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Books

Suzanne Lummis: “POETRY LOVES POETRY” Forty Years Later

September 6, 2025

I have often suggested, both in personal discussions as well as in public statements, that Suzanne Lummis would make a very fine poet laureate for the city (and the county!) of Los Angeles. I live in Long Beach, which is the largest southernmost city in L.A. County, and even though we poets in Long Beach regard ourselves as a separate enclave, we still have a vested interest in having the position of Los Angeles Poet Laureate bestowed on someone who is compatible — if not at least very familiar with — the Stand Up poetics that originated in Long Beach.

I ran across an interview with her the other day and wish to recommend it to my readers. It was conducted four years ago by Michael C. Baradi and is posted on the Los Angeles Public Library blog. In the years since, Lummis has edited yet another L.A.-based anthology, “POETRY GOES TO THE MOVIES,” which I reviewed for Paul Vangelisti’s Magra Books website.

LAPL Blog
Noir Goldilocks: An Interview with L.A. Poet Suzanne Lummis
Michael C. Baradi, Librarian, Mid-Valley Regional Branch Library,
Friday, April 30, 2021

https://www.lapl.org/collections-resources/blogs/lapl/noir-goldilocks-interview-la-poet-suzanne-lummis

I do have one quibble with two of the three sentences in a short paragraph in this interview.
“Important in such conversations to remember that Bill Mohr, now poet professor at CSU Long Beach, edited the first full-length anthology of Los Angeles Poets: Poetry Loves Poetry (1985). Many of those poets are now dead. Lucky me that I’m still here. Who woulda thought.”

While I appreciate being mentioned in this interview, Lummis gets two facts wrong. “Poetry Loves Poetry” was NOT the first full-length anthology of Los Angeles Poets. There were at least two shorter anthologies before my full-length anthology (well over 200 pages), THE STREETS INSIDE: Ten Los Angeles Poets appeared at the end of 1978. Robert Kirsch reviewed it in the Los Angeles Times and remarked that it served as evidence of a “golden age” in the poetry scenes of Los Angeles. Dennis Cooper also praised, in GOSH! magazine, a reading that marked the book’s publication with considerable appreciation. Lummis should have said that “POETRY LOVES POETRY” was the first full-length anthology of L.A.-based poets that included her work.

The other error concerns the implication of how many poets who were in POETRY LOVES POETRY are still alive. “Many of those poets are now dead.” Technically, true. slightly over one-third of five dozen poets are dead. However, almost two-thirds of the contributors are still alive. I am very happy that Suzanne is one of them, but her longevity is hardly a distinguishing retrospective feature of that collection. I have no doubt that the vast majority of its contributors will be dead by the book’s 50th anniversary, but as I privately celebrate its 40th anniversary, I send my fond thoughts to all who were part of that book’s ensemble, as well as to poets such as DEENA METZGER, who were in THE STREETS INSIDE in 1978, but whose work I didn’t include in PLP. Deena is still writing and teaching in Topanga Canyon. Finally, I still regret in particular that I failed to include the late Scott Wannberg and the late Manazar Gamboa in PLP; and it should be noted that there were poets I asked to send me work for this anthology, but who — for understandable reasons — decided not to submit.

What still pleases me the most is how many poets emerged in the decade after “POETRY LOVES POETRY” came out to complicate any assessment that poets elsewhere in the nation might make about the scenes in Los Angeles. In particular, I would mention Amy Uyematsu, Ruben Martinez, Marisela Norte, Will Alexander, and Terry Wolverton. Any account of poetry in the last century in Los Angeles would also, of course, have to include Kamau Daa’ood and K. Curtis Lyle. It is worth noting that Luis J. Rodriguez was published in Beyond Baroque’s magazine in 1980, but that he did not as far as I know have a sustained presence in the city in the decade in which PLP was published.

The youngest of the still living poets in PLP will turn 70 next year, and it should be noted that there are other poets not cited in this list who remember these poets in the exuberance of their youth. Dinah Berland, Denise Dumars, and Kita Shantiris share a collective private cinema of the conjunctions within PLP. Welcome, all, to this screening.

STILL CRAZY ABOUT WRITING AND READING AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

Michael C. Ford
Harry Northup
Paul Vangelisti
Martha Ronk
Dennis Phillips
James Krusoe
Ron Koertge
Amy Gerstler
Michael Lally
Doren Robbins
Eloise Klein Healy
Laurel Ann Bogen
Jack Grapes
Dennis Cooper
David Trinidad
Jack Skelley
David James
Brooks Roddan
Suzanne Lummis
Charles Harper Webb
Bill Mohr
Murray Mednick
Peter Levitt
Alison Townsend
Michelle T. Clinton
Exene Cervenka
John Doe
Dave Alvin
Peter Cashorali
Aleida Rodriguez
Jed Rasula
Lori Cohen
Paul Trachtenberg
Ian Krieger
Max Benavidez
Rob Sullivan
Joanna Warwick
Janet Gray
Terryl Hunter

REST IN POETRY
Holly Prado
Charles Bukowski
Wanda Coleman
Bob Flanagan
Ed Smith
Leland Hickman
Kate Braverman
Peter Schjeldahl
Dick Barnes
Robert Crosson
Lewis MacAdams
Austin Straus
Robert Peters
John Harris
Peter Schneidre
Gerald Locklin
John Thomas
Marine Robert Warden
Charles Bivins
Carol Lewis
Tim Reynolds
Nichola Manning

****

As mentioned earlier, “THE STREETS INSIDE” and “POETRY LOVES POETRY” did have predecessors. Two of the poets who appeared in PLP, Paul Vangelisti and Charles Bukowski, had collaborated with Neeli Cherkovski to compile an “ANTHOLOGY OF LOS ANGELES POETS” in 1972. That book is worth getting hold of just for Bukowski’s introductory essay, which sets the tone for much of what will happen in L.A. poetry for the next half-century. In fact, any assessment of Suzanne Lummis’s anthologies, “GRAND PASSION” and “WIDE AWAKE,” should include a substantial portion of Bukowksi’s commentary in its opening remarks.

In regard to Bukowski, I have recently finished an article on his appearances in anthologies that will be published in France in the coming months. Outside of the volume for which Bukowski himself was one of the editors, the only L.A.-based anthologies he appeared in while he was alive were PLP and Charles Harper Webb’s first iteration of STAND UP POETRY. Bukowski died in the year before Lummis’s “GRAND PASSION” was published.

Coming out ten years after PLP, Lummis was able to feature a considerable number of poets who had begun to shape the discourse of verse in the entertainment capitol of the world. Some of them were recent arrivals, having taken up academic positions and settled in Los Angeles after 1985. Preceded by Stephen Yenser, David St. John. Carol Muske-Dukes, Robert Mezey, Molly Bendall, Timothy Steele, and Gail Wronsky would be examples of poet-professors whose national recognition expedited their integration into the “local” scene. Ralph Angel had been here all along, of course.

Lummis has not been given enough credit for doing what I could not quite manage in PLP: assembling an ethnically representative ensemble of L.A.-based poets. While my total efforts as an editor do reflect a modest attempt at such diversity, I regret that I failed to transfer some of that focus in my magazine MOMENTUM to both of the anthologies I did. Carol Lem, for instance, whose poems I included in an issue of MOMENTUM magazine, should have been in POETRY LOVES POETRY.

It is Lummis’s credit that she not only include Carol Lem in GRAND PASSION, but has her work accompanied by the following:
Amy Uyematsu
Paula Gunn Allen
Aileen Cho
Gil Cuadros
Sesshu Foster
Manazar Gamboa
Richard Garcia
Liz Gonzales
Chungmi Kim
Lynn Manning
Keith Antar Mason
Russell Leong
Cherry Jean Vasconcellos
Eric Priestley
Willie Sims
Pam Ward
Ricardo Means Ybarra
All of these poets are added to ones I also anthologized, such as Coleman, Clinton, and Rodriguez. In my defense, however, the majority of the poets I just listed were not exactly giving a lot of poetry readings in Los Angeles in the five years before POETRY LOVES POETRY appeared.

Nevertheless, GRAND PASSION is a crucial anthology, and it is one of the important contexts in which the writing of the current poet laureate of Los Angeles, Lynne Thompson, can best find its critical footing. All this said, there is one thing that shows how difficult it is to be completely comprehensive. The year before Lummis’s GRAND PASSION appears, Charles Harper Webb publishes his second version of STAND UP POETRY, and one of the poets who appears in it is RAY ZEPEDA. Other poets Webb includes who are making their first appearance in a L.A.-based anthology are Sylvia Rosen, Joan Jobe Smith, and Fred Voss, so it’s obvious that Lummis has found points of continuity to build upon for her anthology. Editing an anthology is always already the climb to a reproachful summit, I’m afraid, and let it suffice as ameliorating justification for Lummis’s omissions that she did include Doug Knott and Cecilia Woloch, who were barely known at the time and yet went on to become among the most intriguing figures in Los Angeles poetry.

As I said at the beginning, Suzanne Lummis deserves to be the next poet laureate of Los Angeles. I hope I live to see it happen.

****

I would also like to live long enough to hold in my hands an anthology that would cover (and recover) the scenes in Los Angeles between 1945 and 2025.

