(Revised and expanded here, this piece originated as an oral essay for an installment of the Cosmoetica Omniversica internet radio series on the arts and sciences. The series was hosted by Dan Schneider and Art Durkee.)

More or less officially unveiled with the first New York appearance of the Ornette Coleman Quartet at the Five Spot Café in the fall of 1959, free jazz (or new black music, space music, new thing, anti-jazz or abstract jazz as it would variously be labeled), gave new dimension to the perennial “where’s the melody?” complaint against jazz.

For most of the uninitiated, what the Coleman group presented on its opening night was in fact sheer cacophony.

Four musicians (a saxophonist, trumpeter, bassist and drummer) abruptly began to play—with an apoplectic intensity and at a bone-rattling volume—four simultaneous solos that had no perceptible shared references or point of departure. Even unto themselves the solos, to the extent that they could be isolated as such in the density of sound that was being produced, were without any fixed melodic or rhythmic structure. Consisting, by turns, of short, jagged bursts and long meandering lines unmindful of bar divisions and chorus measures they were, moreover, laced with squeaks, squeals, bleats and strident honks. A number ended and another began—or was it the same one again? How were you to tell? No. No way this madness could possibly have a method.

But umbilically connected to the emergent black cultural nationalism movement, the madness did indeed have a method. The avowed objective of the dramatic innovations that musicians like Ornette, Cecil Taylor—and, in their footsteps, Sunny Murray, Andrew Cyrille, Archie Shepp, Bill Dixon, Albert Ayler, Jimmy Lyons, Eric Dolphy and (the later period) John Coltrane, among hundreds of others—initiated and practiced from the late ‘50s into the early ‘70s, was to restore black music to its original identity as a medium of spiritual utility. When these men abandoned an adherence to chord progressions, the 32-bar song form, the fixed beat and the soloist/accompanist format, and began to employ, among other things, simultaneous improvisations, fragmented tempos and voice-like timbres, they were very deliberately replacing, with ancient black methodologies, those Western concepts and systems that had, by their lights, worked to subvert and reduce black music in America to either a pop music or (for many of them no less a corruption of what black music was supposed to be) an art form.

Alan Silva, a one-time bassist with Cecil Taylor and then the leader of his own thirteen-piece orchestra, made the point in an interview I did with him for Rolling Stone.

“I don’t want to make music that sounds nice,” Silva told me. “I want to make music that opens the possibility of real spiritual communion between people. There’s a flow coming from every individual, a continuous flow of energy coming from the subconscious level. The idea is to tap that energy through the medium of improvised sound. I do supply the band with notes, motifs and sounds to give it a lift-off point. I also direct the band, though not in any conventional way—like I might suddenly say ‘CHORD!’ But essentially I’m dealing with improvisation as the prime force, not the tune. The thing is, if you put thirteen musicians together and they all play at once, eventually a cohesion, an order, will be reached, and it will be on a transcendent plane.”

(I commented in the interview that “Silva says his band wants to commune with the spirit world and you aren’t sure that it doesn’t. With thirteen musicians soloing at the same time, at extraordinary decibel levels, astonishingly rapid speeds and with complete emotional abandon for more than an hour, the band arrives not only at moments of excruciating beauty, but at sounds that rising in ecstatic rushes and waves and becoming almost visible in the mesmerizing intensity, weight and force of their vibrations, do for sure seem to be flushing weird, spectral things from the walls, from the ceiling, from your head.”)

Of course not all of these musicians shared Silva’s position entirely. Some saw the music as an intimidating political weapon in the battle for civil rights and exploited it as such. Others, like Taylor, did and quite emphatically, regard themselves as artists. For Taylor, a pianist and composer who took what he needed not just from Ellington and Monk, but from Stravinsky, Ives and Bartók, it wasn’t about jettisoning Western influences on jazz, but about absorbing them into a specifically black esthetic.

For the most part, however, disparities among the younger musicians of the period amounted to dialects of the same language. All of them shared the “new black consciousness”—a new pride in being black—and their reconstruction of jazz, their purging of its Western elements, or their assertion of black authority over those elements, was, to one degree or another, intended to revive and reinstate the music’s first purpose.

Silva saw broad extra-musical ramifications in his procedures. He believed that by rejecting all externally imposed constraints the inherent goodness in men would surface and enable them to function in absolute harmony with both nature and each other. “Man,” he said to me once, coming off an especially electrifying set. “In another ten years we won’t even need traffic lights we’re gonna be so spiritually tuned to one another.”

And I have to say that I agreed with him.

This was, after all, a period in history when “restrictions” of every conceivable kind, from binding social and sexual mores to (with the moon shot) the very law of gravity, were successfully being challenged. And if you were regularly visiting Timothy Leary’s “atomic” level of consciousness, and if you could call a girl you’d been set up with on a blind date and she might say, “Let’s ‘ball’ first and then I’ll see if I want to have dinner with you,” you could be forgiven your certainty that nothing short of a sea change in human nature itself was taking place.

And some of us who regarded Western values as both the cause of all ill (had they not brought us to the brink of annihilation with the hydrogen bomb?), and the principle impediment to such a transformation, saw the new black music as leading the way, as the veritable embodiment of what Herbert Marcuse called “the revolution of unrepression.”

In so heady a time, earnest unself-conscious debates about the relative revolutionary merits of free jazz and rock—the other musical phenomenon of the period—were not uncommon.

I remember a conversation I had with John Sinclair, the Michigan activist, poet and author of Guitar Army (and the co-author, with me, of Music & Politics).

John took the position that rock was the true “music of the revolution.”

No, I argued, rock did stand against the technocratic, Faustian western sensibility. It did, and unabashedly, celebrate the sensual and the mystical. But in these respects it only caught up to where jazz had always been. In contrast to what some of the younger black musicians were up to—the purging of white elements African music had picked up in America—rock was simply the first hip white popular music.

Rock, it was my point, never got beyond expressing the sentiment of revolution while free jazz, by breaking with formal Western disciplines—by going “outside,” as the musicians termed it, of Western procedures and methods and letting the music find its own natural order and form—got to an actualization of what true revolution would be. Rock’s lyrics, I said, promoted, in many instances, the idea of a spiritual revolution, but musically rock remained bound to the very traditions and conventions that its lyrics railed against and the audience never got a demonstration or the experience of authentic spiritual communion. Rock’s lyrics were undermined and attenuated in the very act of their expression by the system used to express them. The new jazz, on the other hand, achieved freedom not just from the purely formal structures of western musical systems, but, implicitly, from the emotional and social ethos in which those structures originated.

As I say, it was a heady time.

Now, of course, free jazz, in anything resembling a pristine form just barely exists, and obviously it has ceased to exist altogether as a revolutionary movement. Like other emblematic movements of the epoch with which it shared the faith that a new kind of human being would surface once all structure and authority that wasn’t internal in origin was rejected, free jazz was ultimately ambushed by its naiveté.

But on purely musical terms free jazz has not been without an ongoing impact. If it never achieved what Alan Silva expected it to, it did (however contrary to its original ambition), expand the vocabulary and the field of options available to mainstream jazz musicians. And while they function today in what are essentially universes of their own, Taylor, Coleman, Murray, Cyrille, Shepp and Dixon are still very much around and continuing to discover the marvelous.

Indeed, stripped though they may be of their mystique as harbingers of an imminent utopia, these extraordinary musicians continue to produce musical miracles as a matter of course. For an always compelling demonstration, try to catch Cecil in one of his live performances—what he would call “exchanges of energy”—with drummers like Tony Oxley.

In a bad time in every department of the culture, a time of rampant—often willful—mediocrity, I could name no better tonic.

Edited remarks on the ‘60s from the interview that followed.

It’s admittedly facile to cast it this way, but you could say that what we mean by the “‘60s” began with the Cuban Missile Crisis and ended with the moon shot—the moon shot and the Yippies failed attempt to levitate the Pentagon and shake out the “demons” that inhabited it.

At bottom the ‘60s were a reaction to the prospect of total annihilation posed by the invention of the hydrogen bomb and they were rooted in the belief that what was wrong, what had brought us to this place, was the denial and suppression of our true selves, of the human beings we were intended to be.

This belief—variously shaped, nourished and focused by a conflation of psychedelic drugs, birth control pills, the popularization of Freudian psychology and Eastern philosophies, glaring racial and gender inequities and a clearly unjustified war in Vietnam—opened virtually every tradition and institution, every custom and convention and every embodiment and instrument of authority, order and structure, to attack. On one level or another everything from the anti-war, civil rights and woman’s rights movements, to the anti-materialism and sexual abandon of the period, to spontaneous prose, rock and free jazz, stemmed from the conviction that somewhere in antiquity humanity had taken the wrong path and that the course could be corrected.

The enemy was the superego, the cultural, social and psychological restraints we’d inflicted on ourselves. Destroying the superego would yield the good human beings we were supposed to be. It was, again as Marcuse described it, a “revolution of unrepression.” We wanted to abolish the apparently arbitrary and misbegotten rules that artificially limited us and led to deluded thinking and behavior. We wanted, ultimately, to abolish the constricting forces of guilt and shame themselves. Guilt and shame were invented by authority, they were trips governments and parents laid on you to keep you in line. We wanted to take an unfettered pride and joy in our bodies. We wanted to be free of the guilt and shame that had crippled and disfigured us.

