Thursday, September 3, 2020

"The first adequate account of California's complex and contradictory literary life"


VISIONS & AFFILIATIONS ~ A California Literary Time Line: Poets & Poetry 1940-2005
is a two-volume chronoencyclopedia of a scene that stretches over sixty-five years. People, ideas, and stories appear, disappear, and reappear as the second half of the century moves forward. Poetry is a major element in this kaleidoscopic California scene. It is argued about, dismissed, renewed, denounced in fury, asserted as divine, criticized as pornographic. Poetry is as Western as the Sierra foothills, and the questions raised here go to its very heart. Beginning with the publication of Kenneth Rexroth's first book, this all-encompassing history-as-collage plunges us forward into the 21st Century. California authors keep generating massive anthologies in an attempt to tame the chaos of California, to pretend it isn't there. Yet there it is—staring them in the face like a great bear, alive, hungry and more than a little dangerous.


(publisher's summary)

Friday, September 13, 2019

writing / reading


Yesterday I had a discussion with a friend who remarked that radio allowed him to “use his imagination”—a familiar assertion which I continue to question: I’ve published an article arguing that radio depends upon the power of voices—disembodied voices—not upon our ability to “imagine” an image. My friend went on to suggest that the same thing happens when we read a book. His argument relied heavily on the notion of the “individual.” “In a sense,” he said, “we all read different books when we individually read a book: we all have individual histories, and we bring that history to our experience of reading.” I think this is true to a degree but not to a very significant degree. If it were true that our individual histories entered powerfully into our experience of reading, Madison Avenue would have great difficulty persuading vast numbers of people that it is telling the truth, and it is one of the calamities of our culture that people often believe media-generated things which, if they consulted their individual histories, they would know to be untrue. What happens is not that there is the book and there is ourselves as individuals and they are in a relationship: what happens is that we enter the field of language. Language generates a world in which it is the primary event—in which it postulates reality. The power of rhetoric is that it creates an area which depends upon its own contexts, its own connections. Though we may respond to a book about fathers with thoughts about our own father or a book about mothers with thoughts about our mother, that is not the primary thing that is happening to us. What is happening is that we are being pulled into a world that is deeply and essentially NOT this world—and we enter into it happily in order to escape what is precisely our “individuality.” All rhetoric is fiction: all reading is empathy and escape. That the world of reading may bring us to the perception of the possibility of a deeper, more generous world than the one we live in is certainly true, though it is also true that it may bring us into a world of lies and distortions. But both these worlds are fictions. What I am suggesting is the notion of writing as a “spell,” as “spelling,” rather than a neutral presenter of its contents. Christianity, with its belief in “another world,” a world in which we will continue to live even after our deaths, has a tangled relationship to writing, as Saint Augustine perceived in the sixth book of his Confessions when he confronted Saint Ambrose reading with his eyes alone: “Who durst intrude on one so intent?” Saint Ambrose was not affirming his individuality through reading; he was losing it through reading. He was, at that moment, “not of this world.” 


~~ Jack Foley




Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Visions & Affiliations to be featured on radio KPFA, Berkeley

Next Wednesday, September 18, from 3:00 –3:30 p.m. (California time),  the weekly KPFA radio show about poetry, "Cover to Cover with Jack Foley" will air the second in a series of shows presenting excerpts from Jack’s book, Visions & Affiliations: California Poetry from 1940 to 2005. 

In Jack Foley’s Unmanageable Masterpiece (Monongahela Books, 2019), Dana Gioia writes: 

“In 2011 a tiny press in Berkeley published Visions & Affiliations, an eccentric 1300-page chronology of post-war California literature in two massive paperbound folio volumes. 

"With no commercial distribution or publicity, the book sold about two hundred copies and soon vanished from sight—but not from the memory of the small audience that read it. Some of them considered the elaborate time-line the first adequate account of California’s complex and contradictory literary life. 

"Others recognized Foley’s radical innovation in changing how literary history could be written. A few even considered these strange and sprawling yet compulsively readable tomes an oddball masterpiece.”