Eighty years!

From:
Grover Jacoby, Jr.
Ann Stanford
Joan LaBombard
William Pillin
Gene Frumkin
Thomas McGrath
Lawrence Spingarn (who edited, let us remember, the anthology, POETS WEST)
Stuart Z. Perkoff
Bruce Boyd
Frank T. Rios
Tony Scibella
Eileen Aronson Ireland
Lawrence Lipton
William J. Margolis

TO:
Marisela Norte
Cal Bedient
Linda Albertano
Brendan Constantine
Douglas Kearney
Beth Ruscio
Alexis Rhone Fancher
Marsha de la O
William Archilla
Luivette Resto
Phil Taggart
Rick Rupert
Rich Ferguson
Richard Modiano
S.A. Griffin
Mike (“The Poet”) Sunksen
Yvonne de la Vega
Tony Barnstone
Peter J. Harris
Lisa Glatt
David Hernandez
Patty Seyburn
Adolpho Guzman-Lopez
Michlle Bitting
Gloria Edina Alvarez
Frank X. Gaspar
Kim Dower
R.D. Armstrong
Matt Cedillo
Henry Mortenson
A.K. Toney
Dr. Mongo
Iris Berry
Pleasant Gehman
Nicelle Davis
Brian Kim Stefans
Eric Morago
Susan Hayden
Phoebe MacAdams
Billy Burgos
David Lloyd
Donna Hilbert
Clint Margrave
Jeanette Clough

Rinse, repeat, reread.

Imagine you are limited to choosing only 100 of the poets named in this entire post. Which ones would you set aside, and why?

Books

Linda Fry at LAHA – First Thursday Open Studios

Friday, August 29, 2025

The end of August abuts the Labor Day Holiday in an almost whiplash manner this year. Next Thursday will be “First Thursday” at the LAHA (Los Angeles Harbor Arts) studios on Mesa Street in San Pedro, and I thought I would post a few photographs of Linda Fry being visited in her studio earlier this month. The doors to the two dozen studios in the building, which is managed by resident artist Carol Hungerford, open around 5 p.m. and stay open until about 9 p.m.


(left, Nancy Voegeli-Curran; right, Linda Fry)

You can find more of Linda Fry’s work at LindaFryArtist.com.

Nancy Voegeli-Curran is an artist Linda has long admired, and it was a pleasure to welcome Nancy to her studio.
Nancy has a studio at Angels Gate in San Pedro. Her website is:

Nancy Voegeli-Curran

Books

Escenas y movimientos en la poesía del sur de California — by Bill Mohr – SPANISH translation by Verónica Grossi

This is a translation into Spanish of an article I wrote several years ago that was published in a special issue of Luvina magazine devoted to Southern California writing.

I also wish, at this moment, to once again thank the editors of BONOBOS EDITORES for publishing a bilingual collection of my poems, PRUEBAS OCULTAS, with translations by Jose Luis Rico and Robin Myers, in 2015, and for all the visits I made to Mexico to read my poems.

***

Escenas y movimientos en la poesía del sur de California / Bill Mohr

Con demasiada frecuencia las críticas de poesía norteamericana privilegian a San Francisco, Berkeley y Oakland, superponiendo lugares que evocan los más memorables sucesos y movimientos de la poesía de la Costa Oeste, como el Renacimiento de Berkley, la escena beat de San Francisco y, más recientemente, el lenguaje/escritura. Sin embargo, también se aplica a Los Ángeles el ímpetu foráneo detrás del señalamiento de William Everson de que los cánones de la Costa Oeste valoran la creatividad y el juicio canónico de la Costa Este, si bien es más difícil trazar una cartografía de la energía fractal del escenario poético de la ciudad. Aunque los sondeos de ficción funcionan probablemente mejor si se enfocan en autores individuales, el desarrollo de la poesía norteamericana, casi todo el medio siglo pasado, está íntimamente ligado a comunidades de escritores y editores. La viabilidad de la red de talleres, lecturas públicas, revistas e imprentas en Los Ángeles durante los años setenta y ochenta dependió del acceso a instalaciones de producción como New Comp Graphis en Beyonde Baroque, en la ciudad costera de Venice, para ayudar a los poetas a demarcar sus comunidades de manera orgánica y autorreflexiva.
Al abrazar con gran fervor la tendencia antinómica en la poesía norteamericana originalmente formulada por Roy Harvey Pearce, estas comunidades y círculos intersectados produjeron una poesía que por mucho superaba en cantidad y calidad la escritura producida sobre Los Ángeles en forma de poemas ocasionales por residentes temporales o por quienes vivían a una pasmosa distancia. Por ello este sondeo se enfocará en los escenarios y comunidades que han florecido y se han entremezclado en L.A. a partir de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Este énfasis no pretende desestimar la notable, aunque breve, presencia de poetas como W.B. Yeats, Hart Crane o James Dickey, ni borrar de la historia de la región los años jóvenes de Robinson Jeffers, puesto que casi todos los escritos que formarán el patrimonio poético de L.A. han surgido durante este período más reciente.

Las revistas underground y la escena del jazz en Venice West,
1948-1968

Durante todo el período que estamos considerando, los poetas de L.A., Long Beach y ciudades aledañas generalmente lanzaban sus revistas sin apoyo institucional y sin los dóciles recursos de los capitales literarios y culturales. Para mediados de 1950, L.A. cobijó un rango impresionante de revistas literarias, entre las más importantes Trace de James Boyer May. Trace apareció en 1951 como directorio de pequeñas revistas y subsistió hasta alcanzar casi seis docenas de ediciones. Su lista de contribuyentes incluyó a muchos poetas como William Pillin, Bert Meyers y Alvaro Cardona-Hine, quien apareció en el California Quarterly, fundado por el poeta de la lista negra Tom McGrath en 1951, o Coastlines, lanzada por sus protegidos Gene Frumkin y Mel Weisburd a mediados de la década de los cincuenta y que permaneció hasta 1964. El California Quarterly dedicó sus páginas no sólo a los poetas subversivos de L.A., como Don Gordon y Edwin Rofle, sino también a quienes trataban de evadir la censura oficial del período macarthista. La cacería de brujas logró impedir la distribución de la película clásica sobre la clase trabajadora, Salt of the Earth(Sal de la tierra), pero el California Quarterly tomó represalias dedicándole toda una edición del verano de 1953 al guión de Michael Wilson.
En 1958, los editores de Coastlines presentaron una lectura de Allen Ginsberg en una casa de L.A. que utilizaban como sede. Durante dicha presentación, Ginsberg se desnudó completamente para hacerle el favor a un alborotador demostrándole lo que quería decir con «desnudez» (estar en cueros), término usado para un poema despojado de todo ornamento literario. Uno de los jóvenes poetas asistentes, Stuart Perkoff, ya había fundado una comunidad de poetas beat en la comunidad costera de Venice, descrita por su antiguo mentor, Lawrence Lipton, como «la barriada junto al mar». Fuera de enclaves residenciales y cafés, Venice West alcanzó la suficiente prominencia para ser citada por Donald Allen en su Introducción a La nueva poesía americana. Perkoff y Bruce Boyd, parte de ese núcleo, fueron incluidos en esa antología, junto a Ginsberg, Frank O’Hara, John Ashbery, Denise Levertov, Charles Olson y Robert Duncan. Aunque con el tiempo el poemario Voices of the Lady: Collected Poems (Voces de la Dama: poemas recogidos) fue publicado por la National Poetry Foundation en 1997, la mayoría de los poetas beat de L.A., como John Thomas, William Margolis y Charlie Foster, permanecen inexcusablemente fuera de todos los estudios de literatura beat. Sin embargo, este apareamiento de lecturas de poesía con música de jazz fue un precursor de la poesía oral de L.A. y de su parentesco con la música punk.
Para principios de los sesenta, las aspiraciones de Venice West, basadas en un programa idealista de pobreza voluntaria, habían sucumbido al encanto devastador de la drogadicción. Sin embargo, otras comunidades de L.A., cuya pobreza era involuntaria, finalmente se rebelaron. Después del levantamiento de Watts en 1965, las instituciones de la Costa Este trataron de ejercer su largueza esperando sofocar las tendencias militares en las comunidades afroamericanas para impedir cualquier posicionamiento de los Black Panthers y otras organizaciones radicales. Las fundaciones Ford y Rockefeller reforzaron las contribuciones de personajes famosos de Hollywood como Gregory Peck y Budd Shulberg para desarrollar el Taller Watts Writers en el Centro Cultural del Barrio Urbano que publicó poesía en su propia revista, Neworld. Aunque el Taller Watts Writers produjo trabajos de muchos géneros, incluyendo teatro, el legado poético de dicha empresa sigue siendo su logro más significativo. Varios de los poetas que de allí surgieron siguen escribiendo hoy, incluyendo a Eric Priestley, K. Curtis Lyle, Ka’mau Da’oud, Otis O’Solomon, y Quincy Troupe.

