For the Modern Bracket, Scarriet found a number of sex poems in the underground anthology New American Poetry (Grove Press 1960), on its cover called an “Evergreen original”—a publication seeking to capitalize on the fame of the Beats—primarily due to the 1957 obscenity trial of “Howl” published in 1956 and the corresponding success of On The Road (1957). 1959 saw a big spread on the Beats in Life magazine. The Evergreen review, which published erotic art, as well as the writings of Bukowski, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Samuel Beckett, William S. Burroughs (Naked Lunch 1959), Frank O’Hara, and Norman Mailer, was founded by the publisher of Grove Press in the late 50s.
New American Poetry was naturally intended to be a school textbook (follow the money). Grove Press chose not to make it a Beat anthology, even though Ginsberg was a consultant. Most poets (organized in the book loosely by poetry movement or geography) appearing in NAP had, until then, only self-published.
The Beats don’t appear until pg. 168—the beginning of the book is given over to obscure poetry more academic-sounding—“A Poem Beginning With A Line By Pindar” by Robert Duncan, for instance. “Variations Done For Gerald Van De Wiele” by Charles Olson. Grove Press wasn’t taking any chances. The work did become a school textbook.
THE THIRD DIMENSION
Denise Levertov (d 1997)
Who’d believe me if
I said, ‘They took and
split me open from
scalp to crotch, and
still I’m alive, and
walk around pleased with
the sun and all
the world’s bounty.’ Honesty
isn’t so simple:
a simple honesty is
nothing but a lie.
Don’t the trees
hide the wind between
their leaves and
speak in whispers?
The third dimension
hides itself.
If the roadmen
crack stones, the
stones are stones:
but love
cracked me open
and I’m
alive to
tell the tale—but not
honestly:
the words
change it. Let it be —
here in the sweet sun
— a fiction, while I
breathe and
change pace.
THE ONCE-OVER
Paul Blackburn (d 1971)
The tanned blonde
in the green print sack
in the center of the subway car
standing
though there are seats
has had it from
1 teen-age hood
1 lesbian
1 envious housewife
4 men over fifty
(& myself), in short
the contents of this half of the car
Our notations are:
long legs, long waist, high breasts (no bra), long
neck, the model slump
the handbag drape and how the skirt
cuts in under a very handsome
set of cheeks
‘stirring dull roots with spring rain’ sayeth the preacher
Only a stolid young man
with a blue business suit and the New York Times
does not know he is being assaulted
So.
She has us and we her
all the way to downtown Brooklyn
Over the tunnel and through the bridge
to DeKalb Avenue we go
all very chummy
She stares at the number over the door
and gives no sign
yet the sign is on her
THE WAY
Robert Creeley (d 2005)
My love’s manners in bed
are not to be discussed by me,
as mine by her
I would not credit comment upon gracefully.
But I ride by that margin of the lake in
the wood, the castle;
and have a small boy’s notion of doing good.
Oh well, I will say here,
knowing each man,
let you find a good wife too,
and love her as hard as you can.
THE SHROUDED STRANGER
Allen Ginsberg (d 1997)
Bare skin is my wrinkled sack
When hot Apollo humps my back
When Jack Frost grabs me in these rags
I wrap my legs with burlap bags
My flesh is cinder my face is snow
I walk the railroad to and fro
When the city streets are black and dead
The railroad embankment is my bed
I sup my soup from old tin cans
And take my sweets from little hands
In Tiger Alley near the jail
I steal away from the garbage pail
In darkest night where none can see
Down in the bowels of the factory
I sneak barefoot upon stone
Come and hear the old man groan
I hide and wait like a naked child
Under the bridge my heart goes wild
I scream at a fire on the river bank
I give my body to an old gas tank
I dream that I have burning hair
Boiled arms that claw the air
The torso of an iron king
And on my back a broken wing
Who’ll go out whoring into the night
On the eyeless road in the skinny moonlight
Maid or dowd or athlete proud
May wanton with me in the shroud
Who’ll come lay down in the dark with me
Belly to belly and knee to knee
Who’ll look into my hooded eye
Who’ll lay down under my darkened thigh?
Here is sexuality as portrayed by the mid-20th century American poets.
Notice the furtive, reticent, clandestine approach.
The “outsider,” New American Poetry, poets are obeying a moral code—even if they don’t consider themselves very moral. They are not “spreading their wings” like Lord Byron, or John Keats, or even William Wordsworth.
Poetry is social—not free. And less free, because (and this is more germane for these 20th century poets) successful poetry is always successful (at least superficially) because it is taught in school. This is not a knock against school—merely an observation.
Levertov announces right at the beginning that what she says won’t be believed—and she never comes out and says exactly what it is she’s talking about. Is it a great poem or a boring poem? It’s hard to tell.