The show will be broadcast at FM 94.1, and will also be available at the KPFA website.


Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Howl and the Howlers: Ginsberg's Poem Fifty Plus Years Later


An Essay on the Most Famous Poetry Reading ever to Occur in California and on the Most Famous Single Poem ever Written There

If it’s true that the road to originality lies in imitation, then it wasn’t an utter waste of time for a Catholic high school boy from the suburbs to try to sound in his poems like a downtown homosexual Jewish beatnik intimate in the ways of pot and Benzedrine.
                            —Billy Collins, “My ‘Howl’” (2006)

Don’t hide the madness.
                           —Allen Ginsberg, “On Burroughs’ Work” (1954) 



“The Beat Generation” was one of the most publicized, misunderstood, attacked, understood, deeply considered, cannibalized, ripped-off art movements of the twentieth-century. Its influence extends from the adolescent troubled about sexuality and identity to the dry-as-dust scholar looking for history and significance in old books and papers. Whereas the “hippies” seem somewhat passé, sentimental, and—worst of all—old, the even-older Beats (some of whom were also hippies) have passed into history as American artists of considerable importance. Like Elvis, Jack Kerouac is now forever young, intense and handsome—a symbol of American success—and only occasionally remembered as the middle-aged, fat, lonely man he became. He has in fact become exactly what he wished to be: a great American writer. But he has become more than that: an icon. If America has secular saints, he is surely one. But, like many prophets perhaps, he has become a saint of a religion he would have despised: his image is used to sell things; he is the American bourgeoisie raised to cosmic proportions.

From its inception, the Beat Generation was a testimony to the power of the fuzzy definition. Intensely meaningful—and with certain aspects continually but not always manifesting—“Beat” has never been adequately defined. Had it been adequately defined, it might have been long dead as a movement. Though everyone would agree that something took place in the middle of the twentieth century, after the war, it would be difficult to find agreement about exactly what that something was. Was it a rebellion, as people often claimed? Kerouac announced, with some justice, that he was never a “rebel.” In his late bitterness but with some irony still, he told Bruce Cook in The Beat Generation, “The Beat Generation?—That was just a bunch of guys trying to get laid.” He also wrote,


The Beat Generation, that was a vision that we had, John Clellon Holmes and I, and Allen Ginsberg in an even wilder way, in the late Forties, of a generation of crazy, illuminated hipsters suddenly rising and roaming America, serious, curious, bumming and hitchhiking everywhere, ragged, beatific, beautiful in an ugly graceful new way.

                “About the Beat Generation” (1957) 


           On October 7 or October 13, 1955, a poetry reading was held at The Six Gallery, a cooperative art gallery in San Francisco. Different sources list different dates. Allen Ginsberg’s postcard announcing the event says October 7th–and that is almost certainly  the correct date–but his biographer, Barry Miles, says October 13th. (I’ve been told that Ginsberg claimed that the reading had to be postponed for six days—so the postcard was inaccurate. No one else seems to mention the postponement.) The featured readers were Allen Ginsberg (the organizer), Michael McClure (whose first reading it was), Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen, and Philip Lamantia. Jack Kerouac was visiting Ginsberg at the time and attended, though he did not read. Kenneth Rexroth was Master of Ceremonies.

Ann Charters writes in The Beat Reader, “The ‘Six Poets at the Six Gallery’ reading was the catalyst that dramatically revealed what Ginsberg later called the ‘natural affinity of modes of thought or literary style or planetary perspective’ between the East Coast writers and the West Coast poets.”