Beyond Baroque y el renacimiento de Venice (1968-1985)

Venice no permaneció inactiva por mucho tiempo. En 1968, Drury Smith, antiguo profesor de inglés de preparatoria, compró un edificio abandonado sobre el bulevar West Washington y empezó a publicar una nueva revista literaria, Beyond Baroque. Cuando el dinero de las suscripciones no se materializó, Smith abrió una imprenta y abrió sus puertas a la comunidad de Venice. A los pocos meses, el escritor de novelas policiacas Joseph Hansen, junto con un amigo poeta, John Harris, abrieron un taller de poesía gratuito todos los miércoles por la noche. Sigue siendo el taller gratuito de mayor duración ofrecido por cualquier organización significativa de artes literarias alternativas en todo Estados Unidos. Beyond Baroque también siguió editando una revista bajo diferentes títulos incluyendo NeWLetterS, New y Obras. Sufrió variantes de producción, como el cambio a formato de papel de prensa, que se distribuyó gratuitamente. En 1972 un editor, James Krusoe, empezó una serie de lecturas los viernes por la noche. Dentro de los primeros dos años, la muchedumbre se agolpaba hasta la acera y se instaló un sistema de sonido exterior para transmitir la interpretación. Para cuando Dennis Cooper, editor de la revista Little Caesar, y su vástago, una pequeña imprenta, asumieron la serie de lecturas a finales de 1979, Beyond Baroque ya no era un asunto de colectas. Inspirado en la rebeldía e ingenio de la música punk, Cooper combinó su interés por la escuela de poetas de Nueva York y el lenguaje/escritura con una firme lealtad hacia prometedores poetas locales como David Trinidad y Amy Gerstler, quienes eventualmente ganaron el National Book Critics Circle Award. Simultáneamente con la inauguración de Cooper, Beyond Baroque transfirió la biblioteca de su pequeña imprenta y su equipo de composición tipográfica de New Comp Graphics, de su limitado espacio al complejo de dos pisos del viejo Venice City Hall. Bajo la dirección artística de Cooper la organización surgió como un centro de poesía de reconocimiento nacional. La pequeña biblioteca de la imprenta, fundada por la antigua editora de Coastlines, Alexandra Garrett, aumentó su acervo a 10 mil libros y grabaciones. El New Comp Graphics Center proporcionó el respaldo tecnológico que los jóvenes poetas aspirantes y los editores necesitaban para lanzar libros y revistas. Con la partida de Cooper hacia la ciudad de Nueva York, Beyond Baroque apenas logró sobrevivir. El muy necesitado subsidio del National Endowment for the Arts no se materializó y la institución casi cerró sus puertas. La banda punk X, cuyos compositores fundadores Exene Cervenka y John Doe se reunían en el taller de poesía Beyond Baroque, ofreció un concierto y recaudaron más de 10 mil dólares, lo suficiente para mantener sus puertas abiertas. Al paso de los años ha habido suficientes personas generosas que han contribuido para mantener Beyond Baroque bajo una serie de directores artísticos que incluye a Manazar Gamboa, Jocelyn Fisher, Dennis Phillips, D. B. Finnegan, Tosh Berman y, desde mediados de los noventa, Fred Dewey. Durante más o menos una década la programación artística empezó a favorecer la escritura de ficción, pero bajo el resuelto liderazgo de Dewey, desde mediados de los noventa el enfoque regresó a la poesía. En diciembre de 2008, al concluir la celebración de su cuadragésimo aniversario, Beyond Baroque renovó el arrendamiento del Old City Hall
en Venice por otros 25 años, apalancando así potencialmente la escena de Venice bastante más allá de la vida de los miembros fundadores del taller de las noches de miércoles.
Página y tablado: palabra de pie y hablada

Casi simultáneamente al desarrollo de Beyond Baroque, «Los Ángeles… discretamente surgió como un importante centro de poesía de la Costa Oriente, donde una forma de performance de poesía populista, llamado de diferentes formas —“Poesía de Pie”, “Poesía Fácil” o “Poesía de Long Beach”—, combina la comedia y la poesía post-beat ejemplificada por Charles Bukowski». El poeta de Long Beach y profesor Gerald
Locklin unió fuerzas con Ron Koertge, profesor del Pasadena City College, para formar el núcleo de este movimiento, frecuentemente mal comprendido hasta por quienes lo admiran. Otros miembros del núcleo son Laurel Ann Bogen, Elliot Fried, Ray Zepeda, Austin Straus, Jack Grapes, Eloise Klein Healy, Suzanne Lummis y Edward Field, cuyo primer libro, merecedor del Premio de Poesía Lamont, Stand Up, Friend, With Me (Ponte de pie, amigo, conmigo, 1964), le dio nombre al grupo. En un ensayo introductorio a la tercera edición de la antología Stand Up Poetry (2002), Webb advierte que la poesía stand up «se agrupa a veces con la poesía “de calle” de tendencia antiliteraria… o se le confunde con el performance». Ambas agrupaciones, afirma, «son un error». Un buen poema stand up (de pie) exige tanto arte literario como cualquier otro poema… La poesía stand up se escribe para la página impresa, teniendo presente que la poesía siempre ha sido un arte oral y que alcanza su culminación cuando se lee en voz alta». Webb señala diez aspectos que siempre están presentes en un poema stand up, y que el humor, la posibilidad de actuarlo y la claridad son las principales cualidades hasta en un poema de tema lúgubre, como el de Suzanne Lumiss, «Letter to my Assailant» («Carta a mi asaltante»). Sin embargo, con mayor frecuencia los poemas stand up utilizan temas de la cultura popular y de material no poético, como el linóleo o una caja de crayolas, por ejemplo en el poema «Coloring» («Colorear»), de Koertge: «¿Quién escuchó jamás el Premio Nobel / de Colorear? ¿Quién dice “Éste es mi hijo. / Tiene un doctorado en Colorear?”».
Por su éxito y continua popularidad, los poetas stand up son los poetas de L.A. más fácilmente accesibles, tanto en sentido literal como por la facilidad de obtener sus libros. Las primeras dos ediciones de la antología de Stand Up Poetry, publicadas por Charles Harper Webb, están agotadas desde hace mucho tiempo, pero la tercera edición ofrece no sólo una muestra representativa de la obra producida por los poetas más conocidos de L.A., sino un medio para comparar y contrastar su obra con poetas norteamericanos como James Tate, Tom Lux y Denise Duhamel, cuya obra ocasionalmente se traslapa con stand up.
Un descendiente de la escuela stand up es la palabra hablada contingente que se desarrolló en L.A., en gran medida a través de los esfuerzos de un antiguo productor de música pop, Harve Robert Kubernik. Sus primeras empresas fueron antologías en vinilo, pero para principios de los noventa su nómina de casetes y discos compactos para solo bajo la etiqueta de New Alliance incluía a los poetas Holly Prado, Harry Northup, Michael C. Ford, Linda Albertano, Steve Abee y Michael Lally. Poetas como Cervenka, Doe y Dave Alvin, conocidos primordialmente como músicos punk, y Henry Rollins —quien suplementó su voluminosa autopublicación en la imprenta 2.13.61 con libros de poetas neo-beat como Ellyn Maybe— se alinearon bajo el movimiento de la palabra hablada, que con frecuencia salía al aire en el programa «El hombre en la Luna», de Liza Richardson, en la estación de radio kcrw. Es probable que muchos de estos poetas leyeran en la tienda de guitarras McCabe en Santa Mónica, en la tienda de discos Bebop de San Fernando Valley o en una librería o biblioteca. El miembro más destacado de estas comunidades poéticas populares es Wanda Coleman, oriunda de Watts. «Soy víctima de un mal agüero por partida cuádruple», afirmó Coleman, desafiante, en una ocasión. «Soy mujer negra y poeta nacida en L.A.». Sin embargo, Coleman empezó a publicar su poesía en las pequeñas revistas de L.A. Hasta la fecha ha publicado una docena de libros de poesía y prosa en la editorial Black Sparrow de Santa Rosa y con frecuencia ha grabado material con Kubernik. Otras poetas como Kate Braverman y Laura Ann Bogen, envalentonadas por la habilidad de Coleman de entremezclar la poética del performance con la acústica cáustica de la prosodia callejera, empezaron también a fundir página y escenario. Tanto Coleman como Bogen aparecen en las tres antologías de poesía de pie editadas por Webb, quien se mudó a L.A. después de una exitosa carrera como rockero en la zona noroeste del Pacífico.

