This favorite link may be old news to some, but I was delighted to be hipped to the Caroline Bergvall Dante poem, "Via", sent courtesy Dr. Natasha Saje at Westminster College, Utah. Received with pleasure. Enjoy….

Here's the link: http://mediamogul.seas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Bergvall/Bergvall-Caroline-Via-2004.mp3

Coming from the hard-knock world of secretaries and billing clerks, grappling with techno-advances in the workplace once seemed like a song. The turnover for “pink-collar workers” had accelerated for decades, starting with electronic typewriters. A gaggle of complaints flew up with each change, shocks coming every five years, then two, then every 18 months, then to whenever new office management came on board. Things chugged faster and faster, if typing speeds fell thanks to the ickiness of keyboard tabs, the visual bias of computer programs and the neutering of Gregg’s. When writing, I particularly enjoyed word programs and the rapidity of editing or restructuring poems, scripts, or stories. Cut-and-paste, an arduous task in the past, sometimes executed on hands and knees, had become pimp simple. The benefits of dot-communism (as one friend calls it) have been many, despite the drawback of “more paper faster” in a purportedly paperless world. Not so here. Laziness, or failure to make a hardcopy for backup of any worthwhile writing, exacts a horrible price, I unfortunately learned—as much as I loathe filing. Inspired by the blues poems of Langston Hughes and Sterling Plumpp, having composed a few myself, I began a new manuscript post-YK2. Painstakingly weaving my blues from scribbles on bits of paper and years of collected lines, my months of creative work vanished when my hard drive crashed. I wasn’t worried at first, until I realized I had made no hardcopies of the poems and my original notes had been scrapped.

Audrey called a week ago today. I went for family visit. We have been friends for forty years—a friendship that has corresponded to my literary pursuits. She has always appreciated my quest, if not so inclined. Like involuntary saints, we are survivors, having spent our lives in America’s unforgiving economic underclass—former long-time residents of some of the toughest neighborhoods in South Central Los Angeles. Whenever we get together, “the headcount is a mutha”—among our dearly departed my son Anthony, her son Darryl, her brothers Emmet, Joe and Carl. Over coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon and rice, we surveyed our hearts, totaled up damages and dramas, and gave thanks that we’re still throwing blows and chasing the raggedy remains of our dreams. Sated on the personal, our talk turned worldward—we whooped about communal stupidities, “how they still harrassin’ us”, the O.J. fiasco (ssshiiittt, he never spoke out for Folk back in the day), and how—thanks to the housing and stockmarket crashes—we’ve got plenty of new company on the lower rungs. Then I say how me-and-mine cracked a bottle of spumanti and celebrated New Years on November 8th. Everybody in the house did the Obama holler. Comprising the first generation, Audrey and I yelled “I never thought I’d live to see the day!” Amens came from the second generation, Sean and DeShaun signifying, “We never thought we’d see the day!” Then Audrey’s twenty-something grandsons crowned our moment, “Hell, we didn’t think we’d see it in our lifetimes!”

During private study with Clayton Eshleman in the early 70s, my friend Sylvia Rosen (Dreaming the Poem: a dream journal, Red Wind, 1994) became intrigued with Kilton Stewart’s Senoi Dream Theory, practiced by an obscure Malaysian people. This led her to Patricia Garfield’s Creative Dreaming. Inspired by the poetic potential she sensed in these matters, later controversial, Sylvia studied with Stewart’s widow, Clara Stewart Flagg at Everywoman’s Village in Van Nuys, California. Over twenty-odd years, whenever we discussed our writings, we also discussed her delvings into a process Sylvia called “dreaming the poem,” as well as the more complex “redreaming.” (Disturbingly, this overlapped with Nightmare on Elm Street.) In my teens, I had spent library time on Carl Jung’s writings. This was different. As I recall, Sylvia kept a bedside journal, a very old idea, but something my urban-jungle lifestyle ruled out. However, like Sylvia, I was a constant and intense dreamer, to the extent that I often felt that I lived an alternative life—in vivid color, sometimes as exhausted upon waking as I had been the night before. I might be haunted by a dream for hours, days. When at the typewriter, I began contemplating how one might structure poems from particularly vivid dreams. It seemed a simple but elusive idea, if deliciously surreal. I finally made it work. Looking back, though, whenever I did succeed at turning dream stuff into poems, my efforts seem to have corresponded to those talks with Sylvia, back in the day.

Remember that scene from “The Big Sleep,” where Bacall (a sizzling Sternwood) purrs “And Her Tears Flowed Like Wine,” at Bogart’s Marlowe? Jazz aficionados looking closely, will notice that the piano man bears an uncanny resemblance to Mel Powell (1923-1998), boy genius who played with Benny Goodman in the 40s. We chanced to meet Powell circa 1986 at a conference held by Norman Cousins for Chinese and American writers. At its close, a salon was held in the home of playwright Jerome Lawrence (“Inherit the Wind”). Before Powell’s arrival, Lawrence explained that he had invited a “famous” friend who had been severely depressed for years, unable to work, ailing and using a cane. We were asked not to pester the man. There was a baby grand in the room, and Cousins boldly urged Powell to play. Lawrence chimed in. Powell was reluctant and invited anyone to join him. My husband egged me on: “Now, honey, here’s your chance to sing with the great Mel Powell.” Nervously, I joined him, hastily recalled the refrain of a recently written blues poem (“mean-lovin’ woman”), and quickly explained the “sound.” He laid fingers to the keyboard, gave them seconds to think, went into a flourish, and voila duet ala improvisation. Genuine applause and photo session followed. Powell forgot his cane at the piano. Within months, his name reappeared in the entertainment news. Not only was he recording again, he was composing—receiving a Pulitzer Prize in 1990—all because, we liked to speculate….