This is where Jerry Rubin was coming from when he exhorted us to “kill” our parents.

Of course I’m talking about what the ‘60s were in their deepest aspirations. The vanguard figures—like Timothy Leary, Alan Watts, Norman Brown, Allen Ginsberg, Marcuse—envisioned a kind of benign anarchy, a society with no need for governments or police; a society ordered by natural needs, appetites and rhythms and made up of men free of neurosis and in perfect harmony with both nature and other men.

And fueled as it was by the sheer number of people involved (and in what seemed every corner of the culture) I don’t think the sense of utopian possibility we were feeling could possibly be exaggerated. Certainly the intensity of the psychic fevers we were experiencing in the East Village (which to me was the epicenter) can’t be overstated. In the East Village, and in addition to all manner of radical political activity, there was an amazing pullulation of iconoclastic art in every category—dance, music, theater, poetry, painting. People like Ginsberg, Burroughs, Gregory Corso, Ornette Coleman, Cecil Taylor, Roi Jones (Amiri Baraka), Kate Millet, Yvonne Ranier, Meredith Monk, Ed Sanders and the Fugs (I’m forgetting a couple of dozen other major players) were all living and working within a one-mile radius and feeding, challenging, validating and energizing one another.

But upheavals like this were hardly limited to New York. They were occurring everywhere—San Francisco, Paris, on every college campus and in the smallest towns. And, Jesus, we were going to the fucking moon—successfully breaking the very law of fucking gravity!

So those of us who were sucked into the vortex of the ‘60s can maybe be forgiven the fact that we were failing to recognize something very basic—that we were challenging a reality that was beyond our capacity to fundamentally change. There was, after all, only so far we could go without entering into a void. We could tinker with social, cultural, economic and political systems—make reforms, expand our horizons, achieve more justice—but essentially society already reflected the best we could do.

I mean we didn’t recognize (and I’m standing behind Ernest Becker here) that the very problems we were attempting to overcome—the constraining social and sexual codes, the emotional hang-ups and the destructive tendencies we wanted to jettison—were actually working solutions to our worst and deepest problem, the problem of mortality. (We also didn’t appreciate that guilt and shame weren’t created by society, but were built into our essence, that they were a natural consequence of living under a death sentence.)

We didn’t understand the legitimacy and necessity of repression and delusion. We didn’t understand (I’ve said all this elsewhere, but I think it bears repeating) that as debilitating as repression and delusion were they enabled us to deny and distort certain untenable truths of existence and to make an otherwise intolerable condition somewhat manageable. We didn’t realize that we had no choice, that what made us crazy, stupid and destructive (what, for an obvious example in the current world—and to the objective of transcending death in heaven—has spawned all these suicide bombers and Christian Fundamentalists) was our profound and abiding need to mitigate the terror that the fact of death causes us. We didn’t see that the reality of the human condition required us to be constricted and insane.

Off-the-wall as it sounds, you could say that the hydrogen bomb was invented in order to create, for its inventors at least, a controllable and therefore relatively comforting death locus.

But in our millennial zeal we were oblivious to such things and I think that at the Pentagon and with the Apollo landing, we were secretly expecting some kind of palpable divine ratification, expecting God to show His face and prove us right. That didn’t happen, of course. Our acid visions turned out to have no physical application at the Pentagon. And the moon was only a barren rock—no Kubrickian monolith buried there to give blessing to the project. It was disappointments like these, disappointments equal in their size to the size of our ambition, that took the heart out of the ‘60s.

It wasn’t long afterwards, remember, that mind-expanding drugs began to be replaced—and necessarily—by mood-elevating stimulants like cocaine.

Beyond the moon shot it was just the motor revolving down after it’s been shut off. I mean the ‘60s are commonly judged to have ended when we finally withdrew from Vietnam. But they’d already expired at the foot of the Pentagon and in the deserts of the moon.

Gregory Corso, accompagnato dal bravissimo Ethan Hawke durante le riprese del documentario Corso: The Last Beat, davanti ad una cella nella quale aveva trascorso gran parte della sua gioventù dichiarò di aver ricevuto lì, in quell’angusto e disumano spazio, la sua educazione. L’attaccamento alla vita celebrato dai suoi viscerali e vigorosi versi è in una certa misura figlio di quell’esperienza così determinante, durante la quale ebbe anche luogo il suo primo approccio alla letteratura. Il suo personale percorso di formazione, tanto diverso rispetto agli altri “Daddies” della Beat Generation – tutti avevano compiuto studi regolari – gli fornirà quegli strumenti con i quali darà vita ad una poesia che non suona come tale, che non ha sequenza logica, spesso così poco godibile, incomprensibile, ma sempre capace di veicolare al massimo la vera sostanza del messaggio Beat, fino a spingersi oltre. Gli permetterà di costruire versi giocando con i riferimenti all’arte, alla letteratura, sconfinando nella storia, nell’attualità, nell’immaginario collettivo, nel quotidiano dell’America moderna.

Se in Sulla strada tanti e disseminati lungo il viaggio di Dean e Sal erano presagi e visioni di morte, soltanto in Corso la Morte è il tema centrale di una produzione vastissima. Soltanto in Corso la Morte aleggia con la sua presenza su ogni verso nel quale il poeta celebra la Vita.

Io non dico Ave a nessun particolare Potere se non quello della Vita / Neppure condanno alcuna forma di Potere se non quella della Morte / L’inaugurazione della Morte è un Potere assurdo / La vita è il Potere supremo / Chiunque ferisce la Vita è una caramella nella confetteria del Potere / Chiunque si lamenta della Vita è un mostro abbagliante nello zoo del Potere / Gli amanti della Vita sono meritevoli del trofeo del Potere / Non devono saltare le olimpiadi del Potere né attestare pellegrinaggi / Ogni uomo è felice spia del Potere nel regno della Debolezza

Controcorrente e con innata irriverenza, seppe esprimere al meglio un attaccamento febbrile alla vita, una vitalità dirompente. Seppe protrarre e celebrare nel tempo la visione dell’America che fu di Kerouac, pur ricorrendo a parole – “Potere”, appunto – o versi -

Buttafuori della storia Blocco del tempo Tu Bomba / Giocattolo d’universo Massimo di tutti i rubacieli Non posso odiarti

- che non furono mai del tutto condivisi e compresi nemmeno all’interno dello stesso movimento.

Che sono incapace di odiare ciò che è necessario amare / Che non posso esistere in un mondo che acconsente / un bambino in un parco un uomo sulla sedia elettrica / Che sono capace di ridere di tutte le cose / di tutto ciò che so e che non so per nascondere così il mio dolore / Che dico di essere un poeta e perciò amo ogni uomo

Corso opponeva all’odio, al controllo – di cui erano frutti la Bomba e l’American Way – l’amore incondizionato per tutto ciò che esiste. L’accettazione totale e onnicomprensiva della vita. Nulla se amato può nuocere, nemmeno il carnefice. Nemmeno la Bomba sulla quale si andava costruendo l’equilibrio politico di un intero pianeta. Fedele al suo nome di battesimo, Nunzio, si fece araldo di quello che definì con abile gioco di parole «spirito autoctonio», cioè originario della stessa terra e sotterraneo. Erede dello spirito di Kerouac, cantore dello spirito dei sotterranei di Kerouac da cui tutto ebbe origine.

Caro Pubblico, / noi precursori dell’attuale stile e coscienza / (con Kerouac in spirito) / siamo i padri dell’Età / 16 anni fa, nati da noi stessi, / la nostra era una storia con un futuro / E dalla nostra Petroniana visione della società / una poesia sotterranea della strada / impreziosita dal divino macellaio, l’umorismo, / scalò le torri della Grande Menzogna / e prese a calci il carretto di mele d’avorio dei valori tiranni / gettandolo nell’oblio illusorio / senza spargere una goccia di sangue / … beati i Rivoluzionari dello Spirito!

Versi di amore illimitato per la vita raccolgono un’eredità e si spingono oltre, scagliandosi verso l’odio nemico del mondo e dell’umanità. La ribellione diventa rivoluzione. Perché rivoluzionario, più di qualunque altro, è il messaggio del nunzio Gregory e della sua poesia.

Gregory Corso, Poesie. Mindfield – Campo mentale, edizione integrale con testo inglese a fronte e disegni dell’autore, con testimonianze di William S. Burroughs e Allen Ginsberg, a cura di Massimo Bacigalupo, Newton Compton, 2007

Bad nights of drunk
make bad days of sorry

Last night was stained with fear
I or the world was all wrong

Today in hard wind and rain
I stand on Putney’s bridge
flinging Ritz crackers to the swans
ducks and gulls below
assuring myself:
day or night
you’re all right

Gregory Corso

Gregory Corso in his Paris apartment, 1957, by Allen Ginsberg

Suze Rotolo: “Gregory listened attentively to my reasoning and then, for some perverse reason, tried to talk me out of quitting in the first place. He began an animated riff about the pleasures of smoking but somehow covered the history of the world, too. Then he veered off down the street in search of a place to buy a pack. By then we had reached my door and I waved goodbye and went upstairs. After a few minutes I heard Gregory calling me from the sidewalk. He had bought two packs, he yelled, one for me and one for him, and because he didn’t want to climb all those stairs he was going to throw mine up to me. I leaned out as far as I could from the fifth floor window, but it was impossible to catch. He seemed to enjoy the game. The pack took a beating. He left it for me inside the front door, but when I got downstairs – which wasn’t right away – it was gone.”