Escenas de librería y la rebelde vanguardia

Esencial para la supervivencia de todas estas escenas y comunidades fue el hecho de que, para finales de los años setenta, L.A. ya contaba con un grupo de librerías independientes dispuestas a surtir una y otra vez libros de poesía y revistas, incluyendo un nidal favorito de poesía de pie, Pearl, editado por tres mujeres poetas de Long Beach (Joan Jobe Smith, Barbara Hauk y Marilyn Johnson), y Third Rail (Tercer riel), por Doren Robbins y Uri Hertz. Clave para este desarrollo fue la tienda Papa Beach, situada al oeste de L.A., conocida desde un principio por su voluntad de proveer literatura marxista y ofrecer consultas sobre la leva militar en el desván trasero. Esta tienda lanzó su propia revista literaria con un apodo en diminutivo como título: Bachy, que circuló de 1972 hasta 1980. Lee Hickman fue su editor poético en 1977, para después establecer Temblor, revista que antes de llegar a su décima edición alcanzó reputación nacional cuando Hickman dejó su cargo al enfermar de sida. El enfoque principal de Hickman en Temblor eran los poetas que formaban parte de una vanguardia rebelde. Compartió este interés con Paul Vangelisti, poeta y editor que se había mudado de San Francisco, su ciudad natal, a L.A., hacia finales de los sesenta. Considerándose a sí mismo un artista exiliado, Vangelisti editó Invisible City durante los años setenta, publicó alrededor de dos docenas de volúmenes de la poesía vitalmente experimental a través de su sello, la imprenta Red Hill, además de ser un gran traductor de poesía italiana y editar una serie de revistas literarias, incluyendo New Review of Literature y Or. Aunque los primeros seis números de Invisible City se centraron en poetas como Bukowski, los colaboradores que más emblematizaban el libre acercamiento (la actitud bohemia) de Vangelisti y de su editor asociado, John McBride, fueron Amiri Baraka y Jack Hirschman. Este último tradujo a Antonin Artaud, René Depestre y Vladimir Maiakovsky. Hirschman se mudó a San Francisco a mediados de los setenta, pero regresó con frecuencia a Los Ángeles a hacer lecturas.
Hacia mediados de los ochenta, la mayoría de las librerías independientes más importantes habían cerrado o apenas sobrevivían. Un editor que se las arregló para seguir adelante a pesar de la merma de espacios fue Douglas Messerli, poeta editor que llegó a L.A. a mediados de los ochtenta y convirtió su sello Sun & Moonen una de las editoriales más eclécticas de poesía vanguardista de Estados Unidos. Su antología más voluminosa, From the Other Side of the Century (Del otro lado de la centuria, 1994), apenas registró la presencia de poetas de su hogar adoptivo. Sin embargo, la antología Innovative Poetry (Poesía inovadora) de Messerli entremezcla experimentalistas dispares de L.A. con neosurrealistas como Will Alexander, Dennis Phillips y poetas del lenguaje como Diane Ward, quien se había asentado en L.A. Messerli había demostrado su apoyo a poetas que experimentaban con poemas largos, en serie. Si Messerli operaba libre de cualquier restricción impuesta por las instituciones patrocinadoras, otros editores de L.A. con credenciales vanguardistas equivalentes corrieron con menor suerte. Con traducciones centelleantes de César Vallejo y una vigorosa red de poetas experimentales creada en torno a su primera revista de poesía, Caterpillar, Clayton Eshleman se había establecido como provocador cultural por su habilidad para encontrar poetas que pudieran desafiar la ortodoxia de la poesía americana antes de vivir esporádicamente en L.A. La segunda revista de Eshleman, Sulfur, empezó a publicarse gracias a la generosidad de la Universidad CalTech, donde enseñaba Eshleman, quien en poco tiempo se topó con problemas de censura, y una vez más su determinación visionaria le permitió sostener su publicación continua. Eshleman no se interesaba mucho en los poetas que consideraba parte de la escena local, pero su revista lucía una dirección de Pasadena. Por mucho que Eshleman desdeñara la región, logró escribir un número considerable de poemas en residencia y establecer en esa arboleda de científicos de cohetes la idea de que el arte de la poesía es el reto más sobrecogedor que se pueda presentar ante la imaginación humana.

La poesía feminista, la poesía multicultural y de la academia

Muchas mujeres se alinearon en torno a las artes visuales y la comunidad teatral del Edificio de la Mujer (The Woman’s Building), que floreció en L.A. como institución feminista durante casi dos décadas. Cobijada en lo que fuera en otra época una escuela de artes antes de mudarse a la sección industrial del centro de L.A., el Edificio de la Mujer incluyó eventualmente una imprenta que entrenaba a mujeres para componer y operar una máquina tipográfica. Su revista, Chrysalis, no era una revista literaria como tal sino un espacio para el comentario cultural feminista, incluyendo la escritura creativa de poetas como Eloise Klein Healy y Deena Metzger. El evento literario de mayor importancia que tuvo lugar en el Edificio de la Mujer fue la conferencia de mujeres escritoras en 1975, registrada en Feasts (Fiestas, 1976), un libro experimental de prosa poética mucho más audaz y memorable que otros textos contemporáneos como My Life (Mi vida, 1987) de Lyn Hejinian. Mientras que Healy, Metzger y Prado siguen afiliadas al movimiento de la pequeña editorial de la Costa Oeste, otros poetas asociados a la serie de lecturas en el Edificio de la Mujer o al Centro Gráfico de la Mujer in situ exploraron el seductor archipiélago del «exilio cultural» que Paul Vangelisti ha atribuido a una «extrema presencia y ausencia», compendiada en la aposición de Igor Stravinsky, «espléndido aislamiento». Desire in L.A. (Deseo en L.A.) de Martha Ronk, quien ha enseñado literatura renacentista en el Occidental College por muchos años, es un excelente ejemplo de esta identidad provisional:

Las olas se vuelven para salir al mar,
una ciudad entera se dilata como el universo,
cada uno conduce cañones hacia arriba, cada viento centrífugo llegando
más allá de lo que antaño fueran los límites de una ciudad
y nadie de nosotros puede dejar
de empujar más allá de nuestro tiempo, nuestro dinero, la necesidad
de algunas afueras de una ciudad ya totalmente en las afueras,
buscando alcanzar, como el deseo erótico, las partes más profundas.

Dedos y cuellos amanerados se alargan más allá de sí mismos,
duele la piel secándose al viento,
esperando encontrar una expansión transparente
hacia los elevados alcances de la ni siquiera creencia,
pero ansiando nuestro propio descreimiento
y esa imagen de otra falda
levantada por el aire cálido, ligeramente sucio de una rejilla abierta.

Para otros poetas, el exilio es más literal. Bertolt Brecht pudo regresar a Alemania después de pasar más de una década en Santa Mónica. Aleida Rodríguez, nacida en Cuba, tituló su primera colección de poemas Garden of Exile (Jardín del exilio) como declaración de un destino ineluctable. En «My Mother’s Art» («El arte de mi madre») examina las consecuencias del destierro y se enfoca en la manera en que el exilio impacta la transformación social de cada generación. El poema de Rodríguez revela el diálogo feminista de autoempoderamiento que tuvo lugar en el Edificio de la Mujer, cosechando proyectos como la editorial Paradiseasí como la editorial Birds of a Feather de la propia Rodríguez y la revista rara avis:

En mi sueño, mi madre se sentaba en el piso,
haciendo varias pinturas pequeñas de Los Ángeles.
Reconocí el ayuntamiento, asomándose como una gigante pluma Rapidográfica
detrás de algunos edificios bajos amarillos
que el sol quemaba ferozmente.
Y el Hotel Ambassador,
su largo toldo y marchitado glamour,
una tarde azulada filtrándose en su descolorida fachada.
Las pinturas yacían en el piso, a su alrededor
y claramente ella estaba llena de goce.

¿Cómo nunca supe esto?
¿Que mi madre era una gran artista?
¿Y que lo hacía con tanta naturalidad,
de manera tan informal, sentada simplemente en el piso,
su trabajo, evidente producto de su disfrute,
en todo su derredor?

