I first read Allen Ginsberg when I found a copy of 'Howl and Other Poems' in my Dad's bedroom. I was 16. I sat in a corner of my room hearing Allen's images inside his head of murder and angels and death on the highway... and was altered. Allen Ginsberg crawled inside my head and rearranged a few fundamental connections. I became a beatnik 30 years too late. I made my girlfriend read 'Howl' and she hated it. My friends thought Kerouac's sentences were too long, and what was I doing reading a dead guy anyway? And didn't I know that the superette on High Street would sell copies of Playboy to under-agers?? I told them to fuck off. This stuff was MINE as far as I was concerned... Sure seemed that no one else wanted it anymore. My English teacher confiscated my copy of 'Howl' because it had the word 'fuck' in it. I had to laugh - if only she'd seen my copy of 'Naked Lunch.' Small town schools can be that way.

Goodbye Allen. It's not like I knew you or anything. Hell - you probably would have hated me. I never really thought like a Beat. But then who said Beats had to bend themselves to a common mindset? Love may be blind but so is art.

When Walt Whitman asked 'Are you my Angel?' in 'A Supermarket in California' my feet left the floor, and the stiff breeze blew me somewhere else. With that sentence I knew Allen had found me at last.

Later, dude. Everything I ever wrote I somehow stole from you.

--Thurston Asher

AG Was A Good Cat;
          AG is A Buddhist.

The UnEnlightened are Re-Incarnated
                    All UnKnowing.

The EnLightened Choose to Be Re-Incarnated
                    - Thus Is The Path.

So Goodbye AG;
          Welcome Back!
                    ( "I'll Be Back" - A. Schwarzenneger )

Catch Ya down th' Road a Piece;
                I'll Be Lookin' for You....

Another GhostDancer.

On The Road.

VALE, ATQUE AVE,

--//
eLTyger : j.BOLT SThAR eNYCh

--Douglas Penn

cut to 1975, driving in car this song comes on the radio, Land of a 1,000 Dances, I'm there in the hallway with Johnny, I'm gone,gone to another dimension...
My life changed in that moment I was inspired by my muse Patti and moved to NYC and lived apunkandneverlooked back.
Oh Allen who composed a poem to me in rejection of my book of Planet Waves offered as autograph fodder, to treasure forever "I'm not the Allen Ginsberg who signs a book and dosn't look you in the eye and say hello how are you, No I won't sign that, there are a lot of old friends here, if you'll excuse me" Oct 1996 St. Marks Church.
Oh Allen friend of Marc Israel who I pick up hitching in Mexican Hat, Arizona & tell him before I know him that Allen Ginsberg is my favorite poet.
Oh Allen who inspired me to tell the truth, to be gayand proud of it!
Oh Allen lover of Neal Casady whose cock I would give anything to feel in my ass.
Oh Allen I read Kaddish today for you and not Jewish but said Kaddish for you JewishBuddhistHomosexualPoetKingofMay.
Oh Allen who in 1960 wrote he would die of cancer.
Oh Allen I'll miss you but your energy now transformed and transcended and my life forever changed from you.
Goodbye Allen
Peace
Chris Reilly

COMMITTEE ON POETRY

April 5, 1997

Chirp, chirp, chirp
Ginzy gone
I broadcast the seeds
bread crumbs from the compost
for little animals and birds

Chirp on the phone, chirp on the radio
broadcasting them seeds
Janine left a message on the phone
I read it in chirp cyberspace

Up Lancaster St. we drove
past the bank on East Hill Road
New house where'd you come from
another house along this road

that one didn't used to be there
yet another on the way to the farm
that was the idea of a farm for poets, etc.

The great view of the Mohawk Valley
its early spring mauves and browns
old crops of gold fields stalks

Didn't take the shortcut where
Ray froze his fingers round a beer can
walking to Cherry Valley in a blizzard

Turn off the paved road
Bad hill bad ruts from spring washes
Peter needs to get that tractor
and haul some dirt and gravel

Like he usta with the manure spreader
Julius faithfully standing on the hitch
Big tractor at the corner
have to walk in here
Roads all wet, parts covered with snow

Hear the birds already
Get the bread pieces
throw a few
tie my shoe

Walk down the slushy ruts
through mud and snow
old craggily cherry tree
must be a hundred

You said the old ones were wiser
"broadcast" the bread a metaphor
when you were born, tho most had radio
more bread for the bashful birds

Stop here to rest and share
my hard bagel with the birds
hmm. that doesn't taste bad
maybe I'll eat it meself.

