Jun. 3, 2011
Homage to Kenneth Koch
If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my dirty Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap,
scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly
Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge
out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little
Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood &
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out
the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an
Aeon till it came out clean
Today is the birthday of poet Allen Ginsberg (1926) (books by this author). He was born in Newark, New Jersey, and grew up in Paterson. His father, Louis, was a poet and high school teacher; his mother, Naomi, was a communist and a paranoid schizophrenic. Naomi and Allen were very close; when she was in the grip of her delusions, he was the only one she trusted, and he often accompanied her to her therapy appointments. She spent much of his childhood institutionalized. Ginsberg spent eight months in a mental institution himself in the late 1940s, when he was arrested for harboring stolen goods; he chose to plead insanity.
He went to Columbia University, first intending to study law, but during his freshman year he met Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassaday, and William S. Burroughs. He later said, "I think it was when I ran into Kerouac and Burroughs — when I was 17 — that I realized I was talking through an empty skull ... I wasn't thinking my own thoughts or saying my own thoughts." Ginsberg left Columbia in 1948, traveled, and worked some odd jobs, and in 1954, he moved to San Francisco. He met poet Peter Orlovsky there; they fell in love and were partners until Ginsberg's death. In October 1955, Ginsberg read his poem "Howl" at the Six Gallery. The next day, bookstore owner and publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti sent him a telegram quoting Emerson's letter to Whitman: "I greet you at the beginning of a great career." "Howl," which was written to be read aloud, revived oral poetry. Ginsberg said that it, along with the rest of his work, was autobiographical, and that at its core was his pain at dealing with his mother's schizophrenia.
His mother died in 1956; two days later, he received a letter from her in the mail, in which she had written, "The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window — I have the key — Get married Allen don't take drugs — the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window." He had wanted to have a kaddish — the Jewish mourners' prayer — recited at her funeral, but there weren't enough Jewish men present, so he wrote his poem "Kaddish" (1961) in reparation:
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream — what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window — and the great Key lays its head of light on top of
Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk — in a single vast
beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater — and the place of
you knew, and I know, but without caring now [...]
He said, "Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does."
It's the 75th birthday of author Larry McMurtry (1936) (books by this author), born in Wichita Falls, Texas, and raised in nearby Archer City. His hometown is about 80 miles from the town of Thalia, which is the setting for several of McMurtry's novels, like his first, Horseman, Pass By (1961), as well as Leaving Cheyenne (1963) and The Last Picture Show (1966) and its four sequels. He writes a lot about small-town life in Texas, and sometimes he writes historical novels about the frontier, like his Pulitzer Prize-winning epic Lonesome Dove (1985), although he strongly resists romanticizing the Old West and doesn't hold a very high opinion of cowboys in general.
In the early 1960s, when he was at Stanford on a Wallace Stegner fellowship, he began working as a rare-book scout, haunting used-book stores in search of first editions and other valuable books, which he would buy on behalf of antiquarian booksellers. It was a great job for a bookish kid who liked to hang around and browse the shelves, and when he moved to Washington, D.C., in 1970, he opened his own store in Georgetown, called Booked Up. In 1988, he opened a second Booked Up in his hometown of Archer City, in four large buildings that once housed a car dealership. He bought up the stock of failing independent bookstores all over the country, and he filled the towering white shelves with hundreds of thousands of volumes.
He doesn't see his current vocations — author and bookseller — as entirely different from his cattle-ranch roots. He told The New York Times: "The tradition I was born into was essentially nomadic, a herdsmen tradition, following animals across the earth. The bookshops are a form of ranching; instead of herding cattle, I herd books. Writing is a form of herding, too; I herd words into little paragraphlike clusters." He occasionally talks about giving up fiction, but he'll never give up the bookstores.
Today is the birthday of the "founding mother of the historical romance genre": Kathleen Woodiwiss (1939) (books by this author), born Kathleen Erin Hogg in Alexandria, Louisiana. She met her future husband, Air Force Lieutenant Ross Woodiwiss, at a dance when she was 16, and they eloped. She worked part-time as a fashion model and saved her money to buy a typewriter, which she gave to her husband one Christmas. She told him it was for him to write his poetry on; she really bought it for herself, and she worked on her first novel, The Flame and the Flower, during his absences, afraid to tell him what she was up to. The hefty manuscript was turned down eight times, but then she sent it to some paperback publishers; an editor at Avon, raiding the slush pile for something to read on a rainy afternoon, was captivated, and the book sold 600,000 copies on its publication in 1972.
Woodiwiss single-handedly remade the romance genre, setting the standard for nearly every bodice-ripper to follow. Previously, romance novels had been pretty thin, literally and figuratively. Her books were often 700 pages long, heavily plotted, and full of carefully researched historical detail and steamy sex scenes. Her heroines were strong and dynamic, considering the genre and the time period.
Woodiwiss wrote 12 more books after The Flame and the Flower, taking her time on each one to get the historical details right. She died of cancer in 2007, and her last book, Everlasting, was published posthumously.
Today is the birthday of television journalist and CNN anchor Anderson Cooper, born in New York City in 1967. His mother is heiress Gloria Vanderbilt, and his father was writer Wyatt Emory Cooper. Anderson modeled for a while, from the age of 10 to 13, because he wanted some financial independence. Interested in politics — he claims, since he was "in utero" — he traveled to southern Africa during his senior year of high school, and contracted malaria. He studied political science at Yale and was poised to join the U.S. Foreign Service, but when his older brother committed suicide in 1988, he reexamined his goals. "Suicide is such an odd, taboo sort of thing, and my brother's death is still sort of a mystery, so I became interested in questions of survival: why some people survive and others don't," he told Interview magazine. "Covering wars just seemed logical."
In the early 1990s, he got a desk job as a fact checker for Channel One, a network that prepared news broadcasts for classrooms, but that didn't satisfy him, and with a video camera, some faked press credentials, and a little of his trust fund money, he took off for Southeast Asia to cover the student uprising in Myanmar, planning to film some stories and convince Channel One to air them. For two years, he traveled from war to war: Somalia to Bosnia to Rwanda. Eventually, he found himself becoming desensitized to the violence, and that troubled him, so he returned home, taking a job with ABC. He moved to CNN in 2001, at first subbing in for other anchors; he got his own show, Anderson Cooper 360, in 2003.
Covering the recent revolution in Egypt, Cooper and his crew were beaten by what he termed "pro-Mubarak thugs." He told David Letterman that he was trying to say "Peace! Peace!" in his limited Arabic, but what he was actually saying was, "God willing! God willing!"
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.®