself, but I recommend this vibrant and friendly community to anybody who is.
2. New York spoken word poet Lemon Anderson, who you might have caught if you ever watched Def Poetry Jam, is starring in his own autobiographical play at the Public Theater, County of Kings. This play is a Spike Lee joint.
3. My buddy and former co-author Christian Crumlish has just published his latest book: Designing Social Interfaces. This book is an O'Reilly joint.
4. Blues expert and ethnomusicologist Sam Charters has a new book, A Language of Song: Journeys in the Musical World of the African Diaspora, and describes how he helped unearth the recordings of Robert Johnson recently on the New York Times Paper Cuts blog. When Sam Charters talks about music, listen.
5. Fictionaut is a beautifully designed online writing community, just out of beta. Let's see where this one goes.
6. Naked poets in Canada.
7. Vol 1 Brooklyn presents Battle of the New York Nerds.
8. Simon Owens on xkcd and what newspaper cartoonists can learn from web comics.
9. Wrestling poems. I don't really get it, but maybe John Irving would.
10. "And there's one kind favor I'll ask of you
and there's one kind favor I'll ask of you
and there's one kind favor I'll ask of you ...
See that my grave is running Solaris."
It can't be easy for a poet to follow President Barack Obama's inaugural speech, but I thought Elizabeth Alexander delivered the goods.
Praise Song For the Day
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."
Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.
The 'praise song' is a spiritual tradition with roots in both contemporary Christian worship music and spoken-word poetry (I heard my first 'praise poems' from Bob Holman at the Bowery Poetry Club). It seems to be a good fit for the mood of this day.
I wonder if younger people (like my own children) who watched this celebration can fully understand how different this inauguration was from any that has come before. It's hard to say whether the joyous, almost Woodstock-like mood is more about Barack Obama's arrival or about George W. Bush's exit. Either way, the phrase "win-win" seems to fit. Praise for the day, indeed.
Last Friday I "storytelled" at a Brooklyn storytelling event. The assigned theme was "gift". Here's a reasonable facsimile of what I said.
I began by describing the irony that I'd been asked to tell a story about gifts, because I hate gifts. I always seem to screw them up, both the giving and the getting. However (I explained to this patient crowd of North Brooklyn hipsters) I came up with three mini-stories about gifts, each of which portray a lesson I have had to learn in my life.
The first story was when I was 8 years old, about to turn 9. My parents had just gotten divorced and so I told them both separately what I wanted for my birthday: a big build-it-yourself dinosaur model that was advertised in the back of one of my comic books. The thing would supposedly be six feet tall when fully constructed, and even though I couldn't quite figure out what it was made of or how realistic it would look, I could tell it was pretty cool, and I wanted it for my birthday.
On the morning of that birthday, I woke up at 4 am, and there was a giant cardboard box on my bed containing the dinosaur. I immediately tore into the box and started putting it together. It turned out the bones were made of molded styrofoam, and they were fairly realistic. However, it was hard to put together and I quickly changed my plan and fell back asleep with the bones all over my bed. And then in the morning I think my Mom was disappointed because she had wanted to watch me open it. Oh well.
The funny thing is, it was only many years later that I thought back to this and wondered how hard my Mom or my Dad (I never actually figured out which one acquired the dinosaur) had had to work to get the present. Did they actually clip out the comic book ad and send in a check or money order, and if so, how had I not noticed the clipping missing from a comic book? Did one of them buy their own copy of the comic book? Where had they hid the box? And which one of them paid for it, and did they have to fight over which one of them paid for it? So many questions, but none of them entered my mind on my ninth birthday. This present involved two parties, and two parties alone: me and the dinosaur.
So, the first life lesson I learned is, gifts are not between you and the gift. They are between you and the giver. Important thing to remember.
The second story takes place about fourteen years later when I was in my early 20s just out of college, and my old Albany State buddy Russ Miller called me and told me he was going to be in Manhattan for just a few hours, flying in to Kennedy, catching a bus at Port Authority, did I want to hang out? Since he and I were both music freaks, we agreed to meet in Greenwich Village and look at record stores. We went to Bleecker Bob's and I was admiring a John Lennon album I wanted to own when Russ suddenly said "Hey, I'll buy it for you."
Now, after graduating college Russ had become an accountant and was definitely a yuppie. He was also definitely making more money than I was as an entry-level computer programmer, so even though I thought this was a very nice gesture, I thought it was maybe a bit show-offy too. But I let him buy me the album. We had a nice chat for a couple of hours and then he took the subway up to Port Authority to catch his bus. It was a nice summer day so I wanted to wander around Washington Square, Macdougal Street, Bleecker Street, St. Marks, Tompkins Square. The only problem was, it was a hot day and I was carrying around this big record album. I didn't want to carry anything, and it was annoying me.