Once a long time ago

I held a royal couple

I was straight I was strong

And every day ladies joyed to clean me -

And now

And now I stand in a dark room

with shaky legs and sunken back

And upon me day and night

A bony junkie dreams and pees

(gregory corso)

Isn’t there a saying that laughter is the best medicine? In a very unscientific way, I declare it the truth.

Sometimes we take ourselves entirely too seriously. My husband and I laugh often. We can already laugh about the wedding. Like how long it took us to plan the drinks list. We carefully named some drinks after friends in the wedding party. We discovered – after the wedding – that we’d misspelled the last name of the Chief Wonderful Woman (laughing, but still sorry!) We can laugh at the venue’s bad jokes about putting the “boys” in the bank vault before the wedding. We can laugh that the venue put a waitress in charge of me when the ceremony started. She actually said to me, “I’m in charge of making sure you actually walk down the aisle and don’t run away.” Earlier, we laughed about how our first date was on April Fool’s Day three and a half years ago.

We are even allowed to giggle at the seriousness of this union. Why not? Why not laugh at what is expected of us and what we decide to actually do?  Someone recently told me that when she first moved in with her husband, she couldn’t stand how messy he was. He left his dirty socks all over the apartment. After endless conversations and some fights, she decided to laugh about it. She took out her camera and photographed all the funny places the socks ended up – from the bathroom to the kitchen counter. She and her husband had a hearty laugh about it and then compromised about how to keep their home. 

Gregory Corso’s poem Marriage, which I briefly discuss in yesterday’s post  makes me laugh. You can read the poem here. His second stanza made me giggle in the library chair:

When she introduces me to her parents 
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie, 
should I sit knees together on their 3rd degree sofa 
and not ask Where’s the bathroom? 
How else to feel other than I am, 
often thinking Flash Gordon soap– 
O how terrible it must be for a young man 
seated before a family and the family thinking 
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou! 
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living? 
Should I tell them? Would they like me then? 
Say All right get married, we’re losing a daughter 
but we’re gaining a son– 
And should I then ask Where’s the bathroom?

We take ourselves so damn seriously, from the courtship to the wedding vows. I think we all know, deep down, that we are in love when we find someone who can make us laugh.

In our vows, my husband and I named things that the other represents for us. It turns out I am his scotch and he is my zucchini flower. We smiled when we said it and some of the guests laughed with surprise. 

In all humor there is some seriousness. Scotch is my husband’s favorite drink and he takes it seriously. I have never turned down a fried zucchini flower, either made by distant relatives in Italy or my mother in New Jersey. We meant what we said.

A writer friend asked me recently why I haven’t written a blog post about what it means to be married. What it feels like on the other side. I think I don’t entirely know yet. We are happy to be married, relieved to no longer be wedding planning and generally just enjoying ourselves. 

This is the life!

I recently took Bartlett’s Poems for Occasions out of the library. As a writer of occasion poetry, I enjoyed not only the poems, but how they were organized. The sections range from the seasons, to holidays to celebrating to family to life cycles to the human condition. There is even a “Public Moments and Ultimate Matters” section.  My favorite section was “The Unknown and the Unknowable.”

Back to wedding poetry… 

I particularly enjoyed being introduced to beat poet Gregory Corso’s poem “Marriage.” You can read it online here. His poem moves through various emotions: desire, rejection, humor, lost love. I laughed aloud and later read the poem to my husband. Now that we are married, we can more easily laugh at the more humorous aspects of weddings and even marriage itself. (More on that tomorrow.)

You can find a great collection of poems for every occasion at Poets.org. The list ranges from weddings to aliens to birds. You never know what you might need.

For film buffs and lovers of Beat Culture, this release of legendary American independent filmmaker, Alfred Leslie’s work is long overdue. I was first switched on to Leslie’s work, through the Kerouac narrated, Pull My Daisy, which features Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg & Peter Orlovsky. Pull My Daisy is a ramshackled retelling of an incident in the lives of Neal and Carolyn Cassady, and charts the weirdness that ensues when a Bishop is invited over for dinner, crashed by a bunch of bohemians. The film captures the heady Beat life and has the same improvised feel that much of the great literature from this time embraced.

If you haven’t seen it, here’s a few links to the making of the film (interviews with David Amram & Alfred Leslie) including excerpts from the original.

Pull My Daisy pt. 1

Pull My Daisy pt. 2

Pull My Daisy pt. 3

Alongside Pull My Daisy this release also features, Birth of a Nation, A Stranger Calls at Midnight and Leslie’s visionary collaboration with Frank O’Hara, The Last Clean Shirt. Olivier Brossard has written a stunning essay (published in Jacket) on The Last Clean Shirt that is well worth the read.

The final film included as part of the release is USA: Poetry – Frank O’Hara. USA Poetry was a 12-part series produced in 1965-66, showcasing the works of Allen Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Charles Olson, Robert Creeley, Philip Whalen, Ed Sanders and many others. You can view clips from Frank O’Hara’s segment of the release on his website.

And if that’s not quite enough to peak your interest, head on over to Alfred Leslie’s homepage where you can read his textual exploration of Cool Man in a Golden Age.

Painter, Filmmaker, Photographer, Writer… most definitely a Cool Man in any age.

.

Sí, Soy yo
Esta caza de mí
se ha transformado en algo evidentemente absurdo
creyendo que cuando yo
era perseguido
no sólo me encontraría a mí mismo
sino también a todo un rebaño de yoes
yoes pasados, yoes futuros
un carro cargado de ellos
y todos estos años
y adónde he llegado
en este punto del tiempo
éste no es el mismo espejo
que contemplé hace años

Es el espejo que cambia
nunca el pobre Gregory

¡Hey!, en la vida
Donde fui, fui
Donde me detuve, me detuve
Cuando hablé, hablé
Cuando escuché, escuché
Lo que comí, comí
Lo que amé, amé

Pero que puedo decir acerca de
adonde fui, no fui
adonde me detuve, continué mi camino
cuando hablé, escuché
cuando escuché, hablé
cuando ayuné, comí
y cuando amaba…
no deseaba odiar

Ahora veo a las personas
como las ve la policía

También veo a las monjas del mismo modo
en que veo a los hare-krishnas

No tengo representante
me disgusta la idea de un poeta con representante
sin embargo Ginsy y Ferli, tienen uno
y hacen pilas de pasta con ellos
se vuelven más famosos también
Quizás debiera contratar un representante
Wow!
De ningún modo, Gregory, quédate
En la cercanía
.
Gregory Corso
Poeta hablando consigo mismo ante el espejo
.

International Poetry Incarnation,
The Original Program,
The Royal Albert Hall, June 11th, 1965,
Smoking Permitted.

Thomas, Gary, Christopher, Camille, Annie, Michael, Don, Cathy, others…

I certainly don’t see a problem, and I second Thomas’s drift in this comment. The thread is about open space, cornfield, Nebraska style space. Thomas has a point. You read what you want to read. Volume can only be stimulating, especially when the discourse is conducted at such a high level. I’m sure this is exactly what Ms. Lilly had in mind, free and open forums which grow organically. Any given post can sustain pointed commentary for only so long before drift, meta-commentary, opinion, personal ideology and the gifts of individual experience begin to take hold. I, for one, feel extremely lucky, as one of the hired perpetrators these last few months that the threads unfold the way they do. Maybe Gary has a point – some people could be scared away by the clobbering breadth of the most enthusiastic threaders. But perhaps not. I suspect a lot of people are reading just for the fun of it, for the spectacle, without necessarily feeling the need to contribute. And I’ve seen enough examples of people, late in the day, breaking in without any trepidation. Thomas has brought up a lot of good points here about the way things are supposed to work. And I would say, having observed this process over the last six months, that, given the lawlessness, there has always been a sense of decorum, even decorum threaded into the syntax of insult (a wonderful thing to see). We are all at a very lucky moment in the progress of letters. A kind of 18th century vibrancy is again the order of the day. We should all thank the circumstances that have led to this moment. We should drink a lot of coffee and get to work.

Martin
POSTED BY: MEARL ON JULY 6, 2009 AT 12:02 AM

Honestly, you all, go and read such passionate and well-informed commentary, and BLUSH! Go and read it right here, and then look at Harriet today!

Christopher

Konz, 6. März 2009

–

An Accidental Autobiography by Gregory Corso

–

Poet Lucia Perillo talks about her poetry, her disability, and her changing relationship with nature.