Both Jack Kerouac and Michael McClure wrote about the Six Gallery event, Kerouac in The Dharma Bums (1958)—in which he calls the Six Gallery the Gallery Six—and McClure in Scratching the Beat Surface (1982). The event soon became famous as the first public reading of “Howl” (though Ginsberg read only the first section of the poem that night). Ginsberg’s poem created a sensation. Kerouac collected money for wine and passed around gallon jugs of California Burgundy. When Ginsberg’s turn came, writes Barry Miles, “he read with a small, intense voice, but the alcohol and the emotional intensity of the poem quickly took over, and he was soon swaying to its powerful rhythm, chanting like a Jewish cantor, sustaining his long breath length, savoring the outrageous language.  Kerouac began cheering him on, yelling ‘Go!’ at the end of each line, and soon the audience joined in.  Allen was completely transported. At each line he took a deep breath, glanced at the manuscript, then delivered it, arms outstretched, eyes gleaming, swaying from one foot to the other with the rhythm of the words.”

All descriptions of the Six Gallery event emphasize the transformative character of Ginsberg’s reading.  Michael McClure writes that “‘Howl’ . . . was Allen’s metamorphosis from quiet, brilliant, burning bohemian scholar trapped by his flames and repressions to epic vocal bard.” Kerouac’s communal wine-drinking gave the event a Bacchanalian, Dionysian quality. (Wine is of course associated with various religions, including Kerouac’s own, Catholicism; in a 1958 letter to John Hollander, Ginsberg himself refers to “Howl” as “rather like a jazz mass.”) Barry Miles too attests to both transformation and religious associations. These various elements coalesce into a single image: what the audience at the Six Gallery was witnessing was the metamorphosis of Allen Ginsberg, “hornrimmed intellectual hepcat with wild black hair” (in Kerouac’s phrase), into Allen Ginsberg, “epic vocal bard.”

Ann Charters remarks that Ginsberg “found the audience so fervently sympathetic to his words that he discovered his unrecognized talents as a performance artist”; his “predecessor as an incandescent performer of poetry was the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, whose widely acclaimed reading tours of American cities in the early 1950s . . . and his best-selling recordings had revolutionized the way his audiences thought of poetry.”

True enough, but Kerouac’s and the audience’s shouts of “Go!” indicate that Ginsberg had taken on the persona not only of the rhapsodic poet but of the jazz musician. Though Ginsberg wasn’t reading his poem to jazz accompaniment (as ruth weiss, Kenneth Rexroth and others were soon to do at The Cellar), his unaccompanied reading was alive with a sense of music—even with a sense of bebop: “who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz.”

In his notes to the LP album, Allen Ginsberg Reads Howl and Other Poems (1959), Ginsberg describes his poem as full of “long saxophone-like chorus lines” and suggests that writing it was equivalent to the experience of a jazz musician improvising. Like the hipster, who, Norman Mailer wrote in “The White Negro” (1957), “absorbed the existentialist synapses of the Negro,” Ginsberg’s performance at the Six Gallery took on the aura of the hippest of public performers: in Mailer’s formulation, “for practical purposes [he] could be considered a white Negro.” Instead of being the observer of what Kerouac called in On the Road “the happy, true-hearted Negroes of America,”  Ginsberg became the authentic conveyer of their power. Like Neal Cassady—the “secret hero of these poems”—the sensitive, gay, bespectacled, hustling, funny, lonely, fiercely intellectual, convivial, drug-taking ex-student of Lionel Trilling’s stood before his audience as something equivalent to Charlie Parker. For one of the very few times in the twentieth century, poetry seemed cool.

And—most importantly—if Ginsberg could do it, so could we.

Kerouac’s Mexico City Blues had already presented the jazz musician as analogous to the poet, but Kerouac was not yet widely known. (On the Road did not appear until 1957; Mexico City Blues was not published until 1959.) “Howl” was written at a time when influential critics such as Arthur Mizener were saying, “The age of Yeats is over; we are in the age of Auden”—by which Mizener meant that Romanticism had been replaced by irony and sotto voce. Ginsberg sent “Howl” to a critic even more distinguished than Mizener, his old Columbia mentor Lionel Trilling. Trilling was—as the poet knew he would be—horrified:

I’m afraid I have to tell you that I don’t like the poems at all. I hesitate before saying that they seem to me quite dull, for to say of a work which undertakes to be violent and shocking that it is dull is, I am aware, a well known and all too easy device. But perhaps you will believe that I am being sincere when I say they are dull. They are not like Whitman….

