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Introduction
Opening Salvo Everyone who lived in America in the second half of the 20th Century has heard of Allen Ginsberg. Most however, only know him as a cultural force - either for good or bad. He was a prototypical Beatnik and a Hippie. He was homosexual, and a drug user. But, he is so much more than his press clippings. Mr. Ginsberg was on the ramparts of change. And his poetry, which is not usually consulted as often as his actions, is soul confirming and humanly uplifting. When Allen Ginsberg takes us inside ourselves to experience a greater level of understanding, we are all transformed into beings of light and song. Song For Allen Ginsberg I sing, no I shout a song for Allen Ginsberg Meeting Allen Ginsberg I don't think that I could have been more excited to see Walt Whitman. Allen Ginsberg was coming to give a reading and would be at a reception afterwards. It was the fall of 1975. I had just gotten engaged to the most wonderful person on earth and I owned my own business and published a literary magazine. The world was a great place and I was as happy as anyone could ever be. Just another quick bit. On my first date with my future wife, we had traveled to Camden, NJ to visit the final home of Walt Whitman. I took my poets and their poetry seriously, at least I felt that way. I had instructed a course on "Beat Writers" and "knew" all about Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and the movement. I had been a great fan of "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" and knew "all" there was to know about LSD and the early Hippie movement, which was also a major piece of Mr. Ginsberg's history. I was, to say the least, quite full of myself.  I couldn't sleep for days before Mr. Ginsberg's reading and the uppers that I was on had nothing to do with it - so I rationalized. I reread every poem that I owned by Mr. Ginsberg - all of Empty Mirror, The Green Automobile, Howl, Reality Sandwiches, Kaddish, Planet News, The Fall of America, and other assorted poems that I collected through the years. I wanted to be able to mouth the words like one would do at a concert of favorite songs. Yeah, I had it bad and I was a bit of a nut. Mostly harmless, but still over the edge. My fiancée left me alone for a week, knowing how I would be over the edge and not wanting to make it an issue. She was sure that I would get it out of my system and get over it. Not the case, then or later. I would never do anything half way when it comes to American poetry. I showed up for the event like it was a major rock concert. I was two hours early. I wanted a good seat. I sat in the front row when they finally let us in. I thought for sure that it would not only be outsold, but over sold. There were plenty of empty seats behind me, but that didn't concern me. I was front-row right. That was my area. When he took the stage in the small theater hall, he bowed with both hands in the Hindu greeting and I was in heaven. He read, he chanted, he laughed. I sat in rapture. Most of the poems I was familiar with and bounced my head along to the cadence of his voice. There were a few that I did not know that would be in his forthcoming collection that would become Mind Breaths All Over The Place. One in particular grabbed my imagination and took me along with him. It's entitled "Mind Breaths" and took me around the world and connected all of us together by breathing in and breathing out. The Zen concept of all being connected by the air that is commingled and we all breath the same atmosphere. It was similar to Mr. Whitman's "There Was A Child Went Forth". When Mr. Ginsberg was describing how our breaths and souls mixed in the air around us and what we breathe out and how it goes around the world touching others and then returns after incorporating the experiences of others and that we are all part of one another, I was part of that breath. I took the journey and lifted my spirit on the wings of others. I had to meet him. I had to get to the reception. I would just go and act like I'd been invited and should be there. No one would keep me out. Then he began chanting some Zen chants to help those of us there cleanse our spirits for the coming days. It was over. I jumped up for the standing ovation that I was sure that he deserved and was a party of the few. Most who had come, I learned later, were from two sections of American lit courses who were told to be there. There were a number of puzzled looks from the audience. I took it as a look of rapture. However, I'm now sure that it was a look of confusion. Not a lot of the audience actually knew what he was talking about. They didn't like him or his poetry. It was a very conservative campus. The sixties were over and "old hippies" just were no longer with the program. I would have been floored at the time if I had actually read the reality of the crowd. They didn't get it and moreover they didn't want to get it. I waited for the man to emerge from the exit and walked with the small crowd over to the reception area. I didn't have anyone question whether I should be there or not. Most of the twenty or so crowd were "kids". There were a couple of professors there that I recognized from my earlier years at the university. And