By Maria McLeod
Poetry Media Service

Maria McLeod: Lucia, your background and early training doesn’t include writing. I wonder, as someone who has taken a more nontraditional route, how did you enter the field?
Lucia Perrillo: In 1980, I had just gotten a job at the Denver Wildlife Research Center. I believe that place is closed now, but it was an animal damage control facility, meaning that it researched ways to kill animals to keep them from destroying livestock or agricultural crops.
We killed coyotes; we killed birds. I killed lots of things. So I graduated with this degree in wildlife biology to go off and study wildlife, and I end up killing wildlife. So it was really a weird time, a troubling year in my life.
But how I got into writing was this way: I was a single woman living in this strange city, and I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t want to go to a bar alone, but I discovered that I could go to plays alone, and it wasn’t weird, or I could go to poetry readings alone. So, it was just a way to have places to go at night that would be safe. And that’s how I came to poetry, too, by going to open mics, and just kind of stumbling into them, because it was something you could do.
Also, when I lived in Denver, I saw Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg read in Boulder. Ginsberg played with the band, and Gregory Corso’s wife was drunk and got bounced from the bar. The whole thing was very surreal. I remember that Gregory Corso’s wife stood up on a chair and then started screaming, „Where’s mah man?  Where’s mah man?“ [laughter] And I remember that he said something about her. „My wife just got bounced!“
MM: When you left Denver, what did you do after that?
LP: I went to California in 1981. I got a job at the San Francisco Bay Wildlife Refuge. I did a variety of things, but I led a lot of nature walks around southern San Francisco Bay.
Again, I didn’t know very many people. I lived in Palo Alto, and I was writing a lot, and one day I pedaled my bike over to this writing workshop at the local community college. I saw this man give a talk, and I don’t even remember what the talk was about, but he had a captivating presence. I learned that he was giving a class at San Jose State, a night class, a poetry-writing workshop. That was Bob Hass. So I went and enrolled in his workshop.
MM: When I read Dangerous Life [Perillo's first book, published in 1989] again in preparation for this interview, I looked for repeated themes. In the end, I decided it was a book about victimization, about calling attention to the victimizers and the victim. What was that book about for you?
LP: I don’t know why I was so interested in victimization, or I felt that I had been victimized as a woman. Certainly I was a person of privilege. I’ve never been a victim of a violent crime. I’ve never been raped, never had an abortion. I mean, I’ve lived sort of in a bubble. Maybe I felt like I had to create that myth for myself, or these violent events, because I hadn’t had one. . . . But I will say that I became less interested in women’s issues when my identity as a woman was subsumed by my identity as a person who was sick. It was in ‘88 that I was diagnosed with MS [multiple sclerosis]. Then that identity overtook these earlier concerns because they paled. My earlier feminist concerns, my feelings of discrimination, were small potatoes compared to what I was up against subsequent to that. I acquired a new identity. Now, you know, I don’t even feel like a woman anymore. I don’t feel that’s my primary identity. It stopped being my concern. I felt that: Oh, I’m this other thing now.
MM: So in 1988, was Dangerous Life completed as a manuscript at the time you were diagnosed?
LP: It was already complete, and it was already in [with the publisher].  The funny thing is that it has an epigraph from Nietzsche at the beginning of the book, “I sometimes think that I lead a highly dangerous life since I’m one of those machines that can burst apart!” But when the book came out, Tess Gallagher pointed it out to me. She said, „Oh, you’ve got this epigraph. Were you already diagnosed with MS?“ But no, the book was already created before that. So it was a little prophecy from Nietzsche.
MM: Your book of essays, I’ve Heard the Vultures Singing: Field Notes on Poetry, Illness, and Nature, was published by Trinity University Press in 2007. It seems that your work as a researcher is especially evident in that book. In fact, you mention conducting research in the essay “Knowledge Game: Gulls.” You call a person from Audubon and you ask what kind of gulls you are seeing. But you also really study them, read about them. Can you tell me what brought this book of essays about for you?

LP: A friend of mine, a nonfiction writer and journalist, said, „Well, you should write about your life,“ prose about my life. So I wrote some prose about my life. There was not too much to say about having a terrible disease. I hadn’t really figured out what I would say about it except it sucks, you know. But that’s not a very profound statement. So I decided that I would write about the kind of interactions you can still have with nature as a disabled person. It’s hard because you don’t have the ability to go on unpaved terrain anymore. I lost that thing that I really loved, and what could I still do? It was a way of making little projects for myself. I had to write the essays, so I had to go look at the gull so I could write the essay.

Maria McLeod is a Bellingham, Washington-based poet, freelance writer and documentarian. She authored a history of the Washington state Department of Ecology, which was published in 2005. This article first appeared on www.poetryfoundation.org. Learn more about Lucia Perillo, and her poetry, at www.poetryfoundation.org.

© 2009 by Maria McLeod. All rights reserved.

.

Anoche conduje un automóvil
sin saber cómo conducir
sin tener un automóvil.
Lo conduje y arrollé
a personas que amo…
a 120 por hora en la ciudad.

Me detuve en Hedgeville
Y dormí en el asiento trasero
Entusiasmado por mi nueva vida.

.

Gregory Corso

Anoche conduje un automóvil

.

I will tell you this up front: I am a fatalist.

This means that even on my horrendously jaded days, I still believe that things happen for a reason, I still believe that there is something that constructs and plays with this reason, even though I am not religious and even though I have no idea what this thing is. Having had endless frustrating conversations about them, I know that my ideas about how life functions have little applicable logic and serve largely to force me to constantly seek a narrative in what I see around me, (narrative suggests progression and suggests that there is some beauty/art/point to it all).

Is that so bad? Maybe I get too caught up in the story sometimes, too carried away, but I don’t think that I’d change that. So I am a fatalist, not an apologist.

It is with this preface that I finally went to see (500) Days of Summer. As I sat through the Pearl & Dean spiel, it occurred to me that this was the first film in a long time that I have actually been itching to see upon its cinema release and then feared that it might actually be a bit disappointing. However, it’s usually a good sign that you’ll enjoy a film when you realise beforehand that you already own most of the songs that are on the soundtrack, (although the official soundtrack doesn’t include Patrick Swayze singing “She’s Like The Wind” hehe. Would any self-respecting indie boy actually have that on his iPod anyway? I thought that was just us girls, for whom Dirty Dancing is a prerequisite).

Reasons to watch? It is a fantastically pretty film. It has a dance sequence in it. It’s relatively easy to forget Tommy from 3rd Rock From The Sun, (thank-f for Brick and Mysterious Skin) because Joseph Gordon-Levitt is excellent, and often sharply dressed. It made me want to go to Los Angeles; the film makes it look like a playground. It has Matthew Gray Gubler in it. It made me smile a lot and also cringe quite a bit, as I sat there thinking, “ouch, you’ve behaved like an obsessed, loved-up fool too”, (maybe that’s the point of the film). Zooey Deschanel is distractingly beautiful;

I’d read this comment in The Observer prior to seeing the film;

“Alarm bells should have rung with (500) Days when one found the Smiths featured prominently. Sure enough, the hero (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) turns out to be channelling high-octane passive aggression through a moody indie kid haircut he’s far too old for. Meanwhile, the wonderful Zooey Deschanel isn’t allowed to become a real character, rather a cipher for his self-important misery.

It gets to the point where Morrissey, wailing on the hero’s behalf (to paraphrase: “Please, let him get what he wants because it will be the first time!”) creates a problem. I don’t think I’ll be only female thinking: this guy shouldn’t get what he wants. He is a miserable, bitter little freak, and even an under-written girlfriend is too good for him. Then again, what else should one expect from the latest in “vérité rom-coms”?”

(http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/sep/06/women-rom-coms-barbara-ellen)

Fair point. It is with some small amount of blushing that I admit that moody passive-aggressiveness actually rather does it for me. Sorry. I know it’s not clever.

I was very concerned that I would experience reverse-Casablanca feelings about the ending. Two unrelated friends had commented on the ending – one not being sure if he liked and whether I would like it and the other stating that the last five words were “predictable”. The first time I watched Casablanca, I was gutted that they didn’t stay together, even though it was the more realistic ending. This time around I was hoping for the realistic ending, (have I really become so jaded?!) not convinced I would be satisfied if they did stay together. As I watched the screen I switched frequently between wanting them apart, together, happy, unhappy. I’m fickle like that.

The final scene contains a line about how most days don’t have an impact on a person’s life; it is only exceptional days that do this. Whilst killing time that afternoon, I was deleting old messages on my phone, and came across one from a dear friend that said this;

“something someone once said to me: Life is mostly mundane. We eat, sleep and shit and all the while we breathe. But (and it’s a big But) life is also profound; maybe only for a moment and hardly ever, but when it is you’re glad to be alive see it.”

It fits with the way the story is organised in the same way that we remember our past. I mark my memories by the prominent times – the summer of 2003 when we were a tight group of friends in evening pubs with Get Up Kids playing in cars. Camping in 1995. Autumn 2006 and an endless succession of gin and laughter soaked Friday nights. Winter 1997; a sudden February sun and an older boy. I like the flashback format of the film, although it left me thinking about the days that didn’t feature. If my life was a film, today probably wouldn’t be in it.

From a personal level, and what made me cringe the most was that thing where you have a clear idea of how someone is in your head/heart– how they’ve promoted themselves to be, all the attributes and cleverness that you’ve attributed to them  and then they turn out to be nothing like that. Pedestals are troublesome things. Can you love someone who doesn’t believe in love? Probably, but it won’t be a cooperative process. Maybe there’s something appealing in the challenge – how great it will be for you to be the one that convinces someone of the existence of love; what greater legacy?!