Poet John Hollander, writing in the Partisan Review, was even harsher:
It is only fair to Allen Ginsberg…to remark on the utter lack of decorum of any kind in his dreadful little volume.

In “The White Negro,” Norman Mailer asserted that after the Second World War and the revelation of what went on in concentration camps “one could hardly maintain the courage to be individual, to speak with one's own voice”: these years, he complained, are “the years of conformity and depression. A stench of fear has come out of every pore of American life, and we suffer from a collective failure of nerve…The only courage, with rare exceptions . . . has been the isolated courage of isolated people”:

If the fate of twentieth century man is to live with death from adolescence to premature senescence, why then the only life-giving answer is to accept the terms of death, to live with death as immediate danger, to divorce oneself from society, to exist without roots, to set out on that uncharted journey into the rebellious imperatives of the self.

In such a climate, Ginsberg could appear not only as an immensely talented poet but as a harbinger of cultural change. “Howl” too “lives with death as immediate danger” and insists on “the rebellious imperatives of the self.” The poet’s LP liner notes indicate that writing “Howl” was a kind of conversion experience, a personal transformation: “I suddenly turned aside in San Francisco . . . to follow my romantic inspiration—Hebraic-Melvillian bardic breath.” The extraordinary thing about the event at the Six Gallery was that the audience could witness Ginsberg’s transformation: they could actually see the poet become jazz musician. Ginsberg’s powerful reading, “arms outstretched, eyes gleaming,” was not only the presentation of a poem but a living emblem of the possibility of change. Through rhythm  (the “beat”) it turned being “beaten down” (“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness”) into, in Kerouac’s French pun, “béat”—blessedness. The poet’s longing for the visionary transforms him, through the jazz musician, into active, epic, Whitmanic, visionary bard. This transformation experience is at the absolute center of “Howl” and is in fact its primary subject. 

~~ Jack Foley, from Beat (The Beat Scene Press, 2003)

(This essay in its entirety may be read here.  Warning: the full essay includes lengthy quotations from "Howl" with language which may be offensive to some readers).






Whitman's "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” (Expoesis)




In his great poem, “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” (1859), Walt Whitman constantly seeks a name for the kind of language he has invented for his complex, multi-voiced, multi-selved poem, resonating with echoes from the Bible (particularly the Psalms), from the highly theatrical opera of his day—the notion of the “aria” is central to the piece—even from the world of the newspaper, which was one of the places in which Whitman developed his understanding of writing. The term he chooses for this language, which is alive with the notion of performance, is not verse or poetry or prose or prose poetry—the term “free verse” was not available to him—but song. This notion of song was a redefinition of the possibilities of language in a specifically American context. In his extraordinary essay, “Projective Verse” (1950), Charles Olson extends Whitman’s insights into techniques partially gleaned from the French Symbolist movement, in which the silence and whiteness of the page is not neutral but an active element in the meaning of what the poet intends. In addition, breath—the breathing of syllables—becomes a central issue in the enunciation of the work. Together, Whitman and Olson—with, no doubt, some help from William Carlos Williams, among others—give living poets, and particularly American poets, a medium in which they can find their own erratic, imaginative way.



WHITMAN’S “OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING” (EXPOESIS)

