Dec '02 [Home]

Series/Event Review

Poetry Downtown and Uptown —
from The Bowery to the Cathedral (10/27)

A Personal Essay/Review
by Daniela Gioseffi

. . .

Faced with the pickle of two book celebration party invitations to attend on the same Sunday, October 27th, 2002, from 3 to 5 PM—one for the loveable Angelo Verga for A Hurricane Is from the Jane Street Press, at the Bowery Poetry Club, with readings by a bevy of his friends, and the other for the simpatica Molly Peacock at Bistro 1018 at 110th & Amsterdam for her new book, Cornucopia, New & Selected Poems, from W. W. Norton—plus the fact that Molly had cleverly arranged her book party to take place just prior to the Poets' Corner Vespers Service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, directly after her book party across Cathedral Parkway—I decided to try to visit both parties.

I started with the downtown one on my way up. That annual Vespers Service for the Poets' Corner at 6 PM was difficult to resist—as it was starring Dana Gioia, new head of the NEA as an Electoral of The Poets' Corner—along with William J. Smith, and Daniel Hoffman, Poets-in-Residence Emeriti—and Billy Collins, current Poet Laureate under George W. Bush. I felt loyalty to Angelo Verga. I'd blurbed his book very favorably, saying:  "Like a Zola or a Gogol, this 'Bronx poet' is as aware of the serious suffering and social perversion he sees around him in his urban landscape as he is of the ironies of a bent and broken world. He brings a wry smile to our lips. Always accessible and never pretentious,Verga is a naturalistic poet of the streets with a lyrical beat and a view of the wide world from its gutters to its treetops."

But, I liked Molly Peacock, too—current Poet-in-Residence at the Cathedral—for her lack of snobbery, her good poetry. I had a poem of hers which she was using in her selected collection in both the old and new editions of Women on War, my international compendium, which I was re-editing for The Feminist Press, March 2003. The poem, "Among Tall Buildings," originally written for her collection, Raw Heaven, in the 80's, was apt for nuclear war, but had taken on a new resonance because of 9/11. Also, I'd known Dana Gioia from the beginning of our careers in poetry, his now soaring amidst the elite, and mine floating quietly along, independently.

Actually, when I first met Gioia, he was still working as a VP for General Foods, Corp., praising Wallace Stevens in cocktail party conversation and in print, as William J. Smith has always done and did. Wasn't it Smith who helped bring Gioia to the fore? Obviously, the two poets are friends who have nurtured each other's careers with their taste for Wallace Stevens and their love of translation. Also, Smith was helpful to my friend, Nina Cassian, the illustrious, expatriate Romanian poet whom I'd nurtured a bit, as he had, to help her survive in America. Nina had met her current husband, Maurice Edwards, an entrepreneur of the arts, at a party at my apartment in Brooklyn Heights back in 1986 or so. I'd introduced them and I was thrilled that they hit it off. Also, I'd written Cassian's biography for PEN American Center's Dictionary of 20th Century Writers Living in Exile and translated a couple of her poems from the Romanian with her, including one in Women on War in its first edition (1988, Touchstone/Simon & Schuster).

When I first met Gioia, he hadn't published his first book with Graywolf Press yet, but was friendly with Fred Morgan of The Hudson Review, where he was publishing his early poems. Gioia was handsome, had gracious manners, dressed and hob-nobbed exceedingly well. He knew how to behave among the upwardly mobile, or well-to-do, uptown literati. I'm sure many found him charming.

stjohns

Also, he could fit well with people like Honor Moore, a well-heeled, socialite writer whose father was the former Bishop or Senior Minister of The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, if I recall correctly. Honor was an Electoral of The Poets' Corner at the Cathedral, as was Gioia. Perhaps, she had inspired her father to institute the Poets' Corner, for all I knew. If so, it was a good endeavor.

Grace Schulman, another Electoral who marched down the aisle next to Honor Moore, like Stanley Kunitz, was among the few Jews accepted by the elite WASPs on the scene in that decade of the seventies. As an Italian American Jew, I noted then that both Kunitz and Schulman knew how to write and behave with British-American manners among the well-to-do artsy society of New York. Schulman had paid tribute to Marianne Moore—a poet who for all her cleverness, did not stir me any more deeply than Wallace Stevens—as their subject matter never matched my humanist concerns.