Where Tom says, “it’s love, it’s not Santa Claus” I felt absolutely warm with the proposition that love is unquestionable in its existence. But really, maybe what it comes down to is how much meaning we attribute to people/events, it’s such a subjective thing – I feel more strongly about a short liason with someone than I did for two years in a relationship but I say that I loved them both. It has to be a spectrum, an oddly shaped, roundabout spectrum, making me think of  the Gregory Corso poem, Marriage:

“O but what about love? I forget love

not that I am incapable of love

It’s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes”

Going back to everything happening for a reason, ironically, the bit that made me want to scream “nooooo!” at the screen was when Summer is talking about how she found love because she was in a particular place, at a particular time, which is a bit of an about-turn for her character, demonstrating what she’s learnt from her time with Tom. And I felt so bad for him, that here she was admitting that she was capable of love, of admitting the existence of love, but not with him. Of course, you can argue that the reason that Fate brought Summer and Tom together was so that she could learn that. Does he learn anything new about relationships? That’s not answered.

If you want a more objective review of (500) Days of Summer, this one is really interesting, (it also mentions the Two Figs in Glasgow, which is where I am intending to go for my birthday meal):

http://reelingatall.wordpress.com/2009/09/13/500-days-of-summer/

I finish with this; in honour of the karaoke scene in the film.

Tre le innumerevoli parole di stima e d’affetto apparse in questi ultimi giorni su tutti i giornali, e da parte dei personaggi più svariati (dal Presidente dalla Repubblica a Vasco Rossi), in seguito alla scomparsa di una protagonista unica della cultura italiana nel mondo quale è stata Fernanda Pivano, abbiamo deciso di riportare qui il ricordo personalissimo del nostro editore Marco Cassini, uscito in un articolo del 20 agosto per L’Altro.
La seconda parte del post invece viene dalla penna della stessa Pivano, ed è un pezzo scritto per il Corriere della Sera e datato 18 luglio 2009, giorno del suo novantaduesimo compleanno.

«Se lo cercate sul sito dell’Accademia di Svezia, non troverete il nome di Fernanda Pivano fra i letterati insigniti del Nobel, eppure io so (e ho le prove) che quel premio le è stato consegnato. Lo so perché ero presente alla sontuosa cerimonia: le fu consegnato dalle mani di uno dei suoi “amici americani” più ﷓amati: il signor Robert Zimmerman, in arte Bob Dylan. Era il 5 luglio 1998 e, per il mero interesse a partecipare come figurante a un piccolo evento storico, nei giorni precedenti mi ero dato da fare come un pazzo, organizzando un incontro privato fra la traduttrice di Addio alle armi e l’autore di Mr Tambourine Man, che quella sera suonava a Roma. Nanda doveva, quella stessa sera, presentare un libro pubblicato dalla mia casa edtrice, Come se avessi le ali, i diari appena ritrovati di Chet Baker, in apertura di un concerto di piazza a Campo dei Fiori.

Io l’avevo avvicinata e conosciuta anni prima, con l’entusiasmo del neofita quando muovendo i primi passi nell’editoria avevo pensato di seguire la scia luminosa del suo faro, e le avevo chiesto di scrivere l’introduzione per il nostro primo libro di letteratura americana, una raccolta di poesie di Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Dopo averci così “battezzati”, negli anni la Pivano avrebbe più volte incrociato la strada di minimum fax interessandosi alle nostre vicende che avessero a che fare con i “suoi” americani: da Allen Ginsberg a Charles Bukowski, da Raymond Carver a David Foster Wallace.
Quel pomeriggio arrivò l’ok della Sony all’incontro con Dylan, passai a casa di Nanda (nel condominio che aveva definito “La mia kasbah”, in via della Lungara a Trastevere) dove mi feci offrire il solito tè freddo, le dissi che avevo una sorpresa per lei, e senza ancora svelarle di cosa si trattasse ci﷓ dirigemmo in taxi, con enorme anticipo, verso l’Eur. Lì dovetti necessariamente anticiparle cosa sarebbe successo, e lei già dalle cinque del pomeriggio non stava più nella pelle (figuratevi io…). Seduti su due sedie di plastica bianche sotto un ombrellone sbiadito dal sole, io e Nanda passammo qualche ora a chiacchierare nel backstage dove conoscemmo perfino Johnny Depp, che per coincidenza poche settimane prima aveva eseguito alla chitarra, per la tv americana, alcuni blues di Kerouac: mi sembrò un’occasione ghiotta quanto naturale per presentargli la persona che aveva fatto conoscere On the Road agli italiani. Eppure, strano a dirsi, anche il futuro pirata Jack Sparrow in quello show si trovava a fare solo la comparsa. Lo show, quello vero,﷓ un brevissimo sketch di pochi secondi e uno scambio di appena un paio di battute, ﷓sarebbe avvenuto di lì a poco, e io ne sarei stato il testimone privilegiato.
Al tramonto il pubblico ormai rumoreggia numeroso a pochi metri da noi. Dalla nostra postazione, dopo averla tenuta d’occhio per un intero pomeriggio, finalmente vediamo aprirsi la porta del camerino di Dylan, e la figura già leggendaria di suo acquista un’aura ancor più mitica ai nostri occhi: un’insolita chioma lunghissima, baffi sottili, occhi di ghiaccio, interamente vestito di bianco, lady and gentleman (giacché eravamo in quell’istante solo noi due il suo privatissimo pubblico) ecco a voi Bob Dylan. Esce con un cappellone da cowboy, anch’esso bianco, nella mano sinistra; con la destra, dopo aver richiuso la porta alle sue spalle, da un colpetto all’interno del cappello per dargli la forma giusta, se lo mette in testa, e si avvicina a passi lenti verso di noi. Nella mia mente il fischio morriconiano de Il buono il brutto e il cattivo lascia posto al puro terror panico: mi rendo conto che ci siamo solo noi tre, e presumibilimente mi toccherà fare le presentazioni. Mi avvicino timoroso alla leggenda in piedi alla mia sinistra, balbettando qualcosa mentre indico l’altra leggenda, seduta alla mia destra. II resto è solo un lungo grande abbraccio, Nanda che commossa quasi alle lacrime dice a Bob “Non sei affatto cambiato, sei identico a quella sera di trentacinque anni fa a Berkeley, bellissimo come allora”, e lui che le risponde “I really don’t think so, signora“. Ancora abbracci, un tenero chick﷓-to-﷓chick in cui se qualcosa è stato sussurrato è ancora lì che soffia insieme al vento, e mentre Dylan sale i pochi scalini verso il palco quasi non riesco a sentire il boato del pubblico perché sono investito dal pianto dirotto di Fernanda Pivano, la donna che andava in bici con Pavese, che forse è andata a letto con Hemingway (“ma non ve lo dirò mai”, diceva sempre a chi glielo chiedeva), che ha cercato di tenere a freno un Kerouac totalmente ubriaco nella sua unica apparizione nei palinsesti televisivi italiani, quella stessa donna che ora mi abbracciava e tremava come una foglia dicendo “Hai visto? Mi ha riconosciuta! Si è ricordato del nostro incontro di tanti anni fa. È bellissimo: un vero principe!”
Il resto, sono solo minime annotazioni di cronaca spiccia: potemmo seguire, seduti su due comode poltroncine al lato del palco (e accanto Jonny Depp), solo le prima quattro canzoni. Avremmo voluto rimanere per sempre lì, ma ci aspettava un’altra ﷓piazza, e un altro concerto, e così per raggiungere Campo dei Fiori ci mettemmo alla ricerca di un taxi ma senza fortuna, al punto che un ragazzetto avvicinatosi per chiederle un autografo fu sbito reclutato come autista (e mentre gli amici gli dicevano “ma sei pazzo, il concerto è iniziato, abbiamo pagato il biglietto!” lui si fece dare le chiavi di una Fiat 500 rispondendo ai suoi coetanei “ma quando mi ricapita di accompagnare la signora Pivano!”). Durante il tragitto Nanda era in piena estasi, si copriva gli occhi con le mani impreziosite dai suoi bellissimi anelli, e scuoteva la testa teatralmente, come a dire “non posso crederci”, e credo che anche io stessi pensando lo stesso, e molto probabilmente anche il nostro gentile conducente, in una catena umana di estatica incredulità inter﷓rotta solo dall’ennesimo spe﷓gnimento del motore e dalla candida confessione del nostro autista che dichiarò di avere solo diciassette anni e di guidare per la prima volta la macchina in vita sua. Quando Nanda mi chiese perché non mi mettessi allora io al volante si ricordò che anch’io, come Kerouac il cantore della vita sulla strada, non avevo mai preso la patente né guidato. Mi diede per questo, come sempre, del “mascalzone” ma poi iniziò a riempiri di materni baci sulla fronte, accompagnati da altrettanti “mmmuà! mmmuà!” perché, come non stancava più di dire, le avevo fatto un gran bel regalo. E infatti, come scrisse l’indomani sulla prima pagina del Corriere della Sera: “Oh Bob, con quell’abbraccio, con quelle lacrime mi hai dato il mio inaspettato premio Nobel, hai dato un senso ai miei 60 anni di lavoro, hai dato ragione ai giovani che mi hanno ascoltato. I tuoi occhi mi hanno accompagnato a Campo dei Fiori [e] mi accompagneranno fino alla fine».
Marco Cassini