Hardly a sound up here in hushed forest
the snow is silent in the deer tracks
Pam says the daffodils are in bloom

I'll put some bread crumbs on the porch
not on this chair with peeling paint
Bread on the old maple tree
bread on the rock for innocent creatures

A rag is hanging on the old clothesline
and the barn door needs repair
the whole barn actually, I'll leave
some crumbs by the outhouse and
the barn and the cherry tree

On the road back a woodpecker
breaks the silence, hammering perfectly
like a Whitman carpenter
Burdock sticks like Velcro
Bread on the windowsill
bread on the rock

Old truck rusting away
new tires rotted in place
never helped anyone
get anywhere or nowhere anymore.


The air always changes on East Hill
like the atmosphere of heavens
the stars come down to
a respectable level in
case you need to chat with 'em

It is heavy now and the sun is
burning like chrome in the grey sky
the woods are mauve and brown dark green
the green and grey neglected cottage
weathers by the green and grey pound

The mountains and the sky are all blue
various shades enshrouding the Evergreens
white birch arises from moss green rock
of old hills and forests

You walked me to the boundary
twenty-nine years ago
probably talking of Whitman and Death
Now you know.
And I know
The Committee on Poetry is a bird,
a barn, a pond, a daffodil, an outhouse
And a silent cottage of memory rooms.

CHARLES PLYMELL
CHERRY VALLEY, NY

Best Mind of His Generation.

Simon "SeaMoon" Seamount
sunspider@hotmail.com

Gosh! How wonderful to see everyone's tributes to Ginsberg tonight. I feel, like Ms.Piss does, very positive about his passing. Nice to move on from the broken shell. He was with his friends as he passed and apparently made numerous phone calls before departing. Brothah Buddah! Still, it seemed strange last night to light a candle, take a bath and listen to him sing 'Amazing Grace' off his Ballad of the Skeletons CD. This all **HAD** to be part of his (and his creator's) plan.

Ciao Allen. Thank you for all those evenings at Beyond Baroque

--Yana Ya Ya

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The most violent of [the filthiest sailors] hold these fragile poems
between their teeth as they sometimes hold in their fingers the twigs and
threads which will be the masts and gear of a schooner imprisoned in the
crystal of a flask. --Jean Genet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I met Allen on two occasions, and he was a kind, open, and honest man who was very difficult to ignore. Regardless of the age, sex, or class of his admirers, he would listen graciously to them and their descriptions of how he had changed their lives. He would name endless obscure (and famous) bands upon request. He attracted a wide variety of listeners but always lured the young, generation after generation. I once saw a room full of teenagers sitting at his feet like seekers listening to a guru. I saw a room full of adoring Generation X'ers who were too terrified to approach him at a party, staring at him like an icon, which made him break the ice with, "Hey, could somebody get me a diet Pepsi?"

I like to think that Ginsberg was not ferried across the river to the land of the dead by Charon last Saturday, but that Neal and Jack pulled up in a '49 Hudson with the engine revving, waiting to give him a ride over to the other side.

-- Kimberly Bright

This is one of the pieces collected at the back of Howl and Other Poems (San Francisco: City Lights, 1956). Just like everybody else, I think "Howl", part I, is his one major work; but the minor pieces of the same time are worth reading too, and they give a clue to the spirit of his apocalypse. This is a persona poem, in which he plays himself in several half-mocking voices at once: the young poet not always in touch with his Muse, the young prophet not always in touch with his God -- and the young bohemian seduced despite himself by the charms of domesticity; all in a light, fragile, unstable line blended of diary-like prose notation and Whitmanic orotund velocity.

-- Vance Maverick


TRANSCRIPTION OF ORGAN MUSIC

The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the kitchen crooked
    to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, kindly stayed open
    waiting for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening to music, my
    misery, that's why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence of the Creator, I
    saw my gray painted walls and ceiling, they contained my room,
    they contained me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door
    The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the
night still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the
flowers where they had arisen
    to think at the sun

    Can I bring back the words? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye?

