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the
current
Monday
Report
below!
This week's report by Gary Peterson
HOWLellujah!
EDITOR's NOTE: This week’s Monday Report features San
Francisco street poet Gary Peterson. Coupled with last
week's report by Gerald Nicosia, it brings us two
perspectives on a story that almost slipped through the
cracks. In October 2005 there were two different tributes
in honor of the 50th anniversary of the publication of Allen
Ginsberg’s poem “Howl”. Which one did the ULA’s Christopher
Robin attend? Which one did the lit-snobs attend? Read on
to find out...
"No he, no me."- Dizzy Gillespie on Louis Armstrong
The 50th Anniversary reading of Allen Ginsberg's seminal
American poem, "Howl Goes Golden" held at the Main San
Francisco Public Library on Sunday, Oct. 2, Mahatma Gandhi’s
136th birthday, two days after the 50 year anniversary of James
Dean's demise, was an absolutely stellar event. It has taken me four
days to write a single word about the poetry STOMP to end all
poetry stomps where female beatnik and post beatnik poets finally
ruled (they stole the show!) with the exception of David Meltzer,
whose jazz duo backed reading of "Red Shoes" and "Brother," had
the capacity plus audience eating out of his holy hands.
That's not to say the guys were bad; they were just overwhelmed by
subtle feminine power. SF Mayor in exile, Matt Gonzales, began the
proceedings by making the audience wish he had been elected (and
probably was, again) by essaying the history of little art galleries in
SF and how the artists who tirelessly maintained them opened the
portals for the beat poets. "Howl," was originally read on Oct 7, 1955
at the Six Gallery, serendipitously, given the closeness of the Dean
anniversary, a former converted car repair shop. Ginsberg, Philip
Lamantia, Philip Whalen, Michael McClure and Gary Snyder read.
Ginsberg ultimately stole that show but the others were and are
Gods of the spoken word. Jack Kerouac famously attended the
reading only to lie on the floor drinking red wine and intermittently
rising up to yell "go, go, go" as the others read. The program began
with a recreation of the reading, recorded later, unannounced and
spell binding. It continued with a roster so dynamic it still takes my
breath away. Herbert Gold, the great SF novelist, read. Oddly only
two days before, another homeless man told me on thestreet how he
had once encountered the legendary scribe and Gold was surprised
that he knew who he was. Everyone knew who the author of over two
dozen novels was after he spoke. He topped his incredible
reminiscences of Ginsberg ("Al and I were friends and sometimes
adversaries...") by singing a song Allen sang
to him once, accompanied by his ever present harmonium, in a
Paris restaurant: “Eat when you eat," the author of numerous poems
as well, sang, stunning the audience to silence. “drink when you
drink, fuck when you fuck, die when you die.” A pure Ginsbergian
moment. So many followed, so much was said. Three survivors of
the original reading, one of whom just showed up in the audience
recalled their experiences: "I was the only academic who actually
liked the poem,” one recalled. "By the time I heard 'Howl,' nothing
could prepare me for it...they chopped up the piano that night."
"I would like to say Allen was nothing before he met me," another
joked, "but I won't. Later, I stood outside my office and read it to
students. Howl was an improvised explosive device."
Diane di Prima was suddenly mentioned and the women appeared.
Nicole Henares, a San Francisco High School English teacher read
“That Tuesday Night in North Beach,” a four part piece about
September 11th. In her bare feet, Jessica Loos, who's worked with
the Living Theater, performed with Cecil Taylor and teaches at the
Academy of Arts College, eclipsed everyone in a few brief
unforgettable moments reading her "Ravens of Juneau,"
accompanied simply by a tambourine and her remarkable female
Jim Morrison in Van Morrison's always-about-to-explode-body-
performance. A true method poet. I did not muster the nerve to even
approach her for an interview after the program.
If intensity has a name, it is hers. Stunning, showstopper. Probably
not coming out of character for days. They were all so good. I'm
ashamed not to give space to each and everyone, but I cannot. The
great Charles Mingus was recalled on bass at many a beat reading.
Gary Snyder's legendary letter to Philip Whalen telling him to come
to the reading..."it's gonna be a poetic bombshell," was
remembered, Snyder not present due to his wife's severe illness.
McClure did not appear, the other surviving poet, saving himself
for the city of SF's official "Howl" event with its $100 yuppie ticket
price (poor seats for the poor at $20 a head) and Jerry Brown (?????)
reading on Oct. 7.
I'm sorry Peter Coyote had to cancel. But his replacements were
amazing, all. Hosts of the event, Gerald Nicosia, Kerouac
Biographer who wrote “Memory Babe,” and Ginsberg biographer
and Sonoma State Professor Jonah Raskin were wonderful,
especially Raskin (go, go, go professor! and I loved your book being
bedridden with it last October). I didn't catch all their names and I
apologize for any errors in my story. Blame my voluminous notes.
The former Minister of Culture of Nicaragua, Daisy Zamora read a
section. Scene stealer and a real Sandinista!
Neal and Carolyn's middle daughter, who fessed she's just recently
read "On the Road" and had "never written anything" was a
charmer. "I was a little girl...6.'"The 'secret hero of this poem, NC’
would have been proud. Then the moment came in all its mounting
intensity.
"Fred, watch out," as Meltzer had intoned, before
dancing off the stage.
"Howl for Carl Solomon...I have seen the best minds
of my generation..."
On and on, each section building in intensity until
the transcendental ending:
"Holy, holy, holy,
the world is holy
the skin is holy,
...everything is holy,
...holy the groaning saxophone,
the solitude of skyscrapers...''
The readers, the musicians, the poem itself took flight catching "the
better angels of ourselves..."
"...holy the crazy shepherds of rebellion...
"the clocks in space, the fourth dimension, holy, holy Kerouac, holy
Ginsberg...holy, holy, holy Allen..." Howlellujah! No one yelled
"go, go, go." We were all too mesmerized. But I did ask David
Meltzer if I could "please" be him when I grow up.
………………………………………………………………………
Gary Peterson is a veteran journalist and certified teacher
currently serving a stint as a homeless poet in San Francisco, CA.
He writes poems because they keep walking up to him and asking
him to. His book in the works, "100 Homeless Poems," is edited by
Robert Borden, who used to be one of his reporters at an alternative
paper, is his second ex-wife's first ex-husband and the author of
"Meat Dreams," City Lights Books.
………………………………………………………………………
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