I don’t think there is another poem
More unique
And, simultaneously,
More representative of
What we may call the American spirit
Than this amazing
Presentation of the making of a poet
Of the transformation of anyone
From childhood to a condition of knowledge
How do we enter the world in a deep way
It is an aria, a performance
Something Whitman saw in the opera houses,
It is a multi-voiced, multi-selved poem in which
All sorts of styles and “voices” are brought together
(Including the hissing voice of the old crone, the sea, and the voice of the bird, “my dusky demon and brother,” “the lone singer wonderful”)
It is a poem about family (the he-bird, the she-bird)
It is a poem about the stunning fact of Death the Opener
And the great representation of the sea (Melville)
(The sea is the openness of consciousness)
It is a nature poem
In which the “outsetting bard” merges with what he sees
It includes Quakers (“Ninth-month midnight”)
And Native Americans (“Paumanok”)
It is Whitman giving himself over to the sheer possibilities of music
As world becomes word (“translating”)
It is an act of marvelous empathy and compassion in the literal sense, “feeling with”
It is a poem about the body and its transformation
Even as Whitman speaks of the soul
It is a poem in which the lorn bird and the transforming boy
Move us to what Wallace Stevens called
A new representation of reality.
This, camerados, is the great mythic moment of American letters
And it takes place not at a desk but outside,
Not as writing but as brilliant spontaneous unexpected utterance.
It ushers in (under the magical multivalent moon, in the presence of the vast, talkative sea)
Nothing less than the world as song.



~~Jack Foley

Thursday, September 5, 2019

Gioia on Jack Foley's Visions & Affiliations

Dana Gioia
Jack Foley has been such an active figure in California letters over the past forty years that it would seem impossible to make sense of West Coast poetry without reference to him. Yet most critics do exactly that. Foley has published on the margins of official literary life. Conventional critics don’t know his work. Time will correct the oversight, but there is no harm in speeding up the process by offering a few observations on his prolific career. There are singular aspects of his work that deserve attention, especially his experimental poetry written for and performed by multiple voices. But poetic innovation is what one expects from a Bay Area Beat. What astonishes the reader is Foley’s critical prose. No one expects a Beat poet to write a major work of literary history or to develop a radically new and revelatory approach to the genre.

          Literary history is an academic enterprise, something done on a Mellon grant in a research library by a tenured professor with a book contract from Oxford. On my shelf I see thick volumes with titles such as The Columbia History of American Literature or Oxford History of English Literature. There is good reason that publishers name such books after universities. The genre seems inherently institutional. The volumes resemble collectively compiled reference works more than expressions of personal critical engagement. Literature is an affair of individual sensibility—both in its creation and criticism. Literary history, however, requires the author to reconcile personal opinions with the broader external consensus. That is one reason why such books date quickly; collective opinions change as intellectual fashions change.

          There are a few glorious exceptions—literary histories that combine scholarship and personality, virtues that give them considerable longevity. George Saintsbury’s three-volume History of English Prosody (1906) is one conspicuous example—a study that still feels alive more than a century after its publication. The reader may disagree with Saintsbury on a particular point, but the author remains a vital and provocative presence. Likewise René Wellek’s monumental eight-volume History of Modern Criticism: 1750-1950 (published from 1955 to 1986) presents formidable  scholarship with a gentle human touch. As polyglot Professor Wellek surveys two hundred years of Western intellectual history, he never forgets that the students in his imaginary seminar are a bit embarrassed at not having done all the assigned reading. Such erudite but engaging books prove not merely useful but invaluable. They provide comprehensive accounts of complex subjects in which the authors communicate their passions, puzzlements, and prejudices.

          Yet how seldom is literary history done well. Years of fastidious scholarship and editorial toil often deaden the author who must diligently push the project to its contractual end, even though passion died in chapter three. Academic conventions also weigh upon the style and structure. Critical fashions mire it in short-term concerns. The genre’s problems have increased in recent years, as more surveys have been written not by individuals but committees of experts. Hefty official histories now appear without any unifying narrative line or organizing principle. Written by different authors, each chapter exists in intellectual and stylistic isolation. Pursuing their individual interests, scholars leave gaps in the historical record omitting major writers and subjects. If the genre isn’t dead yet, we can hear the carpenter sawing boards for the coffin.