I'd just published my first book, Eggs in the Lake, with BOA Editions, a lyrical and surrealist endeavor which won me much praise in various important venues, but did not bespeak what would become my own concerns any more than Wallace Stevens or Marianne Moore did. It was among the first books in that fledgling press's "New Poets of America" series when Gioia and I began a bit of a correspondence in which we exchanged a few poems. He always commented less on mine than I on his. Perhaps, he thought me a 'dumb blonde,' which, perhaps, I was then despite my literary successes, in comparison to who I am now at 62 years and with many more serious books of all kinds under my belt. I doubt Gioia really read much of my work since then, but he was as cordial, charming, and self-assured as ever.

In the 70's and early 80's, Daniel Halpern, Galway Kinnell, Jim and Annie Wright, Isabella Gardner, and many other uptown poets, used to attend my little literary parties, though I gave them in a four-storey walk up on Henry St. in Brooklyn Heights some doors down from where James Purdy lived and around the corner from Norman Mailer whom I often saw swaying drunk down the street, reading the newspaper as he walked. He'd soon marry the lovely Norris Church, and she would have her painting studio in the same co-op building where I would come to live with my new husband in 1986—often meeting Mailer in the elevator. We had some interesting exchanges on art and politics—and even on the career of Mohammed Ali—in that elevator. In any case, I was a social force to contend with in those days and Gioia and Halpern responded, before they became such powerful figures on the poetry scene.

I went to the Vespers Poets' Service on October 27th because I was curious, too, to hear Billy Collins read in person. I'd heard his CD but hadn't witnessed him read in person and I was curious what all the fuss could be about. Actually, I'd heard him read one poem for the Poets House Brooklyn Bridge Poetry Walk, and was not impressed, though everyone cheered, except me and, I think, Annie Wright. I found Collins's poetry light-weight, clever and somewhat witty, but not very stirring and not the stuff of 'great art.'

Collins read his poem titled "Undressing Emily Dickinson," or was it "Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes?" In any case, it didn't seem very appropriate for the churchy and solemn Vespers Service, but rather, seemed chosen to shock or allow the sleepy audience to politely giggle. He knew how to be both funny and sensational and perk up everyone's ears with the erotic suggestion, picturing Dickinson at her evening window with her "white gown puddled around her ankles," of unlacing Dickinson's complicated 19th century corset and hearing her sigh, "riding her like a Swan." Then he knew how to bring the poem back to an image of "life, like a loaded gun staring at you with its yellow eye." Using a sensational image for a big concept like 'life' or 'love' is always a good trick for ending an otherwise silly poem meant to shock, isn't it? "Oh well," I thought, "at least Bush W. hasn't abolished the idea of a Poet Laureate." And I'll take Collins as a person over him any day. I'll take Gioia, too! Both would make better presidents, without a doubt! Both are cultured men—vastly so in comparison to the president of this powerful plutocratic technocracy! Yet, both seem very appropriate somehow for the reign of Bush who seems to believe in "the divine right of kings." Of course, he calls it "presidential privilege" in his keeping the Reagan/Bush papers and the Cheney energy meeting papers secret from "we the people," but it's the same old divine right, isn't it?

Later at the reception of cookies and wine in the vast cathedral, I asked Collins whether he'd read the new book on Emily Dickinson's life, Open Me Carefully, from the Paris Press. "Oh, I hate such gossip about her sex life parading itself as scholarship," he responded sharply, not knowing who I was or what I knew. Collins is one of the few poets of his generation whom I'd never encountered socially prior to the year 2000, when he seemed to become a rage.

