There are places in this world that are word places. They inspire us to words, they remind us of words, they provide us with words. City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco is one such place. A few days ago I visited there and climbed to the top of these very stairs. What I found was, indeed, poetry. Shelf upon shelf of the stuff.
Poetry can be a scary place. The lines don't look right. The rhythm doesn't feel right. There is no punctuation where we expect it to be, and then suddenly-wham!-there is a mark of startling urgency. We want it to rhyme, and then when it does, we accuse it of being trite.
In many ways modern American poetry got a gigantic kick in the butt at the top of these stairs when Allen Ginsberg took on 1956 conservative, post-war America and threw it back in its face in one long gulp of a howl, first published by the two men who owned this same bookstore.
In case you were wondering, the 60's ain't over, my friend, because just last week
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz....
(read the rest of "Howl" at http://www.pangloss.com/seidel/Ramble/howl_text.html)
A short walk down Venice Beach and I was right there with Ginsberg, only instead of rushing to pen a celebratory anthem I was moved to moan a funeral dirge, mourning the hollow eyes and hollow lives lining that sunny sidewalk.
But, glorious world that it is, if you keep putting one foot in front of the other, a few short steps away, under the very same sun, you see a Mexican family doing their Christmas Eve laundry together in a laundromat, a mother from Ireland who crossed the Atlantic to help her son get settled into his new American job, two elegant, friendly ladies who, when asked about Christmas Eve services, laughingly refer to their Jewish heritage, then give directions to the nearest church. You gather into a rosy warm Italian restaurant packed with laughter and conversation and you talk to Ariel from Argentina, a young man with a dream who wants to get it on film.
In short, at the top of those stairs, on those very same shelves,
Always there is something worth saying
about glory, about gratitude.
Mockingbird by Mary Oliver
I am grateful for the words. Yes. For all of them.
It's a new year. Glad we are still able to type and see and hold a pen and have glorious ideas and even terrible ones that turn into something else that's much better. Here's a dry toast to the things that enable the writing that we most often take for granted.Blessings friend. We need a day at B and N.
ReplyDeleteP-squared,
ReplyDeleteGot out of your box did ya? Very inspired writing. I have another writer friend who has adventure problems; he won't get out of the house and look for adventure. It's everywhere! Portia Pennington....Allen Ginsburg....wow!