«Ah, la vecchiaia. Gli anni che pesano. Le parole cariche di amara rassegnazione di Guido Ceronetti, alle quali ha risposto con affettuoso ottimismo Arrigo Levi, mi hanno costretto a pensare, ancora una volta, alla mia di vecchiaia. A interrogarmi. E a scavare un po’ nella memoria.
Mi è tornata in mente Alice B. Toklas che a quasi ottant’anni aveva uno strano modo di giggling, di fare una risatina silenziosa stringendosi nelle spalle, come una ragazzina. Regale e tenerissima, era molto premurosa nei miei confronti, forse a causa dell’ ammirazione che avevo dimostrato per Gertrude Stein con cui aveva condiviso molti anni della sua vita. Nell’ aprile 1954 Alice era venuta a trovarmi nella mia casa di via Cappuccio a Milano, città a lei piuttosto sconosciuta, per «vedere» dove e come abitavo. Si era molto rassicurata quando aveva visto la terrazza deliziosa che dava sul parco di non ricordo che cardinale con la deliziosa vista sulle montagne lontane, illuminate dal tramonto rosato.
Allora ero giovane, con il sangue che scorreva veloce nelle mie vene. Solo molti anni dopo ho capito il coraggio che i ragazzi possono dare a chi è già vecchio. Ho molta nostalgia di quegli anni. Ma mi consola chi viene a farmi autografare i libri di Ernest Hemingway, di Jack Kerouac, di Gregory Corso, di Allen Ginsberg, di tutti gli autori che hanno permesso loro di sognare e che io sono orgogliosa di poter dire di aver contribuito a far conoscere. A questi sognatori ricordo sempre che devono ringraziare la follia di Gregory, la visioni di Ti Jean, le preghiere di Allen e tutti i miei amici che se ne sono andati. E che rimpiango. Tutti loro hanno raggiunto gli immensi spazi profumati dell’eternità quando al massimo avevano compiuto settant’ anni. Troppo presto.
Ma se penso ad Henry Miller, penso che anche un genio come lui se n’ è andato troppo presto. E di anni ne aveva 88. Non ho mai voluto accettare le malattie dell’ età e ne ho le scatole piene di dover prendere tutte queste pastiglie che i medici mi prescrivono. Ho sempre cercato di vivere di passioni e tutto questo mi riporta solo alla disperazione dei miei 92 anni, con le vene che non reggono la pressione di una semplice iniezione. Ma grazie a Dio ci sono questi ragazzi di 18 anni che mi mandano le loro poesie, i loro racconti, i loro auguri e mi chiedono suggerimenti su come fare a superare le tragedie della vita. Ahimè. A 92 anni ancora non so cosa rispondere. Dico loro di sperare. Di battersi per vivere in un mondo senza guerre volute solo da capitani ansiosi di medaglie. Di sorridere senza il rimorso di non aver aiutato nessuno. E proprio questi giovani sono una grande, meravigliosa, consolazione. Il segno che qualcosa di ciò che hai fatto ha lasciato un piccolo segno, un piccolo seme.
Posso confidarvi che l’ ultima volta che ho incontrato Gore Vidal per la presentazione di un suo libro, nel gennaio 2007, io ero appena uscita da un ricovero in ospedale e lui camminava aiutandosi con un bastone. Ma a cena, quando gli ho chiesto cosa potremmo fare insieme, lui mi ha risposto: «Let’ s make a baby – facciamo un bambino». Forse è questo il segreto per riuscire a sopravvivere anche a questa età. Forse è questo il segreto del vecchio Suonatore Jones dello Spoon River caro alla mia giovinezza, “che giocò con la vita per tutti i novant’anni”».
Fernanda Pivano

Non ci sarà bisogno di ricordare Fernanda Pivano. Lai sarà viva ogni volta che qualcuno aprirà un libro di Hemingway, Kerouac, Fitzgerald, o qualche vecchio volume con le traduzioni dei testi di Dylan. Niente sarà perduto.

C’è però  un film, A Farewell to Beat, girato nel 2001 da Luca Facchini. Un documentario di poco più di un’ora capace di incollarmi allo schermo con lo stupore incantato che si riserva alle cose rare e prezione.  In un giro d’America  che fa tappa a Ketchum, San Francisco, New York City, una troupe racconta la Pivano di ieri e degli ultimi anni, la ricercatrice e la studiosa di letteratura sul campo – così diversa dagli accademici che le riservarono anche veleni e cattiverie: «tristi beghe italiane», come le definisce lei osservando le big city bright lights in un notturno newyorkese.

Fernanda parla con l’entusiasmo e l’amore di una ventenne e lo sguardo colmo di umanissimo dolore di una persona anziana che ha perso quasi tutti gli amici americani di un periodo irripetibile. Hemingway, poi Corso, Kerouac, Ginsberg: foto in bianco e nero e lapidi su cui versare lacrime. Ferlinghetti, Jay McInernay, Bret Easton Ellis: amicizie vive e scrittori in adorazione dell’intelletto e del cuore gioioso di Fernanda. E poi Fabrizio De André, la PFM e tanti altri ancora.

Commovente. E rigenerante.

Fernanda Pivano è morta

Morta Fernanda Pivano
Uploaded by isolapulita – News videos from around the world.

E’ morta Fernanda Pivano

È morta all’età di 92 anni la scrittrice e giornalista Fernanda Pivano. A lei, nata a Genova nel 1917, si deve la conoscenza in Italia dei grandi autori della letteratura americana. Da Edgar Lee Masters a Hemingway, dai poeti e gli scrittori della «beat generation» a Bob Dylan, i più grandi e rappresentativi autori della nuova America sono stati portati ai lettori italiani dalla sua capacità di interpretare, capire, raccontare e descrivere un mondo ancora sconosciuto al pubblico italiano. Di quasi tutti questi autori, Fernanda Pivano è diventata amica e confidente, riuscendo a trasferire nelle versioni italiane delle loro opere, lo spirito più vicino possibile a quello dell’originale.

Fonte Corriere.it 18 Ag.2009

Quando negli anni ‘50 Fernanda Pivano si reca per la prima volta negli Stati Uniti è una giovane studiosa innamorata dell’America di quegli anni e desiderosa di incontrare dal vivo, sul campo, i maestri di una narrativa che in Italia si era appena cominciato a conoscere, grazie a Cesare Pavese ed Elio Vittorini. Immediatamente scopre un mondo, di sogni, ideali, valori, che non si stancherà più di celebrare: dal pacifismo di Norman Mailer, maestro riconosciuto della narrativa americana, amato e contemporaneamente odiato dalla beat generation degli anni sessanta, che a lui e al suo antiimperialismo si rifece, all’esempio di inesausta sete di nuovo e di autenticità del mito vivente Ernest Hemingway. Dai guru della beat generation Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, Ferlinghetti, uomini che in nome di un’idea di ritorno all’essenzialità dell’Uomo, in contrasto con i pregiudizi del consumismo capitalistico, hanno vissuto e scritto senza distinguere fra arte e vita, a Don De Lillo e ai minimalisti. Un nuovo viaggio americano, insomma, fra le contraddizioni e le speranze segrete di quel grande, osannato e temuto paese che è, da sempre, l’America.

http://www.reset-italia.net/2009/08/18/addio-a-fernanda-pivano/

a cura di Enrico Rotelli con Mariarosa Bricchi e contributi di Erica Jong, Bret Easton Ellis, Jay McInerney, Gary Fisketjon

http://isoladellefemminecittadelladonna.blogspot.com/2009/08/fernanda-pivano-e-morta.html

COSA BOLLE IN PENTOLA? albo pretorio isola delle femmine
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/determine-e-delibere-12-luglio-2009.html

FERNANDA PIVANO è morta
http://isoladellefemminecittadelladonna.blogspot.com/2009/08/fernanda-pivano-e-morta.html

SIBERIA DISASTRO ECOLOGICO
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/siberia-disastro-alla-centrale-idroe.html

Woodstock Una generazione che voleva cambiare il mondo
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/woodstock-fantasia-pace-socialita_14.html

PORTOBELLO ZITTI TUTTI PARLO IO
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/arduo-commentare-lintervista-del-pro.html

INNSE VINCE LA LOTTA DEGLI OPERAI
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/nissen.html#links
 

SELVAGGIA AGGRESSIONE AL CANDIDATO SINDACO RUBINO ANTONINO
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/borsellino-parlando-della-necessita-di.html#links

 PORTOBELLO CUTINO PALazzotto E IL GRUPPO Progetto destinano il bene confiscato
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/ieri-il-gruppo-di-maggioranza-progett.html

Rifiuti urbani/ Solo 27 Comuni rispettano la legge, tutti …………
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/saracen-sicileas.html

COSA BOLLE IN PENTOLA? albo pretorio isola delle femmine
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/determine-e-delibere-12-luglio-2009.html

INNSE VINCE LA LOTTA DEGLI OPERAI
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/nissen.html#links  

SELVAGGIA AGGRESSIONE AL CANDIDATO SINDACO RUBINO ANTONINO http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/borsellino-parlando-della-necessita-di.html#links   

PORTOBELLO CUTINO PALazzotto E IL GRUPPO Progetto destinano il bene confiscato http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/ieri-il-gruppo-di-maggioranza-progett.html  

PORTOBELLO ZITTI TUTTI PARLO IO http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/arduo-commentare-lintervista-del-pro.html

LE RONDE GIOSIOSE di Portobello Cutino PALazzotto e c………
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/sentenza-commissione-comunale-edilizia_27.html

Rifiuti urbani/ Solo 27 Comuni rispettano la legge, tutti …………http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/saracen-sicileas.html

APPELLO DAL C.C. di Borgetto ai Comuni limitrofi: No alla privatizzazione dell’acqua
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/nasce-l-dell-del-palermitano_10.html

TRASPARENZA COMUNICAZIONE CONOSCENZA http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/trasparenza-amministrativa.html

Sciolto il Consiglio Comunale per infiltrazione Mafiosa
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/24-luglio-2009.html

BILANCIO previsione consuntivo commissari ad acta http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/bilanci-arrivano-i-commissari.html

ITALCEMENTI ARPA COMUNE ISOLA DELLE FEMMINE INQUINANTI QUALITA’ ARIA CONTROLLI CENTRALINE
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/06/il-carbonile-ad-augusta_19.html  

ATO RIFIUTI GESTIONE COSTI E DEBITI
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/05/ato-rifiuti-gestione-costi-e-debiti.html

Fernanda Pivano è morta

Morta Fernanda Pivano
Uploaded by isolapulita – News videos from around the world.