    The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the
flowers, my near ecstasy at existing among them
    The privilege to witness my existence -- you too must seek the sun...

    My books piled up before me for my use
    waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared,
time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled
up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.

    I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things,
walked out to the garden crying.
    Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's gone, they had all
grown, in a moment, and were waiting stopped in time for the day sun
to come and give them....
    Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not
knowing how much I loved them.
    I am so lonely in my glory -- except they too out there -- I
looked up -- those red bush blossoms beckoning and peering in the
window waiting in blind love, their leaves too have hope and are
upturned top flat to the sky to receive -- all creation open to
receive -- the flat earth itself.

    The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy
blossom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last
drop of joy.
    The world knows the love that's in its breast as in the flower,
the suffering lonely world.
    The Father is merciful.

    The light socket is crudely attached to the ceiling, after the
house was built, to receive a plug which sticks in it alright, and
serves my phonograph now...

    The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it
open, it has graciously stayed open.
    The kitchen has no door, the hole there will admit me should I
wish to enter the kitchen.
    I remember when I first got laid, H.P. graciously took my cherry,
I sat on the docks of Provincetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope
with the Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me if I wished
to enter.
    There are unused electricity plugs all over my house if I ever
need them.
    The kitchen window is open, to admit air....
    The telephone -- sad to relate -- sits on the floor -- I haven't
the money to get it connected --

    I want people to bow as they see me and say he is gifted with
poetry, he has seen the presence of the Creator.
    And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence to gratify my wish,
so as not to cheat me of my yearning for him.

Allen Ginsberg
Berkeley 1955

--Marty Drake

I remember well that first meeting with Allen Ginsberg. It was the mid-sixties and I was a highschool student at Hawken School in Gates Mills, Ohio. My friends and I hung out at a University Circle coffeehouse called La Cave which was a stop on the national folk circuit. Each week another artist would pass through like Odetta, Phil Oches, Tom Paxton, Judy Collins, Eric Von Schmidt, Buffy St. Marie, Eric Anderson, Jesse Collin Young, Tim Buckley and Richie Havens. In another category, far above the rest, was Dylan! He was the groundbreaker, the poetic visionary. Dylan's songs had introduced us to the magic of poetry as popular art. I had noticed a photo of Ginsberg on the back of a Dylan album, and had rushed to my neighborhood bookstore asking for anything by Allen Ginsberg. They had a copy of "Howl", which I snatched up and devoured. Shortly thereafter, when I saw a notice that Allen Ginsberg was going to recite "Howl" at a church near University Circle, I wasn't about to miss it. Hearing Allen recite Howl shattered the walls of my midwestern suburban 50's upbringing. This meeting with Allen was one of the most pivotal experiences of my life, along with a plane trip from Boston to LA with Timothy Leary and an afternoon spent with Ram Das in Taos. Last year Tim left the body and Ram Das recently had a stroke. Now, Allen's transition reminds me of the transitory nature of human existence and inspires me to savour each moment, be here now, question authority and dance ecstatically into the Light.

--Kris Kane

I know, Allen, I know.
We were high then,
you and I,
happy and free,
living each in his own
solitary enclave
where we howled
against the philistine
gang-brains of the world.

Now you are gone,
and I am none the more
alone,
because we always loved
knowing how to do that,
Ginsberg,
fellow soldier,
and I'll see you bye
and bye,
when I meet you
in Brahma,
eternally
and properly
recognized.
There we will dance
again,
old hand,
you and Peter,
she and I,
in that sweet holler
up yonder.
Peace, O sage,
The light to thy
burden now...
but is this the coarse
mantle of thy rage?
Would I might
leave it lay,
Brave one!
Shalom.

Copyright © April '97 J.P. McDonald
Youbetcherassido Enterprises

The first time I heard Howl is read, I was 23 years old, living in Berkeley, and trying to cope with the rigors of life as a grad student in mathematics.

Some friends suggested that we go to a "Poetry Slam" in San Francisco. The idea, as I understood it, was that poets would get up, read from their work, and compete for valuable cash prizes. It seemed bizarre, and still does, but I like poetry readings and I like going to cafes, so it seemed like a good way to spend a pleasant evening.