then there was me. I was not to be denied. I had a bunch of questions and I wanted to ask them. Mr. Ginsberg and I entered into a private among the public conversation about his life and poetry. I fired questions quicker than others seemed to keep up. I'm sure that in retrospect I was one of those obnoxious people who monopolized the forum. But I wanted to know. Mr. Ginsberg was patient and kind. He answered my questions that I sure were not as insightful to him as they seemed to me. And, most of the others were kind in letting me get away with my madness. Oh yeah, I should state here that even at twenty-three (I had just had a birthday), I stilled looked like I was twelve. I also had long blond hair, stood about 5' 7" and may have weighed in at 125 lbs. So, I looked like a small boy with long locks, ah youth. That's important in a minute. As the people there left and wandered off, I was able to truly pigeonhole Mr. Ginsberg. We walked side-by-side down the path that led from the reception building to the building in which he would spend the rest of the night. It was by this time two in the morning. And on our walk we shared a joint and talked about Walt Whitman. I was truly on the path to nirvana. Until I gushed about being next to my only living hero and we reached his destination. The story could have ended here I would have gone on my blissed out way knowing that I had not only met one of my heroes, but I'd met a man who had wrestled with greatness and set a tone for American poetry. I had bought all of what he was saying. I had heard from his lips to my ears what I had considered to be great art. I had heard the words the way he had meant them to be heard and I had understood his meaning of inclusiveness. I was a very happy person. If a truck had come barreling down the road and taken me out at that moment I felt as though I was full. I remember him inviting me up for the night and I told him about me just being engaged and all. I knew that I didn't really wish to share that far with him. So - and here's the best part of this story - Allen Ginsberg planted a big, bearded, hairy kiss on me. I stood stunned in the middle of the street in a college town at two in the morning. And I had no one to call to tell them that I'd been kissed goodnight by Allen Ginsberg. His being was so big that he could do that. I was absolutely knocked out. There was/would be no other ending that could have possibly been better. When I got home a little later I started reading his poetry again. He breathed into me and I felt and understood his greatness on a different level. Now, one coda to this story before I close. The next day in the local newspaper reviewing Mr. Ginsberg's reading was devoted to criticizing his lifestyle and didn't really cover any of his poetry. It summed up the review of his work by stating that Mr. Ginsberg was more interested in picking up young blond boys than any art that may be in his poetry and the reviewer saw no art in Mr. Ginsberg's poetry. I'm not sure how the young blonde's got mentioned, but it sure seemed too close to home. I told you that my size at the time had a place here. Lest you think that I'm only enamored by someone who would try and pick me up on a lecture tour, I was a fan of Mr. Ginsberg's art long before I met the man. I remain a loyal fan even though he kissed me goodnight. His universal themes of love and connectiveness ring true for all of us, not just those who have lived a life in full as he had. Allen Ginsberg is a force in American poetry and was a cultural instigator. He sings of the soul and its interactions with other souls on our journey through this life. His words and life affirming spirit still fill the air and imagination of all who wish to understand the human condition. His poetry both cries over the inequities of life and for the lift that we are all able to give one another. And on a personal note, even if Mr. Ginsberg had never kissed me goodnight, he would still be one of my two favorite poets. "a calm breath, a silent breath, a
slow breath breathes outward from the nostrils." "That Jack thru whose eyes I "I forgive both good & ill "Our icy wills resolved in watery
black ink's translucent tears, It's true that I don't like to account personal experiences in a forum like this; however, in this instance it shows both the artists human-ness and I hope reveals a bit about his art. I hope that you at least enjoyed this little trip down my memory lane and it shows you that all great men are after all men (and women). Thanks. For more from Harry visit his columns: then, before; and his poetry: now, then and before. Or his online home. |
Cheshire Cat
Nothin' Better
Life In The
Greetings.
This month I want to talk about Allen Ginsberg. I have prepared
three drafts covering Mr. Ginsberg's poetry and life and I just
didn't capture his "sweet soul" in any of them. I wrote
them all in a detached third-person as any good reviewer should.
I had a great opportunity to meet Allen Ginsberg when he gave
a reading in 1975 at the University of Delaware in Newark, DE.
The following is a mixture of my personal account of that meeting
mixed with the cultural awe in which I held and still hold the
man and his poetry. For me, there is no greater American poet
except for Walt Whitman.