Casi todos los poetas que he mencionado después del esbozo de Venice West y del Taller Watts Writers, aparecieron en una u otra de las dos antología que edité, The Streets Inside (Las calles de adentro, 1978) y Poetry Loves Poetry(La poesía ama la poesía, 1985), en las que aparecen más de cinco docenas de poetas. Michelle T. Clinton, una poeta afroamericana que, como Coleman, había asistido a los talleres semanales de Beyond Baroque, y Suzanne Lummis, quien a finales de los años setenta se había mudado del programa de maestría de la Universidad de Cal State en Fresno a L.A., ambas incluidas en mi segunda antología, pasaron durante la siguiente década a trabajar como antologistas. La antología de Clinton, Invocation L.A.: Urban Multicultural Poetry (Invocación L.A.: Poesía multicultural urbana, 1989), coeditada por Sesshu Foster y Naomi Quinonez, se enfoca en la comunidad rápidamente creciente de poetas del Tercer Mundo en L.A., incluyendo a Manazar Gamboa, Gloria Álvarez, Rubén Martínez, Russell Leong, Víctor Valle, Amy Uyematsu y Lyyn Manning, pero también incluye a poetas angloamericanos como Karen Holden y Fred Voss. La antología de Suzanne Lummis Grand Passion (Gran pasión, 1995), que incluye poemas de festivales de poesía de la ciudad, incorpora un amplio registro de poetas de etnicidad identificable con conciencia de su propia etnia. En años recientes, poetas como Marisela Norte, Ramón García, Max Benavídez y el difunto Gil Cuadros han colaborado en muchas otras comunidades.
Las universidades y departamentos resguardados en varios suburbios de California del Sur posibilitan que poetas con inclinación académica se ganen la vida como profesores al mismo tiempo que se reconcilian con el clima cultural de L.A. Si los profesores-poetas se quedaron inicialmente absortos frente al aparente fervor provinciano, también descubrieron eventualmente el aspecto providencial de las contradicciones regionales. El aparente antiintelectualismo de los poetas performance escondía un profundo respeto hacia cualquier poeta dispuesto a reconocer las ventajas de que la tradición y la experimentación compartan los mismos anaqueles. A principios de los setenta solamente un puñado de poetas académicos como Ann Stanford, Jascha Kessler, Charles Gullans y Henri Coulette parecían trabajar en la ciudad. Para la última década del siglo xx y la primera del xxi se podría reunir una tentadora antología compuesta únicamente de poetas con ese tipo de afiliación: Gail Wronsky, Tim Steele, Ralph Angel, David St. John, Steven Yenser, Sarah Maclay, Cecilia Woloch, Harryette Mullen, B. H. Fairchild, Christopher Buckley, Dorothy Barressi, el difunto Dick Barnes, Robert Mezey, Molly Bendall, Patty Seyburn, Robert Peters y James McMichael.
Mientras que los lectores de otras ciudades en primera instancia pudieran no identificar a estos poetas con L.A., casi todos ellos escriben poemas en los que calles específicas de L.A. permean las imágenes y los temas. Sencillamente es casi imposible imaginar a David St. John escribiendo un poema como The Face: A Novella in Verse (La cara: una novela en verso, 2004) excepto como consecuencia directa de años de trabajo en L.A. Efectivamente, tal vez uno de los aspectos más sorprendentes de la poesía en L.A. no sea simplemente su elasticidad y resistencia, sino que los poetas tienen un interés por los poemas largos, ya sea el inacabado pero magistral «Tiresias» o Blue Guide (Guía azul, 2006) de Steven Yenser, u Odalisque (Odalisca, 2007) de Mark Salerno. El libro de meditación sobre la ciudad de Pasadena de James McMichael, Four Good Things (Cuatro cosas buenas, 1980), fue un primer modelo para muchos de estos proyectos.
Al volver la mirada sobre las diversas comunidades de poetas que han habitado cañones, callejuelas, bulevares y playas de L.A., uno se pregunta cómo es posible que tal diversidad pudiera adaptarse a una congestión literaria semejante a sus famosas autopistas. En mi introducción a Poetry Loves Poetry (La poesía ama la poesía), sugerí que uno de los elementos que atrajeron a los poetas a L.A., y que sigue sosteniéndolos, es lo mismo que trajo aquí a la industria fílmica: la calidad de la luz, que posee mayor variedad de intensidad y tonalidades que ningún otro lugar de Estados Unidos. La mayoría de los poetas que siguen trabajando en esta ciudad encuentran su fuerza no sólo en la luz, sino en la abierta aceptación de la visibilidad de cada comunidad hacia los otros y en la cristalización que les espera después de su paciente labor.
Traducción de Verónica Grossi

FROM: Luvina, issue number 57

Books

Tonight (August 15): Amy Gerstler, Guy Zimmerman, and Bill Mohr at the Rapp Saloon

The last time I read at the Rapp Saloon was just after “THE HEADWATERS OF NIRVANA” was published by What Books. I am looking forward to reading a set of new poems tonight with two poets I admire very much, who will be followed by other poets I have yet to meet.

Two of the poems I will read, “Fire Is Mud” and “Redemption,” were recently published in TRAMPOLINE magazine.
https://www.trampolinepoetry.com/issue-28

Books

The Prowess of the Poet Laureate of Black Lawrence Press: David Rigsbee’s WATCHMAN IN THE KNIFE FACTORY

WATCHMAN IN THE NIGHT FACTORY, by David Rigsbee.
Black Lawrence Press. 2024.
www.blacklawrence.com

Going through some old issues of the New York Review of Books one recent evening, I found an article by Manwali Serpell entitled “Such Womanly Touches” that I only got halfway through before I got interrupted, and then headed off to sleep and never did get back to finishing it. I recollect, though, that one of its main questions involved the ability of a reader to detect the gender preference of an author’s identity. if one only has the writing with which to hazard a conjecture. I’m starting my commentary on David Rigsbee’s exceptionally fine collection, “Watchman in the Knife Factory” by citing this particular question because it seems to me that one of the crucial contributions Rigsbee makes to cultural discourse with this book is the way its poems buffer gender with their prowess. No doubt the late Robert W. Fuller, who decried rankism, would cringe at my use of prowess, for it is not so much a virtue, but a magnifying gauge of some other long-standing dedication, such as fortitude. I can’t get around it, however, nor do I want to: one’s prowess establishes the compelling motive for whether something deserves the precious time of our attentive consciousness and admiration.

What exactly is prowess, however; and how does Rigsbee’s prowess infuse his poems with an authority that provides nutritious intimacy and insight into the human condition? In general, one’s imaginative prowess requires a nimble dexterity; this isn’t just a matter restricted to verse! Let’s look at the example of musical performance: It is very difficult to sing and play an instrument at the same time. If Rigsbee’s best poems exude the prowess of an unflinching imagination, it derives from a technical control of cadence and rhythm with an unerring eye for the lyricism of dramatic detail. Such blending requires strength that is capable of constant emotional and intellectual adjustments, and it can only develop if one is alert to the succession of artistic models that have preceded one’s work. In other words, one must inculcate prowess as a reader along with that of writer.

Needless to say, a problem with this formulation doesn’t exactly dally in speaking up. At the current cultural moment in the United States, the calculations of prowess would more often be perceived as associated with masculinity. Obviously, that’s a case of cultural conditioning, since I can’t think of many factors that would limit prowess to one gender. Even so, Rigsbee’s prowess with the language turns out to be firmly entwined with social situations that interrogate our comprehension of masculinity’s travails. If one would wish to understand the cross-fire that makes the performance of masculinity so challenging for those assigned as males at birth, one need only start with the poems in Watchman in the Knife Factory. If, however, prowess seems too imbued with masculinity, and is therefore in your estimate a suspect agent in social formation, and you feel uncomfortable in any way with that alignment, then you have more or less admitted that you will not be able to read Rigsbee’s poems with the vigorous enthusiasm they deserve. Go your way, but it’s your loss.

Now you might reasonably wonder why I begin a consideration of Rigsbee’s poetry by mentioning this particular context. Quite frankly, I can’t figure out why he is not better known. To put it bluntly, why are not several poems in Watchman not conspicuous in anthologies of contemporary poetry? When I first thought about this absence, my first reaction was that I simply must not be looking at enough anthologies. Just now, though, our old pal AI served us this little dish:

David Rigsbee’s poems have appeared in various anthologies, including Invited Guest: An Anthology of Twentieth-Century Southern Poetry (which he co-edited) and The Ardis Anthology of New American Poetry. Additionally, his work has been featured in numerous literary journals and magazines, such as AGNI, The American Poetry Review, The Georgia Review, The Iowa Review, The New Yorker, The Ohio Review, Poetry, Prairie Schooner, The Sewanee Review, and The Southern Review.

Note the adjective: “various” anthologies; not “numerous” anthologies, which should be how the survey’s summary should read. I can’t say that I am fond of AI, but at least it saved me several hours going through my bookshelves to prove what I already knew: Rigsbee is an underrepresented, proportionate to the quality of his work, as a voter in a gerrymandered state such as Texas.

On one level, I guess it’s a bit of a futile endeavor to urge others to read with the inquisitiveness that I bring to poetry; and why should I be disappointed that Rigsbee is extremely unlikely to ever win enough critical or popular attention to be announced as a poet laureate of some literary domain, if not at least to be prominently anthologized? I’ve never met him. He’s not even a casual acquaintance. In the end, I have to admit that the fact that there is an inexplicable gap between Rigsbee’s accomplishment as a poet and the recognition he deserves is not really that unusual. The same case can be made for dozens of poets. Yet Rigsbee’s plight seems just that: something with a touch of scandal, for I cannot emphasize how rare it is that such a fine poet deserves at the very least to be known as the “go-to” poet of an outstanding small press. While there are hundreds of poets who can claim to have as extensive a publication list in literary magazines, few in fact have written truly memorable poems that require one to make conjectures about the genealogy of their poetics.

Before we consider Rigsbee’s influences, let’s consider one of the myths that has infected explanations of poetry’s trajectory in the past 125 years. Please grant that oversimplifications are unavoidable; when I say that modernist and post-modernist poets have an inflated sense of their importance, for instance, let’s first ask ourselves with a cynical smile what literary movement doesn’t overrate its own value? Self-promoting narratives are such a drag, and it’s very hard not to flinch when I run across statements about how Pound and Eliot and Williams and Stevens (PEWS) are the crucial poets in the genealogy of contemporary poetry and that without them we wouldn’t have much work worth reading. We certainly wouldn’t have the enormous variety of writing we get to choose from now, if PEWS had not produced all of their writing, but to fantasize that the writing that doesn’t affiliate with their poetics is ipso facto inferior is a proposition I refuse to buy a time-share in.

So what is one of many alternative genealogies, and what is its relationship with PEWS? I have no doubt that Hayden Carruth absorbed a great deal of his craft in writing verse from the above quartet, but when I think of Carruth, the poet who strikes most readers as the most important influence is Frost. What seems to get forgotten, as one reads a poet such as David Rigsbee, is how strong the DNA is that flows from Frost to Carruth to the most memorable poems in Watchman in the Knife Factory. And let’s be clear about this: there is no anxiety of influence here. Not only that, the best of Rigsbee’s work deserves to be set alongside that of Frost and Carruth as the kind of work that tests the very fabric of human consciousness in the mendacious projects that entitles itself the United States of America.