The writing giants of the 20th Century, largely male, seemed disproportionately to be alcoholics and substance abusers (Fitzgerald, Kerouac, etc.)—men seeking easy, if not permanent, access to The Muse. I haven’t heard the phrase “a man who can hold his liquor,” said with admiration lately—testimony to campaigns against drunk drivers and the more health-conscious media? Given that I had just broken up with an alcoholic, and had left South Central L.A. for 1970s Hollywood, it was odd that I should find myself at The Bridge the unforgettable evening of a drunken duel. It was taking place between two hardcore bards, Venice Beat John Thomas vs. “Meat poet” and novelist Charles “Hank” Bukowski, drink-for-drink, poem-for-poem. Thomas had been mentoring me informally. The Bridge was a counterculture hang owned by Peter, a German tool-and-dye maker, and pal of Bukowski’s. I called myself studying “the dirty old man” from a safe distance—the only female and Black in the room. Thomas outweighed the nasal-voiced Bukowski by 100 pounds, and read his poems with stentorian basso gusto. Hank’s poems were better, but Thomas’ presentation blew them out of one’s ears. Nevertheless, Hank persisted, leaning forward, making hawklike swooping motions at Thomas, the shot glasses repeatedly refilled. An hour and half later, it seemed a Mexican standoff when, mid-syllable, Thomas went blotto, liquefied, and spilled onto the floor to be drug toes-up from the room. Bukowski read and drank on to cheers, laughter and applause, then moseyed away as if made of sponge.

I’ve always heard it said that Americans have to be fairly satisfied with their lot in general before they support the fine arts, especially dance and poetry. When economic times are particularly rough (think WPA), the presumably suffering artist suffers all the more. As Wall Street currently quakes, and the banking and mortgage giants tumble, it’s a highly speculative sport to avoid being taken down in the collapse or being blackened with dust. Is this a residual of 9/11? Oddly occurring on the eve of the event? Is poetry and art doomed to irrelevance at moments like this (think Katrina-Rita)? Readings on the responses of artists and writers to Hiroshima-Nagasaki, as the true doomsday mechanism was announced, come to mind (think mass destruction). If a culture can be buoyed up by its artists, is it truly saved? I’m prompted to ask following an irksome incident that occurred last week when appearances by Ralph Angel and me, on behalf of the Poetry Society of America, were canceled suddenly by a SoCal radio station known for its strident support of the arts. We were iced in deference to ongoing urgent coverage of the housing and mortgage loan crises.

Among the character-building chores my parents assigned me (I spent prom night doing the ironing), I look back on “watering the lawn” with a relaxed fondness. Mother’s childhood gardens, the talk of Hennessey, Oklahoma in the 1930s—she wanted me to know how to weed, plant bulbs, and learn what she knew of “reading the weather.” Her knowledge of that ancient craft, vital to the farming livelihoods of my great-grandfather and granddad, was dimming swiftly under the lights of Los Angeles. I’ve retained little of their gift, no more than a good barometer might tell. Oddly, in adulthood, I’ve noticed the unusually deep, calming effect water has on me, particularly when I’m hosing down the backyard. I fall into a reverie, images and ideas flood in on me. Similarly, after an intense period of writing poems, I often “water” my senses with the works of other poets, no matter how good or bad. Beyond influence, this kind of reading nourishes. Excellent poets move me to strive for higher writing ground. The terribly bad poets, particularly those who cannot “lock” their language, invite me into their poems as doctor, scavenger, or conjure woman—either role remarkably calming, as I play in the earthy richness.

Finding contemplative time in which the poem might find me, has been an issue my entire adulthood. Meditative and writing opportunities have come usually at the cost of sleep—given my ever-frantic urban lifestyle. But in the late 80s, I returned to the basketball of my high-school days—foul shot practice in the mornings or afternoons, occasionally joined by my husband—rarer, still, my youngest son. But basically, it is me, the hoop and sunrise. As the years have whizzed by, I find that I can take my basketball nearly anywhere. Rare is the city park that doesn’t have a court, easily accessible in early morning hours. A jogger may come by and nod hello, or someone walking their dog may applaud an effort. Invariably, I am alone except for the occasional college student. We stay within ourselves, immersed, and never speak—the sounds of distant traffic pierced by the thumps and grunts of our basketballs. When my body goes automatic, my mind is freed to wander, and when I go back to the car, still dripping, I find my notebook and discover what the poem has written.

What makes me “like” the work of a poet who may oppose my real-world beliefs? Does our love of language unite us in some unconsidered/unconscious way? How? Is poetry itself an indicator of a distinct kind or level of intelligence across demographics? Does the process of creating poetry unite all poets? These questions are rooted in my experience as a peer-review panelist and occasional judge of literary competitions. It’s my observation that the lay person invited to sit on a literary panel, while certainly appreciating poetry or fiction, usually hasn’t a clue about the creative process itself and cannot accurately gauge the quality of an applicant’s writing sample. It is also my observation that in mixed genre situations, one invariably meets a prose writer who is contemptuous of poets, or regards the writing of poetry as “easy”—something anyone can do. In my private writing life, I have encountered those who think I should stick to poetry and not write prose, and conversely. In one unsettling instance, I was informed, on the hush-hush, that I had lost the opportunity to receive a much-coveted prize because my prose was too poetic. The literary world apparently agrees that, prose poems aside, poetry and prose remain separate since there are no outstanding prizes for mixed genre books. When teaching, I often compare entering the literary world with entering a priesthood—the practice requires discipline, devotion, and great love; the diet is spare and sometimes bitter.