If literary history in general is in trouble, the history of California letters has never been out of it. No state has had a richer legacy over the past 125 years. Starting with Jack London, Ambrose Bierce, Mark Twain, Bret Harte, John Muir, Mary Austin, and Frank Norris, California letters began with explosive originality. Thousands of miles from the arbiters of good taste, the West Coast fostered generations of innovative writers who would not have emerged elsewhere. The California canon includes authors as different as Robinson Jeffers, Dashiell Hammett, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Nathanael West, John Steinbeck, Upton Sinclair, Josephine Miles, Ray Bradbury, Yvor Winters, William Everson, Richard Rodriguez, Kenneth Rexroth, Raymond Chandler, Amy Tan, Robert Duncan, Charles Bukowski, Joan Didion, Robert Heinlein, Philip K. Dick, Maxine Hong Kingston, John Fante, Octavia Butler, and Kay Ryan. No one has ever adequately explained how this immense literary upheaval occurred. Most scholars have sought to define the state’s literary character by ignoring the writers who don’t fit into their theories. It is easier to explain Rexroth in isolation than to account for the simultaneous presence of Jeffers, Winters, and Duncan. Other critics have tried to construe California letters from the perspective of charismatic outsiders, such as Scott Fitzgerald, Aldous Huxley, Henry Miller, or Allen Ginsberg, who came into the state with agenda of their own and captured important historic moments in their work. California literary history has mostly been the history of cultural simplification. No one knows what to do with the complex and contradictory writing the state has produced. It doesn’t fit pre-existing patterns.

There is another basic problem with California literary history. There is little documentation for many writers and movements. Ten years ago when I compiled the anthology, California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present, I was stymied by the lack of reliable information for many of the 100 writers my co-editors and I selected. There were no biographies or critical studies. The poets did not appear in reference books, nor had they been covered in earlier anthologies. The situation was especially bad for the women writers. Where did one find reliable information on Adrian Stoutenberg, Rosalie Moore, Violet Kazue de Cristoforo, Myra Cohn Livingston, Helen Pinkerton, or Josephine Miles? We had to track down primary sources—often searching out surviving family members and friends—just to establish basic facts. Moreover, since misinformation abounds, we needed multiple sources to assure accuracy. Except for the Gold Rush poets and Beats, there was little critical or biographical writing. Research is easier now, but only a little, despite the vast resources of the internet. 

Why is there no adequate account of Activism, a major Bay Area movement of the 1950s? Why is there no history of Yvor Winters and his influential Stanford School of poets? Why is there still no comprehensive account of Ishmael Reed and Al Young’s multicultural Yardbird movement? For many Los Angeles poets, there is little public material beyond dust-jacket bios and obituaries. It is not just poets who lack documentation. The extraordinary emergence of science fiction in L.A. in the decades following World War II changed the nature of the genre as well as transformed global entertainment. Yet this creative renaissance has been covered haphazardly, mostly by fanzines, pop profiles, and amateur websites. Literary historians generally select and shape their material from copious secondary sources. Californians writing about their native state still have to do primary research to tell the basic story.

          It will seem supremely odd to any academic that Jack Foley, an Oakland poet without any institutional support or university connection, has written the most comprehensive history of post-war California poetry—a study that not only surveys the lives and work of hundreds of literary figures but also cogently addresses the contradictory impulses in the state’s creative psyche. Moreover Foley has fashioned his chronicle in an innovative way that is both engaging and unabashedly experimental.”



Dana Gioia 


(from his essay,  " 'Just One Damned Thing After Another,'
 Jack Foley's Literary Time Line")

Wednesday, September 4, 2019

"Jack Foley's Unmanageable Masterpiece" to be featured on radio KPFA radio, Berkeley

This Wednesday, August 28, from 3:00 –3:30 p.m. (California time),  the weekly KPFA radio show about poetry, "COVER TO COVER with Jack Foley" (at KPFA 94.1 FM -- available at the KPFA website both live and in the Archive) will feature  Jack Foley’s Unmanageable Masterpiece, the new book published by Monongahela Books and edited by Dana Gioia and Peter Whitfield.

The book deals with an earlier book that Jack published with Pantograph Press in 2011: Visions & Affiliations: California Poetry from 1940 to 2005.

You can listen to a recording of this show at the KPFA website.