I answered his attack on Open Me Carefully—which he admitted not having read—the new book with a whole new slant on Dickinson's life:


      "But, it's not gossip and it's not really about her sex life, per se, but her literary life. Actually, it's a collection, with commentary, of her 36-year correspondence with her very close and beloved sister-in-law, Susan Huntington Dickinson. It's their letters about their neighboring friendship—a very literary one. The point of the book is that she was not the recluse scholars have tried to portray, but had a rich literary companionship—full of wit, humor, and camaraderie—with her very intelligent and well-read sister-in-law! They read books together and discussed literature all their lives. That's the point of the book as I read it! I couldn't care less about her sex life, which will never be known for sure, in any case—though Open Me Carefully does have its innuendo. But, that's created by Dickinson herself, in her own passionate correspondence with her sister-in-law—whom she met first and married off to her brother—and not by the scholars who put the book together."

      "Yes, but I didn't like that title, which seemed to titillate," remarked Collins, the most titillating of the Vespers poetry readers, becoming more mild-mannered as we spoke.

      "'Open me carefully' is just a quote from one of her letters to her sister-in-law," I responded as mildly as I'd begun—really having no axe to grind with his poem except that it was facile and seemed written to shock or titillate.

      "Hmm, well, if the book is as you say, I'll have to read it. Do you know Galway Kinnell's poem about eating oatmeal with Keats?" Collins asked me.

      "Yes, very well." I answered. "It's one of Kinnell's lighter pieces, but is very funny. I know it well." I'd reviewed Kinnell's A New Selected Poems in 2001 and interviewed him on his work which I'd followed for years. It's witty and shows his Greta Garbo side, his 'I want to be alone' need to have solitude to write.

      "Well, I'm trying to do something similar with my Dickinson poem, except I think undressing Emily Dickinson [*] is a more interesting thing to do than have oatmeal with Keats."

      "Hmm," I smiled, as we parted company into the bustle of the reception.

But, to myself I thought, "How sensational and silly his poem was, facile and insincere—and much more sexually oriented than the scholarly book he chided." I find much of Collins's work sort of like television wit in situation comedies, facile without depth, playing for laughs, though I can enjoy some of the humor and irony in it, and its language usage is certainly many a cut above television sitcom writing. "Still," I thought to myself, "he's the perfect sort of poet for the reign of George Bush." And Dana Gioia—with his love of Wallace Stevens, the businessman's poet, his life as a CEO of a big corp, so like Wallace Stevens—is the perfect NEA Director, too, and the first poet to attempt to handle that bureaucracy of Washington. The prez's assistant in the arts department knows how to chose what the president will like, all right. Then I thought of the chant, "Regime Change Starts at Home!" at the worldwide peace demonstrations against war with Iraq that had spanned the globe from Berlin to Paris, London to Madrid, New York to San Francisco, the Sunday prior with more than a hundred thousand people marching in Washington, unreported by The New York Times except buried somewhere in the paper, but not on the front page as it had been in The Washington Post! Washington D. C. 's police force had said it was the biggest demonstration since the Vietnam War—estimating it at 150 to 200 thousand! I thought of that chant, "Regime Change Starts at Home!" as I walked away from Billy Collins to congratulate Molly Peacock on her good performance.

      "Congratulations on your NEA appointment," I'd said to Dana earlier in the evening at Molly's book party at the Bistro.

      "Well," he'd answered me and another party attendee who also offered congratulations, "it's going to be a sacrifice, as I have to pick up and move to Washington, D. C. with my two young sons and wife, and I won't be able to accept any readings or talks or contracts, or stage any performances that might smack of a conflict of interest. But, they didn't ask me any political questions!" He seemed relieved at that and glad that politics hadn't come up.

      "Well, I wish you had a better budget to work with," I said, thinking to commiserate and knowing that the country's coffers where now running up a big deficit, all the surplus spent and gone on tax breaks for the richest element.

      "They tell me they aren't going to touch the budget," Gioia answered enthusiastically.

      "Auguri!"

I offered "Good luck!" in Italian, as I walked away—thinking to myself:  "Hmm, this administration certainly won't be raising your budget either! And, the presidential adviser for the arts must have read your work and found nothing objectionable, and given your former work as a CEO for General Foods, Corp—which will equip you well for such a job, but who wants it under Bush?! Ah, Dana, you have it all—looks, style, intelligence, and now Chairman of the NEA—but whose poetry will last the ages is always a question for all. I hope you won't be remembered as a plutocrat under The W, instead of as a poet—since your poetry is very good at times, and much of your criticism witty and intelligent—though sometimes quite wrong-headed in my humble opinion—and your prose style very smooth indeed, like your social style. I wonder if you'll be read fifty years from now. I doubt Billy Collins really will. I wish you well, my fellow Italian American poet! I'm proud of your prowess!" I thought as I sat watching the processional of the Poets' Vesper Service in the massive stone cathedral.            [Gioia photo by Star Black.]