So then I did something sort of strange. I ditched the album. I just left it by a garbage can, and I hope somebody picked it up and liked it. I went on my merry way and had a nice long stroll all over Greenwich Village.
So, the second lesson is: every time somebody wants to give you a gift, it's not necessarily something you want to own.
The third story is the shortest. Not too long ago my wife Caryn surprised me by buying me a banjo for my birthday. This was a very nice gift, especially because I had only hinted very subtly and very few times that I would like to someday learn to play banjo. It was also a very selfless gift, because Caryn was basically guaranteeing that she was going to have to listen to me learning to play banjo.
It was in thinking about this that the third lesson occurred to me: gifts are a language. Every gift is an expression. A gift can be a question, and a gift can be an answer. A gift can be a joke. It can be a hint, an exclamation, an explanation. A gift can be a promise, an apology, a warning, a confession, an invitation. It can be a revelation of a secret. It can be a reminiscence of a past time. It can be an expression of hope for the future.
(That was pretty much all I said. The event was a lot of fun, and also featured some kickass country music by Alana Amram and her Rough Gems, a twitter story by Tao Lin, and solid hosting by Jena Friedman and Jay Diamond. There's going to be one more LitKicks post tomorrow, and then we're going to put up some of the best of the year's Action Poetry and close the blog till 2009. Finally, just for fun and while we're on the gifts tip, here's a nice version, found on YouTube, of "All Good Gifts" from Godspell by an outfit that calls itself KPHS.)
The best poetry slam I've been to this year was in a room full of Alzheimer's patients at the East 80th Street Residence in New York City.
I sat in a circle with more than twenty senior citizens, all of them suffering from moderate to severe memory loss and other symptoms of Alzheimer's or Alzheimer's-related disease, watching spoken-word poet and author Gary Mex Glazner work the crowd. Before beginning, he walked the circle, looking deeply into the eyes of each attendee and clasping their hands. Then he started in with the poems -- all of them classics, designed to burrow deep in the memories of the bemused listeners, who responded at surprising moments.
"Tyger, Tyger --" Glazner began.
"Burning bright", a man in the back shouted out. They remember William Blake at the Assisted Living Care center on the Upper East Side, and they also remember William Shakespeare, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Edgar Allan Poe and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. That's really the whole concept: victims of Alzheimer's disease might not remember what they've done four hours ago, but they remember classic poetry, and anybody who doubts how much this might mean to them only has to sit in this circle and watch each person's eager, satisfied response.
Maybe I'd come here because I remember my Grandma Jeannette's painful struggles with Alzheimer's-related syndrome. When Glazner (a longtime friend of LitKicks who can otherwise be found hosting shows at the Bowery Poetry Club or writing books for Soft Skull about living the poet's life) told me about his latest activity, I had to go see a session for myself.
Like any good slam poet, Glazner doesn't work in isolation; he'd brought a gang of eager young poets from Study Abroad on Bowery's "Summer Institute of Social Justice and Applied Poetics" to work this room with him, turning the session into an encounter between multiple generations. The visiting poets read some of their own work and helped keep the "call and response" going, encouraging the sometimes confused patients to repeat, respond to and cherish each individual line they heard. Cherish they did.
At the end of the 45-minute session, Glazner said we would all write our own group poem, then asked each attendee to name "the most beautiful thing you can think of". "My child's face" won by a longshot, and we never even got to hear the assembled group poem, but it didn't matter.
The Alzheimer's Poetry Project is a growing movement -- you can find more information about it here.
1. The Beat Poetry Happy Hour will take place at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City this Thursday, April 17 from 6:30 to 7:30 pm, featuring Tao Lin, Zachary German, Clarissa Beyah Taylor, Larissa Shmailo, Joy Leftow and, of all people, me playing bongo drums. How, you may wonder, did I end up playing bongo drums? Well, it has something to do with a recent Bowery Poetry Club Beat Poetry Happy Hour I attended. A drummer was struggling a bit onstage, and I casually sauntered over to host George Wallace and said "I can play bongo drums better than this guy."
I meant it in a sort of smart-ass generic way, the way I might also say, for instance, "My mother can pitch relief better than Aaron Heilman". The actual truth, though, is that my mother can't pitch relief better than Aaron Heilman. The actual truth is also that I don't know how to play bongo drums. However, George took me literally and signed me up, so I will fake it as best as I can this Thursday. I will also shout out a poem or two, and if you are anywhere near downtown New York this Thursday at 6:30 I really hope you'll come by. I guarantee it will be fun.