Part Two

I recently saw a list of recommended books of poetry that a creative writing teacher at a college put together for a syllabus. Almost all the titles were “New and Selected” and “Collected Poems.” I groaned at the complacent laziness of such a list. While I certainly have benefitted from first encountering the work of poets such as W.B. Yeats and Theodore Roethke in a volume of “Collected Poems,” one misses out on the kind of instruction that a stand-alone collection can provide a reader who aspires to write. While this piece of commentary has had its impetus in the publication of Rigsbee’s up-to-this-point retrospective of his poetry, it is one book in particular that I want to call attention to: School of the Americas is replete with memorable poems, and I confess that I find myself utterly bewildered as to why the book does not seem to have, at the very least, been on the list of “Best Books of the Year” when it came out. What exactly is bedeviling the people who have literary power in this country that there are unable to detect which books have writing of enduring merit?

The title of the book, with its echo of neutered bureaucratic nomenclature, could easily serve as one question on a comprehensive test of political consciousness in the United States. Not being able to identify the title as a reference to an institution notorious for its advocacy of brutal torture in support of right-wing dictatorships would not mean you flunk the test, and I would never want to belittle someone for their lack of knowledge about this institution. After all, the numerous travesties of human decency that take place on a daily basis on this planet are overwhelming, to put it mildly, and it’s hard to keep up. “Is there a hole for me to get sick in,” sang Bob Dylan, and that about sums it up.
Unlike almost any other poet who addresses the reprehensible side of American history, Rigsbee juxtaposes his revulsion with sketches of other people he’s encountered, sometimes on offhand chance, as finely drawn as anything written by E.A. Robinson. Now I wish I could assume that in citing Robinson, my readers would immediately understand which of Robinson’s poems I am citing when I praise “Tom House” or “Get It Down.” Unfortunately, all too many poets have simply not done basic reading and wouldn’t be able to draw a line from “Miniver Cheevey” to Rigsbee’s poems; nor if I quoted lines from “Clavering” such as:
I think of him as I should think
Of one who for scant wages played
And faintly, a flawed instrument,
that fell while it was being made
would they see how Rigsbee has drawn upon the accumulation of traditional tropes and renovated them with extraordinary, bemused dexterity. But it ill becomes me to devote too much time to berating Rigsbee’s potential readers. One doesn’t have to first read Thomas Hardy, W.B. Yeats, Alan Dugan, Tom Lux, and Robert Wrigley to prime oneself for the distinctively understated assessment of war without any exit strategy in “The Pilot House.” For one thing, the poem that precedes it in Watchman, “The Gulf,” deftly dangles the reader in the wheelhouse of history. If you have not read the oncoming waves sooner than those whose perspective is only a notch above the churn that is the slippery deck, then you deserve your baleful fate.

Another instance of how it would help one appreciate Rigsbee’s subtle shadings of theme would be if one read Seamus Heaney’s “Digging” before reading Rigsbee’s “Roofers.” The former’s central metaphor is so egregiously obvious that it’s like having to endure watching an alleged magic trick while listening to the color commentary of the magician’s assistant. “Roofers” surmounts the temptation to make certain that the reader “understands” the poem by keeping the symbolic burdens of its titular occupation unspoken of except as the embodied commandment to keep one’s protest to oneself, and to give that which enables one to get the task done – whether a roof or a poem – the clenched efficiency of total concentration. (As a side-note, Ray Zepeda’s poem, “Roofing,” also fulfills its mise-en-scene in a much more satisfying comic manner than Heaney’s poem in using labor as a metaphor. I’ve never ceased to be astonished at the capacity of critics to fawn over third-rate work.)
Finally, anyone familiar with Rigsbee’s poetry will note how I’ve deferred mentioning a quartet of poems interspersed throughout Watchman in which Rigsbee either directly or obliquely addresses the suicide of his brother. “The Slug,” “The Courage of Unspeakable Acts,” “The Red Tower,” and “Immortal Soul.” If you have been fortunate enough to have been spared the insatiable abrasives of such a familial drama in your own life, you will begin to understand the peripheries of its grasp; although if you, too, have suffered such a loss, you will not be purged of an iota of your grief. You, too, as Rigsbee does in another poem, will climb into the attic until you find the omphlos of its instigation and touch the proud flesh of the wound.

In considering these poems, what I want to point out is how part of the textual apparatus of the book undercuts the presence of these poems in a volume over 350 pages in length. Where is the index of first lines and titles? For that matter, how about an index of final lines? The conclusion of “Immortal Soul” surprises the reader by pointing to what might seem a peripheral character, who only arrives in the narrative at the last instant. “See, it looks just like you,” says a visitor to a dying woman, who is being shown a photograph of herself when she was spry. Implicitly, we are being asked if we can recognize ourselves as other than we are, and find in that tether the comfort of immortality’s infinite brevity.

Take hold of this book, and don’t let it spend too much time on your shelf. Make sure there’s always a chair nearby wherever you might happen to set it.

POST-SCRIPT:

*******

Here are the links to two other reviews of Rigsbee’s work, along with a list of poem they cite that are not mentioned in my review.

Number One:
https://www.culturaldaily.com/watchman-in-the-knife-factory-new-and-selected-poems-by-david-rigsbee/?fbclid=IwY2xjawLIHnpleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBicmlkETF3UFB5T1F4VXZ5SFpnRHRZAR6IfX4x9q7hgWlSea_0rWjmj_DcN3RA9IEog2pcSoLjN5LuGelCb0rHOSskHw_aem_t90Cg9sWZVKirJXMzWpkdw

Watchman in the Knife Factory: New and Selected Poems by David Rigsbee

Shawn Pavey — a 600 word review, with extensive quotation from three poems:
“Autobiography”
“Executor”
“Roy Orbison, New Orleans, 1984”

Number Two:
https://iowareview.org/blog/david-rigsbees-school-americas

Carolyn Wright’s review addresses such poems as “Heresies of Self-Love”; “Shum”; “Gil’s Sentence,”

******

In addition to the poems examined by these two other reviewers, I would suggest also starting any reading of WATCHMAN by reading the following set:
“After Rain”
“Miss Tilley”
“Clothespins”
“The Stegosaurus”

In fact, I would love to read a review, at least as long as mine, by some other poet that focuses on these ten poems.

Books

“South of Pico” and Noah Davis at the Hammer Museum

August 3, 2025

Noah Davis at Hammer Art Museum, Los Angeles, California

A little over eight years ago, MOCA presented an extraordinary exhibition of paintings by Kerry James Marshall, and I thought I would run the review I posted in this blog about that show again today, as I share a few notes and thoughts about an equally impressive show at the Hammer Museum right now: Noah Davis’s first major survey in any museum. Given that this exhibition will only be up for another four weeks, I wouldn’t want to delay anyone’s attendance by insisting that they first read Kellie Jones’s SOUTH OF PICO first, but I do want to insist that the only way to fully appreciate the cultural work that Davis undertook is to absorb at least some of the information in Jones’s examination of African American artists in Los Angeles in the 1960s and 1970s.

Davis, along with his spouse, Karon Davis, was co-founder of the Underground Museum, a cultural space that was in the Arlington Heights section of Los Angeles. While the Underground Museum was not south of Pico, as such, it was as a cultural project aligned with the self-determined affirmations that marked the intermingled efforts of a cohort of mid-century African American artists in the years following the Watts insurrection. Now it may be the case that the essays of critical appreciation in the exhibition catalogue for this show at the Hammer Museum cite Jones’s book and bring it into their discussion of Davis’s work as a contextual jump-off point, but it would have been even better for the book to have received its own place of visibility to any visitor to this show. One of the first things that one should see before starting to see Davis’s work is the cover of this book. Not everyone can afford to buy the book, of course, but that’s what libraries are for, at least at the present moment.

On the whole, the placards commenting on the evolution of Davis’s poetics as painter are both pertinent and insightful. Basic information is not taken for granted, which is more refreshing than one might expect. Which painting was Davis’s favorite? This kind of question is always worth asking, whether it is directed to a poet, songwriter, or painter because it inevitably opens up the need to address provocative issues of cultural agency. It turns out that “The Architect” was Davis’s favorite painting, and looking at it reminded me of just how much white privilege props the narratives that fantasize about individualistic heroism. Ayn Rand’s protagonist in “The Fountainhead,” Howard Roark, is white. Whatever the challenges he faces might be, the one thing he doesn’t have to do is endure the indignity that Paul Revere Williams did of having to learn to draw upside down, so that he could present his sketches of proposals to white clients while sitting opposite them, since it would be unthinkable at that time for him to be allowed to sit alongside them. Howard Roark doesn’t have an expletive-deleted clue.

One of the most haunting images in the exhibition is of a “Single Mother with Father out of the Picture” (2007-2008). While the adults are the ones mentioned in the title, it is the young daughter whose suffering is most palpable. Her arm is in a cast, and it is not hard to deduce what has led the mother to tell the father to “hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back no more, no more.” One doesn’t have to be a trained social worker to deduce that the domestic violence may certainly have involved some degree of sexual molestation. Even as David records this situation unflinchingly, he also was able to conjure up a level of mythic enchantment. “Year of the Coxswain” grapples with the heft required in the communal effort required to give meaning to our brief sojourn on the river run of eternity’s vast delta.