E’ morta Fernanda Pivano

È morta all’età di 92 anni la scrittrice e giornalista Fernanda Pivano. A lei, nata a Genova nel 1917, si deve la conoscenza in Italia dei grandi autori della letteratura americana. Da Edgar Lee Masters a Hemingway, dai poeti e gli scrittori della «beat generation» a Bob Dylan, i più grandi e rappresentativi autori della nuova America sono stati portati ai lettori italiani dalla sua capacità di interpretare, capire, raccontare e descrivere un mondo ancora sconosciuto al pubblico italiano. Di quasi tutti questi autori, Fernanda Pivano è diventata amica e confidente, riuscendo a trasferire nelle versioni italiane delle loro opere, lo spirito più vicino possibile a quello dell’originale.

Fonte Corriere.it 18 Ag.2009

Quando negli anni ‘50 Fernanda Pivano si reca per la prima volta negli Stati Uniti è una giovane studiosa innamorata dell’America di quegli anni e desiderosa di incontrare dal vivo, sul campo, i maestri di una narrativa che in Italia si era appena cominciato a conoscere, grazie a Cesare Pavese ed Elio Vittorini. Immediatamente scopre un mondo, di sogni, ideali, valori, che non si stancherà più di celebrare: dal pacifismo di Norman Mailer, maestro riconosciuto della narrativa americana, amato e contemporaneamente odiato dalla beat generation degli anni sessanta, che a lui e al suo antiimperialismo si rifece, all’esempio di inesausta sete di nuovo e di autenticità del mito vivente Ernest Hemingway. Dai guru della beat generation Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, Ferlinghetti, uomini che in nome di un’idea di ritorno all’essenzialità dell’Uomo, in contrasto con i pregiudizi del consumismo capitalistico, hanno vissuto e scritto senza distinguere fra arte e vita, a Don De Lillo e ai minimalisti. Un nuovo viaggio americano, insomma, fra le contraddizioni e le speranze segrete di quel grande, osannato e temuto paese che è, da sempre, l’America.

http://www.reset-italia.net/2009/08/18/addio-a-fernanda-pivano/

a cura di Enrico Rotelli con Mariarosa Bricchi e contributi di Erica Jong, Bret Easton Ellis, Jay McInerney, Gary Fisketjon

http://isoladellefemminecittadelladonna.blogspot.com/2009/08/fernanda-pivano-e-morta.html

COSA BOLLE IN PENTOLA? albo pretorio isola delle femmine
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/determine-e-delibere-12-luglio-2009.html

FERNANDA PIVANO è morta
http://isoladellefemminecittadelladonna.blogspot.com/2009/08/fernanda-pivano-e-morta.html

SIBERIA DISASTRO ECOLOGICO
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/siberia-disastro-alla-centrale-idroe.html

Woodstock Una generazione che voleva cambiare il mondo
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/woodstock-fantasia-pace-socialita_14.html

PORTOBELLO ZITTI TUTTI PARLO IO
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/arduo-commentare-lintervista-del-pro.html

INNSE VINCE LA LOTTA DEGLI OPERAI
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/nissen.html#links
 

SELVAGGIA AGGRESSIONE AL CANDIDATO SINDACO RUBINO ANTONINO
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/borsellino-parlando-della-necessita-di.html#links

 PORTOBELLO CUTINO PALazzotto E IL GRUPPO Progetto destinano il bene confiscato
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/ieri-il-gruppo-di-maggioranza-progett.html

Rifiuti urbani/ Solo 27 Comuni rispettano la legge, tutti …………
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/saracen-sicileas.html

COSA BOLLE IN PENTOLA? albo pretorio isola delle femmine
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/determine-e-delibere-12-luglio-2009.html

INNSE VINCE LA LOTTA DEGLI OPERAI
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/nissen.html#links  

SELVAGGIA AGGRESSIONE AL CANDIDATO SINDACO RUBINO ANTONINO http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/borsellino-parlando-della-necessita-di.html#links   

PORTOBELLO CUTINO PALazzotto E IL GRUPPO Progetto destinano il bene confiscato http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/ieri-il-gruppo-di-maggioranza-progett.html  

PORTOBELLO ZITTI TUTTI PARLO IO http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/arduo-commentare-lintervista-del-pro.html

LE RONDE GIOSIOSE di Portobello Cutino PALazzotto e c………
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/sentenza-commissione-comunale-edilizia_27.html

Rifiuti urbani/ Solo 27 Comuni rispettano la legge, tutti …………http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/saracen-sicileas.html

APPELLO DAL C.C. di Borgetto ai Comuni limitrofi: No alla privatizzazione dell’acqua
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/nasce-l-dell-del-palermitano_10.html

TRASPARENZA COMUNICAZIONE CONOSCENZA http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/trasparenza-amministrativa.html

Sciolto il Consiglio Comunale per infiltrazione Mafiosa
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/24-luglio-2009.html

BILANCIO previsione consuntivo commissari ad acta http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/bilanci-arrivano-i-commissari.html

ITALCEMENTI ARPA COMUNE ISOLA DELLE FEMMINE INQUINANTI QUALITA’ ARIA CONTROLLI CENTRALINE
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/06/il-carbonile-ad-augusta_19.html  

ATO RIFIUTI GESTIONE COSTI E DEBITI
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/05/ato-rifiuti-gestione-costi-e-debiti.html

Fernanda Pivano è morta

Morta Fernanda Pivano
Uploaded by isolapulita – News videos from around the world.

E’ morta Fernanda Pivano

È morta all’età di 92 anni la scrittrice e giornalista Fernanda Pivano. A lei, nata a Genova nel 1917, si deve la conoscenza in Italia dei grandi autori della letteratura americana. Da Edgar Lee Masters a Hemingway, dai poeti e gli scrittori della «beat generation» a Bob Dylan, i più grandi e rappresentativi autori della nuova America sono stati portati ai lettori italiani dalla sua capacità di interpretare, capire, raccontare e descrivere un mondo ancora sconosciuto al pubblico italiano. Di quasi tutti questi autori, Fernanda Pivano è diventata amica e confidente, riuscendo a trasferire nelle versioni italiane delle loro opere, lo spirito più vicino possibile a quello dell’originale.

Fonte Corriere.it 18 Ag.2009

Quando negli anni ‘50 Fernanda Pivano si reca per la prima volta negli Stati Uniti è una giovane studiosa innamorata dell’America di quegli anni e desiderosa di incontrare dal vivo, sul campo, i maestri di una narrativa che in Italia si era appena cominciato a conoscere, grazie a Cesare Pavese ed Elio Vittorini. Immediatamente scopre un mondo, di sogni, ideali, valori, che non si stancherà più di celebrare: dal pacifismo di Norman Mailer, maestro riconosciuto della narrativa americana, amato e contemporaneamente odiato dalla beat generation degli anni sessanta, che a lui e al suo antiimperialismo si rifece, all’esempio di inesausta sete di nuovo e di autenticità del mito vivente Ernest Hemingway. Dai guru della beat generation Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, Ferlinghetti, uomini che in nome di un’idea di ritorno all’essenzialità dell’Uomo, in contrasto con i pregiudizi del consumismo capitalistico, hanno vissuto e scritto senza distinguere fra arte e vita, a Don De Lillo e ai minimalisti. Un nuovo viaggio americano, insomma, fra le contraddizioni e le speranze segrete di quel grande, osannato e temuto paese che è, da sempre, l’America.

http://www.reset-italia.net/2009/08/18/addio-a-fernanda-pivano/

a cura di Enrico Rotelli con Mariarosa Bricchi e contributi di Erica Jong, Bret Easton Ellis, Jay McInerney, Gary Fisketjon

http://isoladellefemminecittadelladonna.blogspot.com/2009/08/fernanda-pivano-e-morta.html

COSA BOLLE IN PENTOLA? albo pretorio isola delle femmine
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/determine-e-delibere-12-luglio-2009.html

FERNANDA PIVANO è morta
http://isoladellefemminecittadelladonna.blogspot.com/2009/08/fernanda-pivano-e-morta.html