We took BART (a sort of subway) from Berkeley to San Francisco. And, as we sat politely chatting, I noticed a strange man on the car. He was enormously obese, badly dressed, and hunched over a copy of The Hunt for Red October, reading intently. His whole body was shaking as he read and he would occasionally glance up, looking to make sure that no one on the train was looking at him. I continued to surreptitiously study him, inventing pasts which led up to his present: obviously disheveled and paranoid, reading Tom Clancy, and riding the train.

Of course, he followed us to the cafe where the poetry slam was being held. I was overcome with anticipation-- was he a contestant ? What sort of poetry would he write ? And would it jibe with all the stories I had just made up about him ? As he entered the cafe, he put the paperback in his coat pocket, ordered a latte, and began to stare at the podium in eager anticipation.

At which point my friends noticed him. And, as I gleefully gave them all sorts of details ("See that bulge in his coat pocket. Betcha anything it's a Tom Clancy novel. Probably Hunt for Red October"), the organizers of the poetry slam began testing the microphone.

Somebody began reading Howl. As the first words, strangely distorted by feedback, echoed throug the room, the strange man erupted.

"Hey!!!" he screamed. "You didn't write that. Read something you wrote."

The person at the microphone continued to read as wires were rearranged and dials were twiddled. And the strange man continued to scream.

"Hey!!!! Do something original. At least read it in f*****g Spanish."

An organizer rushed over and said something about this being a test, about how the original poetry would be read later. But the strange man could not be mollified. He left the cafe, muttering angrily. "It's not his. He shouldn't read it in public. It's not his."

Later, when the mic test was over, we listened to junior poets reading their works-in-progress. And, in due course, one of the them won $50.

But I couldn't help feeling that the strange man deserved the money more.

--Andy Grosso

city...but who cares, people young and old breathing deep buddhist breaths across the country, looking at the sky and knowing allen is in a better place than the here and now. surprised and happy that mr. ginsberg was the lead story on NBC news, nationally, with patti smith commenting on the scene at allen's deathbed.

ginsberg was someone i always expected to be around, in my neighborhood, buying fruit, fish, milk at the local grocery, ("walt whitman , which way does your beard point tonight")...so yes it's late..candles burn for allen... i listen to records of dear allen...i breath deep....and miss not having such a soul in this world.

--todd mcgovern

--Rebecca Lewis

--Jeff Wood

I never read your poetry much but I was allways happy to think of you being there and being an example, a glorious possibility in action.

We will all be the poorer. Thankyou for being the great tower of friendship and support for so many and in perticular Bill Burroughs.

Stay cool on the way through, come back soon.

--Alan Bamford
alanb@netlink.net.au

Si monumentum requiris, circumspice (If you would see his monument, look around)

In many ways, Ginsberg's lasing monument is his influence on the larger culture: the existence of people like Patti (and even the US Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky, who cited Ginsberg's influence on him), the existence of people like us, the audience for the culture he helped shape, etc., etc.

This isn't to discourage any formal memorials, just to point out the significant memorial he already has...

--Bob Ingria

for A.G.

the phone rang
val answered it
told me, "quick...
turn on channel 13"
i switched the channel
and saw your face
heard the newsman say
that you had died
at 70

my eyes filled with tears
that spilled down my cheeks

tears that fell
many years ago
while reading
'Kaddish'

tears that will
fall again
listening to your voice
or
seeing your photograph
on the wall
by my desk

tears that will fall
watching for you
on empty night streets

tears that will fall
knowing that america
has lost another hero

allen...

thank you
for everything
that you gave
and continue
to give.

--Jason M. Danko

Lee Ingram is helping to organize an Allen Ginsberg national observance. The idea is to get people together to kindle the flame, look at how the freedoms that Allen so courageously fought for are still under attack, and celebrate his life and work. There will be readings and a few minutes of silent meditation at each event. Lee would like to find interested people in each community who could help to organize locally, mostly just to designate a place for people to meet and make that info available to the public via community radio, alternate presses, the Internet, and other networking.

The date of the event is Sunday the 13th, 2:00 pm

For more information contact Lee at leevi@rof.net

.