OTHER REVIEWS

https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/story/2025-06-16/noah-davis-ucla-hammer-museum

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/07/21/arts/design/noah-davis-painter-hammer-museum.html

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billmohrpoet.com

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Backlit by Blackness: Kerry James Marshall’s “Mastry” at MOCA

A couple of weeks ago, Hye Sook Park reported that Kerry James Marshall’s retrospective exhibition at MOCA was a must-see event. Even before her enthusiastic commentary, in fact, I had made a note in my memory’s calendar of the closing date of his show, which grew ever closer as the month has gone by. Getting time to see his show has not been easy: my teaching work glided straight from the end of the spring semester into the summer session course I am teaching without the slightest pause.

Two days ago, on Friday, we might have headed north, but on Thursday the place where my mother is being cared wrote me and said that her doctor would be visiting her on Friday; since I had never talked to him face-to-face in the past eight months, that priority cancelled any other possibility. We did drive up to Beyond Baroque that evening, though, and heard David St. John read from The Last Troubadour, and Christopher Merrill read an account of his long friendship with Agha Shahid Ali. As always, it’s a long trip from Long Beach to Beyond Baroque, but this time it was truly worth it. David is one of this country’s very best poets, and Christopher’s recollections made Ali a living presence in the room. I would have liked to have heard Christopher read some of his poems, too, but his choice to read a single piece made it all the more memorable.

On Saturday, with a rare empty square on the kitchen calendar, we saddled up and headed north. Marshall’s show is easily worth more than one visit, and I hope to return before it closes, if only to spend more time with an unframed painting from 2003 entitled “7 a.m. Sunday Morning.” Before I briefly talk about that painting, I want to list several pieces that impressed me almost as much: “Beach Towel”; “Slow Dance”; “Red (If They Come In the Morning”; “Frankenstein” and “Bride of Frankenstein”; “School of Beauty, School of Culture”; “Heirlooms & Accessories”; “Chalk Up Another One”; “Fingerwag”; and “The Actor Hezekiah Washington as Julian Carlton Taliesen Murderer of the Flank Lloyd Wright Family.” If I have not included the housing project paintings in this list, it is only because they have already drawn more than sufficient critical attention.

The scale of Marshall’s work is often startling in its acute depictions of personal identity within the encompassing hemispheres of economic and racial confinements. Circling in a room of fermenting ordinariness, the figures in “Slow Dance” are both holding tight to each other’s poignant desires for more than has been allotted them, and grateful that at least they have each other for the moment. It more honestly addresses the romantic plight of marginal individuals, no matter what their race, than any painting I have ever absorbed into my memory.

The room the dancers inhabit is exactly what could have been foreseen by anyone who looks closely at the furniture of an engagement scene in a cheap restaurant. Even if one imagines the couple looking back at each other, and then unclasping to reach for a celebratory sip of their drinks, one would hardly expect either one to feel more comfortable in the minimally padded chairs the restaurant has provided them. Their fond ebullience is as much a performance meant for themselves as the onlookers they are posing for. The mise-en-scene of the restaurant extends to the smallest details of an urban backyard: the pink flip-flops being worn by the sunbather in “Beach Towel,” for instance. Equally pertinent in scope, one should not overlook the oversized earrings of “Fingerwag.” Marshall has a profound ability to augment his excavation of that which the ideological normative would prefer not to be present at all.

Jed Rasula mentions the contrast between “the politics in the poem, and the politics of the poem” in his intriguing study of American poetry anthologies. One could use the same distinction to talk about Marshall’s work, too, since in his case the politics in a painting such as “Red (If They Come in the Morning” are equally about the cultural politics of abstract painting and its reluctance to accept work done in that domain by African-American painters.

The street scene depicted in “Sunday Morning, 7 a.m.” has no overt politics, and yet the speeding white car that the running child seems to avoid by not much than a second and a half can hardly be separated from the more obvious repression cited in “Chalk Up Another One.” The adults in the post-dawn background stay safely on the sidewalk with its immediate access to the liquor store. The child has other comforts in mind. What might await that young man is hinted at in the right hand portion of the painting, in which Marshall’s synaesthetic handling of urban light portends some future visitation. Softened by a prismatic uncertainty, as if a late spring day will fulfill its potential for revelation, one can almost hear Whitman’s pure contralto sing the organ loft of some unanticipated destiny. Redemption is not an option, so don’t get carried away with hope, this light suggests. On the other hand, there is no reason to settle for mere survival of one’s ideals.

This show will be up through next weekend. As hard pressed for time as you might be, make every effort to catch this show. I agree with Christopher Knight’s concluding assessment in the LA Times: “Kerry James Marshall: Mastry” is the first time in a long time that MOCA’s exhibition program has felt essential. Don’t miss it.”

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/arts/la-et-cm-kerry-james-marshall-moca-20170320-htmlstory.html

Books

A Classic Protest Song, More Relevant than Ever: Woody Guthrie’s “Deportee”

Living in Long Beach, California is a mixed bag. While the air quality is not as bad as it is in nearby Wilmington, you are fairly safe in assuming that no one living in Santa Monica or Malibu or Huntington Beach is yearning to drive here and spend a day looking at the non-existent waves of very polluted water in Long Beach’s bay. The streets are in terrible condition; potholes abound. On the other hand, the city does have neighborhoods that provide some sense of psychological refuge from the insidiousness of the right-wing fanaticism that has become pervasive in part of this country. There is more tolerance here, even for people who support Trump. No one physically attacks them, as happens in other parts of the country to people who criticize the current occupants of the White House. For all its imperfections, Long Beach has been my home city for two decades. In many ways, its ethnic, gender, and cultural diversities represent the possibilities of a country that would still claim to have meaningful ideals. How long Long Beach, as a city, and California, as a state, can hold out, however, is difficult to gauge. Will the dictatorial accelerant in Washington, D.C. manage to subdue California by 2028, or will it end up being the lone holdout?

California may end up, in fact, becoming the equivalent of Massachusetts in the 1972 election: the only state to object to the election of the GOP’s candidate for president. The majority of voters in 49 states preferred Richard Nixon, who then ordered a massive bombing campaign in Vietnam called “Operation Lineback II.” Its targets included civilian sites, such as Hanoi’s main hospital. If you ask me if I have forgiven the people who voted for Nixon, the answer is no. If you ask me whether I believe that the current occupants of the White House feel any shame or guilt about this part of American history, the answer is no.

I don’t hate the country I live in. I just loathe its hypocrisy. “Peace with honor” was supposedly Nixon’s goal. What honor? The honor of having dropped more tonnage of bombs on Vietnam than were dropped in all of Europe during all of World War II? The honor of targeting a hospital? The honor of My Lai? The honor of a young girl drenched in napalm and running down a country road?

Would it be any different if I lived elsewhere? China? Russia? Indonesia? Israel? Are you kidding? The leaders of those countries are even more appalling than Trump, who is currently engaged in a campaign that implicitly is aligned with an ideology that justifies ethnic cleansing. He is hardly the first U.S. president to promote domestic partitioning or to favor one set of people over another. The Displaced Persons Act of 1948 was intended to address the assistance that this country might offer to those in Europe who were displaced by the ravages of World War II.

At the same time, this country was loading people who did the hardest work for the least money onto airplanes and sending them back to Mexico. One of those planes crashed, on January 28, 1948. Woody Guthrie wrote a poem about it, which later was set to music by Martin Hoffman. This song is a classic piece of protest art. What amazes me is how few people have heard of it. Of course, I probably would not know of it if it were not for a friend, the songwriter Patty Zeitlin, who also attended the Church in Ocean Park back in the mid-1970s. It is in her honor that I nominate this song to be part of your playlist today.

“Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos)” by Woody Guthrie and Martin Hoffman

https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=%22Deportee%3A+(Palne+Wreck+at+Los+Gatos&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:6a291eed,vid:qu-duTWccyI,st:0

https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=%22Deportee%3A+(Palne+Wreck+at+Los+Gatos&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:b86d1d23,vid:lAgRmr0DafA,st:0
(Bruce Springsteen’s cover version)

POSTSCRIPT: After writing this blog entry, I found that a recent newspaper article by Petula Dvorak in the Washington Post has also addressed the relevance of this song.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/history/2025/01/31/migrant-deportations-woody-guthrie-deportees/

(This article was published less than two weeks after Donald Trump was inaugurated.)

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Thought experiment: Maybe Stephen Colbert should invite Mr. Springsteen on his recently cancelled television show to sing this song.

Books

John Martin, the One and Only Editor and Publisher of Black Sparrow Press (1930-2025)

It wasn’t until I started working as the first poetry editor of BACHY magazine, in late 1971 at Papa Bach Bookstore in Los Angeles that I became aware of John Martin and Black Sparrow Press. Until then, I knew only a handful of little magazines, such as KAYAK, APPLE, THE LAMP IN THE SPINE, and INVISIBLE CITY. Although Bukowski was the best known of the poets that Black Sparrow published, I remember that as the decade went being more interested in other poets that Martin was publishing at the time: Diane Wakoski and Robert Kelly, in particular. Wakoski’s “Smudging” remains one of my all-time favorites.