SIBERIA DISASTRO ECOLOGICO
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/siberia-disastro-alla-centrale-idroe.html

Woodstock Una generazione che voleva cambiare il mondo
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/woodstock-fantasia-pace-socialita_14.html

PORTOBELLO ZITTI TUTTI PARLO IO
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/arduo-commentare-lintervista-del-pro.html

INNSE VINCE LA LOTTA DEGLI OPERAI
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/nissen.html#links
 

SELVAGGIA AGGRESSIONE AL CANDIDATO SINDACO RUBINO ANTONINO
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/borsellino-parlando-della-necessita-di.html#links

 PORTOBELLO CUTINO PALazzotto E IL GRUPPO Progetto destinano il bene confiscato
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/ieri-il-gruppo-di-maggioranza-progett.html

Rifiuti urbani/ Solo 27 Comuni rispettano la legge, tutti …………
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/saracen-sicileas.html

COSA BOLLE IN PENTOLA? albo pretorio isola delle femmine
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/determine-e-delibere-12-luglio-2009.html

INNSE VINCE LA LOTTA DEGLI OPERAI
http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/nissen.html#links  

SELVAGGIA AGGRESSIONE AL CANDIDATO SINDACO RUBINO ANTONINO http://isolapulita.blogspot.com/2009/08/borsellino-parlando-della-necessita-di.html#links   

PORTOBELLO CUTINO PALazzotto E IL GRUPPO Progetto destinano il bene confiscato http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/ieri-il-gruppo-di-maggioranza-progett.html  

PORTOBELLO ZITTI TUTTI PARLO IO http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/arduo-commentare-lintervista-del-pro.html

LE RONDE GIOSIOSE di Portobello Cutino PALazzotto e c………
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/sentenza-commissione-comunale-edilizia_27.html

Rifiuti urbani/ Solo 27 Comuni rispettano la legge, tutti …………http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/08/saracen-sicileas.html

APPELLO DAL C.C. di Borgetto ai Comuni limitrofi: No alla privatizzazione dell’acqua
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/nasce-l-dell-del-palermitano_10.html

TRASPARENZA COMUNICAZIONE CONOSCENZA http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/trasparenza-amministrativa.html

Sciolto il Consiglio Comunale per infiltrazione Mafiosa
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/24-luglio-2009.html

BILANCIO previsione consuntivo commissari ad acta http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/07/bilanci-arrivano-i-commissari.html

ITALCEMENTI ARPA COMUNE ISOLA DELLE FEMMINE INQUINANTI QUALITA’ ARIA CONTROLLI CENTRALINE
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/06/il-carbonile-ad-augusta_19.html  

ATO RIFIUTI GESTIONE COSTI E DEBITI
http://nuovaisoladellefemmine.blogspot.com/2009/05/ato-rifiuti-gestione-costi-e-debiti.html

Era il 26 maggio 2000, per la prima volta entrai in quella bomboniera elegante che è il teatro Ariosto di Reggio, per un incontro a base di musica e poesia. Non andai là tanto per Luciano Ligabue (che, anche a 10 anni dal suo primo album, sentivamo ancora come il nostro rocker di Correggio) o per Patrizio Roversi (il moderatore più simpatico che si potesse immaginare): io, ragazzo non ancora 17enne, ero in quel luogo per ascoltare Fernanda Pivano.

Di letteratura ne avevo praticata poca, ma sulla mia strada avevo già incontrato questa donna, che allora aveva già superato gli 80 e trent’anni prima aveva contribuito alla nascita di uno dei dischi più belli della musica italiana, Non al denaro, non all’amore né al cielo di Fabrizio De André: alla base dei testi c’è l’Antologia di Spoon River, tradotta per la prima volta in Italia proprio dalla Pivano (uscì in piena Seconda guerra mondiale, nel 1943). Non sapevo ancora che l’originale di Edgar Lee Masters era arrivato nelle sue mani di ragazza poco più che vent’enne grazie a Cesare Pavese, suo insegnante al liceo, e che da lì era nata l’esperienza della maggiore traduttrice della letteratura americana.

Fernanda e Fabrizio

Qualche anno più tardi avrei conosciuto da vicino la beat generation, tutto quel mondo a stelle e strisce fatto di visioni, ispirazioni, viaggi, messa in gioco, ritmo ed emozioni che lei tradusse e diffuse come nessun altro in Italia, con la passione di chi ha vissuto fianco a fianco con Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouack e il resto di quella Generazione. Dalla sua penna e dalla sua macchina da scrivere sarebbero uscite anche le traduzioni di Ernest Hemingway (con cui e di lei si sarebbero giovati anche tanti altri scrittori americani, si trattasse di un dissacratorio Bukowski (che mi ha fatto “incontrare” di nuovo Fernanda grazie a una conversazione pubblica con Paolo Roversi, autore mantovano e adepto di Buk) o dei “nuovi” Ellis e Wallace. Scrittrice a sua volta (dedita alla narrativa e all’autobiografia), la «Nanda» (come la chiamavano tutti) era però soprattutto innamorata della musica e degli artisti, sapendone riconoscere il valore: la ricordo nella giuria di qualità a Sanremo nel 1999, autrice di testi per la PFM (Domo doso) e Ricky Gianco (Danni collaterali), ma soprattutto amica di vari «poeti con la chitarra» (come li chiamerebbe il mio amico Ernesto Capasso). Non dev’essere un caso se, di Fabrizio De André (genovese come lei), arrivò a dire: «Sarebbe necessario che invece di dire che Fabrizio De André è il Bob Dylan italiano si dicesse che Bob Dylan è il Fabrizio De André americano».

Ora Fernanda non c’è più e temo che non se ne sia andata col sorriso, visto che di recente ha detto: «Con molto dolore per i morti e per la tragedia, devo dichiararmi perdente e sconfitta perché ho lavorato 70 anni scrivendo esclusivamente in onore e in amore della non violenza e vedo il pianeta cosparso di sangue». Di «Nanda» conservo il ricordo di quella serata reggiana e di un pomeriggio a Novellara, legato alla luna e al viaggio (pensato da un altro grande, Marco Incerti Zambelli, uno che ha visto Dylan in concerto venti volte, per capirci). Soprattutto, però, nella mia libreria custodisco la mia copia dell’Antologia, con la dedica personale fatta dalla sua vera Traduttrice: sarà per questo, per il Suonatore Jones o per George Gray (soprattutto in questi giorni, mi fa pensare tanto a un angelo di nome Pier) che, nello sfogliare le pagine, mi commuovo con facilità.

La dedica di Fernanda

]]> http://loqasto.wordpress.com/2009/08/19/gregory-corso-poemas-2/ Wed, 19 Aug 2009 05:11:08 +0000 loqasto http://loqasto.wordpress.com/2009/08/19/gregory-corso-poemas-2/

.

Largo suave lento rápido pulido gato
¿Qué música, de quién la coreografía que bailaste
cuándo ellos bajaron la cortina final?
¿Puede semejante gracia ponderada permanecer
aquí, toda sola, en esta cueva de 3 por 6?
¿Te darán otra oportunidad
Tal vez para danzar en las Sierras?
Qué triste pareces, mirándote
yo pienso en Ulanova,
encerrada en algún cuarto amueblado
en Nueva Cork, en la calle 17 del este,
en la sección puertorriqueña.

.

Gregory Corso

Puma en el zoológico de Chapultepec

.

.

No hay ningún dios
parecido a María, la rubia exitosa
la mejor estudiante de su clase en Vassar

No hay ningún dios del tamaño de la boca de Joan Crawford
que en la muerte sonríe en el polvo
como una línea de blanca

No hay ningún dios
que se haya lamentado por el dinosaurio
más de lo que lo hizo el tipo más sincero
en el bar más decrépito de Baltimore

No hay ningún dios
como el de Mozambique Mort
excepto quizás el de Iwo Jima Jennifer
o el dios de Al el abisinio
o el dios de Sid el sumerio
o no hay ningún dios
el día después de Milwaukee
Ningún dios
cincuenta años después de la leche derramada
ningún dios
más grande que
la arrogante reina de la belleza de América
en un accidente automovilístico
con su bmw

Sin dios
el reverendo Jerry Falwell
podría estar despachando hamburguesas con rodajas de cebolla
a los parroquianos de un bar, el White Swallow quizá
Sin dios
millones de inteligencias eternas de los creyentes muertos se joden
Con dios
millones de creyentes vivos hieden

Por qué debe existir algún dios
para aquellos como vos o como yo
cuando el hombre de las cavernas
nunca conoció al dios de Billy Graham
y nunca un cavernícola fue judío
Dame las pruebas de la existencia de un dios
parado entre los culos arrugados
de un Rex Roberts y de un Oral Humbard
Yo puedo probar que no existe un dios
de Missouri
Yo soy de la ciudad de Nueva York
como si a los testigos de Jehová les importara

Cómo puede haber un dios
cuando los burros prefieren la paja al oro
y las personas que algo más saben, prefieren el oro
y huyendo con él son baleados en las piernas
No puede haber Dios cuando los pollos comen huevos duros y
seguramente no puede existir un dios
cuando los Gregorios son llamados Goyos

.

Gregory Corso. Ehh!

.