It was amusing to watch, with all its sincerity toward celebrating "The Word," as Molly Peacock reminded us which "in the beginning was." The pomp and circumstance, the processional of the Electoral, the lovely choral singing in the vast and impressive echoing Cathedral of St. John the Divine, but oh how very white Anglo Saxon Protestant it was! How staid in style and carefully and tastefully done—so different from the relaxed atmosphere downtown at the Bowery Poetry Club. Except for Collin's undressing Emily Dickinson in his mind and ours and "riding her like a Swan," there was not a comma amiss in any of the proceedings. The stones in the Poets' Corner bear not one ethnic name, however, as every name there is as English American as they come, and some very deserving, too. I was pleased to see Dickinson's, Hawthorne's, Mark Twain's, Whitman's, and the only black poet, Langston Hughes's, there among others. According to the rules of Poets' Corner, the poet must have been dead for twenty-five years before induction, so it's understandable—but still I hope that John Ciardi, Galway Kinnell, Gwendolyn Brooks, Stanley Kunitz, Philip Levine, Muriel Rukeyser, Grace Goodside Paley, and Toni Morrison—as well as other deserving poets of diverse background—will someday adorn the stones. I certainly don't mind the idea of inclusion in a Poets' Corner, though my name in marble will probably never adorn more than the proletarian wall of Penn Station where it was recently carved in marble with one of my verses alongside that of William Carlos Williams's and Amiri Baraka's. The latter might, unfortunately, soon sport some angry graffiti!

What hosannas of praise Dana Gioia delivered to William Smith and Daniel Hoffman, and yes, even to the one lone woman, Molly Peacock, among the speakers! He could not praise them enough for their humanity, their poetry, their great goodness, and he did so eloquently and without notes. But why did I feel it was all one hand washing the other for what was gained and would be gained from the associations? "Regardless of how great these male poets tell each other they are," I thought, "Molly Peacock was the one who really stirred the audience with her vocal presentation and her poems, each word crystal clear, emotionally accessible, and precisely delivered so that it went straight into our heads and down to our hearts—especially when she ended with the idea that though we give our money for the things we covet, we have "nothing but the 'rags of love,' our imperfect love, to give each other as we die."

Molly seemed to wake everyone up and was the most sincere and accessible presenter. How sour the male faces were as she spoke, they knowing she outshone them with an accessible humanity and depth of feeling and faith in the word. Molly Peacock shone forth in the dim, candlelit cathedral and her voice was pristine, stirring, her poems compelling. I was glad I'd come to her party uptown, to find that poetry, when it's real, can live uptown or downtown, though much that goes on uptown is stylized and socially elite.

Feelings of loving friendship stirred around the Bowery Poetry Club, much more sincerely, and less competitively than uptown—it seemed. Also, the people downtown were less stiff and seemed to be having a good deal more fun than those uptown who seemed more to hobnob for what they might gain in being seen there. And though their surroundings were plusher and more elegant, they did not have as much fun as those downtown. I stayed at Angelo Verga's book celebration party for only a short time to buy his book, to be supportive, to have Angelo autograph it, and to listen to a few of his friends read poems to him and to the audience. I was glad I'd stopped in downtown where the air is much less rarified and more in touch with the real world, like Verga's poetry and personality-committed, earnest and sincere.

(Daniela Gioseffi is an American Book Award winning poet, novelist, literary critic, and editor who publishes PoetsUSA.com. Her latest of eleven books are:  Symbiosis:  poems (Rattapallax Press, 2001) and an all-new edition of Women on War:  Writings from Antiquity to the Present from The Feminist Press; NY, March 2003. She has been published in innumerable leading journals on and off line and is a Regular Contributor to the magazine [Masthead].


~ . ~

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.
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