As the years went on, I discovered that Black Sparrow’s success was largely due to the capacity of its editor to do an extraordinary amount of work, seven days a week. John Martin’s publishing enterprise was a one-person operation, during its first half-dozen years Martin routinely worked a full-time job as the manager of an office supply shop as well as working as the editor and shipping clerk for his own literary project. It’s my understanding that he published close to a thousand titles, by the time he closed up shop.

Bukowski wasn’t the only Los Angeles based poet published by Black Sparrow, of course. He also championed the work of Wanda Coleman, and Martin deserves much praise for having done so. One might be tempted to think that Martin published her at the first opportunity he had, but in fact Coleman approached him with a sheaf of poems years before her first publication with Black Sparrow, ART IN THE COURT OF THE BLUE FAG. If one reads the correspondence between Coleman and Martin in Coleman’s archive at UCLA, one learns that Martin certainly encouraged Coleman from the start, but also informed her that early poems were overdetermined and far too convinced of where they were wanted to go from the very outset. Martin counseled Coleman to learn to wait to hear from the poem itself about where it wanted to go. If that sounds like familiar advice, it’s because John Keats’s “negative capability” had saturated postmodern poetry by that point.

One of my favorite books by Martin was HAWK MOON by Sam Shepard, which never took off as far as I can tell. I don’t think Black Sparrow ever did a second printing, though the collection was issued again by Performing Arts Journal. I just remember that I saw a copy of it on the shelves of Either/Or Bookstore in Hermosa Beach for years and years and always expected it to be gone whenever I dropped into the store. Finally, though, with some of the Christmas bonus money I received from Beach City Newspapers in 1980, I swung by the store (which was a few blocks away from David Asper Johnson’s publishing headquarters and bought it.

Another of my favorites was Michael McClure’s Rare Angel. On the other hand, I never ever felt at home with Clayton Eshleman’s books of poems. It’s one of the ironies of a literary life that the L.A. Times asked me to review Eshleman’s “Selected Poems.” I tried very hard to be gracious and enthusiastic about his book, and many friends said that I was more generous than I needed to be. It wasn’t enough to placate Eshleman, though, let alone please him.

Martin didn’t believe there were any serious poets in Los Angeles worthy of being published by Black Sparrow outside of Bukowski and Coleman. From the point of view of a publisher who takes the business side of publishing as that which must take precedence, I would have to say that he was probably right. I suppose it could be said that his dismissal of all the poets I knew and believed only made it possible for me to build up my roster of poets for Momentum Press. One man’s rejects are another man’s betrothal.

Martin deserves to be as famous as Bukowski, even if Martin wasn’t in fact the one who “discovered” Bukowski. Too many accounts of Martin and Bukowski’s relationship overlook the fact that Bukowski had already had full-length volumes of poetry in circulation well before Martin ever purchased a six-pack and dropped in on a poet who had just a few years earlier been on the cover of the “OUTSIDER” magazine as “Outsider of the Year.” If Martin pushed Bukowski a little closer to the center of the canonical conversation, he certainly also pulled into its periphery some of us who were not even in its faintest gravitational orbit. For that, he deserves the appreciation of all the poets working in Los Angeles County.

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/07/10/books/john-martin-dead.html

Interview // Serious Books: A Conversation with John Martin

Books

Robert Mezey — A Tribute at the Huntington Library

I remember hearing Robert Mezey (1936 – 2020) read at San Diego State College in the spring, 1968. I was 20 years old and just beginning to get familiar contemporary poetry. I was taking two poetry courses with Glover Davis, one in creative writing and one survey of poetry course in which Sylvia Plath’s ARIEL was read in its entirety. Davis had studied at Fresno State under Philip Levine as an undergraduate who had first served a four year enlistment in the U.S. Navy., and he had then attended the University of Iowa’s MFA program. In his classes, I read — and re-read — Hart Crane’s THE BRIDGE as well as many poets in Donald Allen’s anthology, THE NEW AMERICAN POETRY.
Unlike now, when the budget to bring poets to a large state university campus such as Cal State Long Beach is not something the poets on campus have any control over, Davis was able to bring Allen Ginsberg, Robert Mezey, and Philip Levine to San Diego State in a single semester. Two years later, when I began reading an anthology Mezey had co-edited, NAKED POETRY, I also purchased THE DOOR STANDING OPEN, Mezey’s “new and selected” volume of poems, and it served as an outstanding example of the transformation that many poets made, who had attained recognition in the Hall-Pack-Simpson anthology, NEW POETS OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA.
Mezey’s shift to free verse, however, did not last the rest of his life. The drum-kit of meter is not that easily put aside, given what a pleasure it can be to work the high-hat. By the very early 1980s, Mezey was adamantly back at work in the formal arena. If it was unfashionable, and cost him a larger audience, he didn’t seem to care.
When he died, of covid-19 at age 85 in 2020, there was of course no public gathering to mourn one of our finest poets. Among the many who particularly admired him in Los Angeles, one would have to count both Suzanne Lummis and myself. Given how often Suzanne and I diverge in our tastes, it is no small thing that we both savor Mezey’s poems, and I was pleased to learn that she was selected to speak at the recent gathering at the Huntington Library in Mezey’s honor. Among the poets who spoke, in fact, I thought that Suzanne Lummis did the best job in not only speaking about his work, but in reading his poems so that every subtle palpitation in the verse resounded with an understated fervor. I also appreciated Jodie Hollander’s recollection of her first meeting with him and how much he subsequently nurtured her poetic maturation.

I myself had hoped to attend, but circumstances and my own faltering capacities led my absence. However, the event was recorded and is now available on-line. It’s worth watching all the way, I assure you, if only to hear Mezey read his great sonnet to the poet Thomas Hardy.
https://rail.huntington.org/Share/dqte03tx036dfa07156vcl82v6t785d3

One of the key things that comes across in the tribute is that Mezey truly lived a literary life: poet, translator, anthologist, and critic. Perhaps my personal fondness for Bob Mezey, however, derives from his commitment to other poets in ways that don’t fall into any literary category. For instance, while Dick Barnes was mentioned several times as Mezey’s co-translator of Borges’s poetry, no one apprized, let alone praised, the role Mezey played in getting a posthumous collection of Dick Barnes’s poems into print (A WORD LIKE FIRE). I had published one of Barnes’s books of poems and it meant the world to me that Bob Mezey did not let Dick’s work fall by the wayside.

I must say one thing about a particular comment by Dana Gioia about the second edition of NAKED POETRY: expanding the table of contents so that it included a greater variety of poets did not make it “useless.” Does Gioia not remember that the first edition had only ONE living woman poet (Denise Levertov)? ONE! And not a single poet of color? NONE. Even Donald Allen’s anthology had four women and one African-American poet, and that was in 1960. A decade later, the first edition of NAKED POETRY amounted to a full scale erection of a white man canon.

These kinds of choices do make a difference. Think of the difference it would have made to Bob Kaufman’s reputation if Allen had included him. Allen certainly knew about Kaufman’s work in the late 1960s, so he couldn’t plead that he simply hadn’t read as widely as he should have. I myself have faltered in that regard, so I am not in any position to judge Mezey for a lapse, but I’m not willing to sit back and accept Gioia’s dismissal of the second edition of NAKED POETRY. I do think it is the case that that anthology had already made its most important contribution, which was to help both Weldon Kees and Kenneth Patchen to regain some footing in the canonical discussion.

I want to close this post by coming back to Mezey’s homage to Hardy, in which the birth of Hardy is recounted as a near-death experience; Hardy only survives being set aside as stillborn because the midwife in attendance coaxed the lingering soul in Hardy’s infant body into taking its initial breath. In describing Hardy’s evasion of death before he had begun living, Mezey reminds us of our own unfathomable odds in being plucked from the abyss of unconsciousness. It is a poem worth memorizing. I would even go so far as to suggest a further absorption. Memorize it, and then recite it to yourself with your eyes closed. Then open your eyes and recite it out loud, imagining your inner voice, with closed eyes, in a duet with your voice propelling the words into your quivering ears.

And then, in grateful memory, say the poet’s name: Robert Mezey.

Books

TRAMPOLINE MAGAZINE – Two New Poems by Bill Mohr

Several years ago, the poet Carol Ellis mentioned to me that she had had some poems in an on-line magazine coming out of New Orleans, TRAMPOLINE, edited by Justin Lacour. I took a look at the magazine and saw why she was so delighted to have work appear in it. The other poets in the issue were also very good. (Carol had just won Beyond Baroque’s manuscript contest with her first full-length collection, LOST AND LOCAL. Suzanne Lummis was the discerning judge in that contest.)

This morning I heard from Justin that I have two new poems in his latest issue, which has just been posted. This is my third appearance in TRAMPOLINE, and I am very grateful for his support and encouragement.

https://www.trampolinepoetry.com/


Bill Mohr at an opening of an exhibition of paintings by Hyunsook Park
(photography copyright by Linda Fry)