Blackburn’s poem is entitled “once-over,” a term meaning scrutiny or examination which is secretive, or swift—a perfect description of edgy, modern poetry; like Levertov, Blackburn is acutely aware of poetry’s limits; unlike Levertov, he’s visual and factual, but he still falls prey to what he hunts—“once-over” poetry. The “sign” at the end indicates a sad, public, mean, phobic, world. There’s no joy here. This isn’t Germanic melancholy. This is hardcore claustrophobia, depression, estrangement—during the “boom” of the freest, richest country in history. Oh the price of being an “outsider.” Or a poet who strives to reflect “once-over modernity,” a lynx-eye victim of both everything and nothing.
Creeley, too, can’t say too much: “My love’s manners in bed/are not to be discussed by me.” The final “love her as hard as you can” sounds just the right note of ‘I accept my imprisoned desperation’—ferocity which knows it will never escape, a poem too cool to say much else, a frank plea for joy in a poem otherwise joyless. The poem “wins” on a certain reticent level—the best this kind of short, confessional, ‘guy-poetry’ can do. It’s rueful and snide—or glorious, depending on how you’re feeling at the moment.
Ginsberg is active in the extreme compared to the first three poets from New American Poetry (almost a 19th century throw-back) and yet he reigns himself in—the question, “Who’ll go out whoring into the night” rather than the affirmation, makes the poem seem less adventurous. Ginsberg is finally a harmless “child,” a victim, shrouded.
Does this final stanza from Ginsberg’s poem sound like street-smart, modern poetry?
Who’ll come lay down in the dark with me
Belly to belly and knee to knee
Who’ll look into my hooded eye
Who’ll lay down under my darkened thigh?
Was Ginsberg street-smart?
Or was he just a Man of Letters who liked the Romantic poets, when all is said and done.
Marla Muse would like to add something.
MM: Mr. Scarriet, interesting, as usual. I think you’re being a little hard on these poets. They are obviously sensitive and intelligent and they meet the challenge—how to be honest about sex? The poets need to get published, so they can’t write about sex, even though they are dying to write about sex; but it’s easier when you’re a lyric poet and do not use many words—your audience may not notice you really have nothing to say about sex. I don’t mean ‘fearing to be obscene’ necessarily. One might have nothing to say that’s witty or profound on the subject. The poets looking to get into the schools were inhibited in this regard—what about pop stars from that era? I remember a story about John Lennon, the regular-guy John of the Beatles before he met Yoko and became a skinny tea-drinker; it was 1965 or 1966 at some event where Allen Ginsberg stripped naked and John objected, because women were present. “The birds, Allen!” Lennon, too, couldn’t write about sex with the Beatles. “I Am The Walrus” is obscure poetry speaking on it, maybe, who knows? and Ginsberg and Poe both make an appearance. Ginsberg is the “elementary penguin.”
I am he as you are he as you are me
And we are all together
See how they run like pigs from a gun
See how they fly
I’m crying
Sitting on a corn flake
Waiting for the van to come
Corporation T-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday
Man you’ve been a naughty boy
You let your face grow long
I am the egg man
They are the egg men
I am the walrus
Goo goo g’joob
Mister City policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row
See how they fly like Lucy in the sky, see how they run
I’m crying, I’m crying
I’m crying, I’m crying
Yellow matter custard
Dripping from a dead dog’s eye
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down
I am the egg man
They are the egg men
I am the walrus
Goo goo g’joob
Sitting in an English garden
Waiting for the sun
If the sun don’t come you get a tan
From standing in the English rain
I am the egg man (now good sir)
They are the egg men (a poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows)
I am the walrus
Goo goo g’joob, goo goo goo g’joob (good pity)
Expert, texpert choking smokers
Don’t you think the joker laughs at you (ho ho ho, hee hee hee, hah hah hah)
See how they smile like pigs in a sty, see how they snide
I’m crying
Semolina Pilchard
Climbing up the Eiffel tower
Elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna
Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe
I am the egg man
They are the egg men
I am the walrus
Goo goo g’joob, goo goo goo g’joob
Goo goo g’joob, goo goo goo g’joob, goo
Joob, joob, jooba
Jooba, jooba, jooba
Joob, jooba
Joob, jooba
Umpa, umpa, stick it up your jumper (jooba, jooba)
Umpa, umpa, stick it up your jumper
Everybody’s got one (umpa, umpa)
Everybody’s got one (stick it up your jumper)
Everybody’s got one (umpa, umpa)
Everybody’s got one (stick it up your jumper)
Everybody’s got one (umpa, umpa)
Everybody’s got one (stick it up your jumper)
Everybody’s got one (umpa, umpa)
Everybody’s got one (stick it up your jumper)
Everybody’s got one (umpa, umpa)
Everybody’s got one (stick it up your jumper)
Everybody’s got one (umpa, umpa)
Slave
Thou hast slain me
Villain, take my purse
If I ever
Bury my body
The letters which though find’st about me
To Edmund Earl of Gloucester
Seek him out upon the British Party
O untimely death
I know thee well
A serviceable villain, as duteous to the vices of thy mistress
As badness would desire
What, is is he dead?
Sit you down, Father, rest you
March Madness
Colombo, Sri Lanka