History Repeats Itself In Paradise
Feb27

History Repeats Itself In Paradise

There is a place in life for faith but that place is not in the mind Security is whatever you get when you’ve outrun your memories, & redemption only comes when you’ve been damned by what you can’t live down— But the voice of conscience is as hard to hear as it is to kill Love is whatever it takes to outlive your regrets, & when the soul’s as timeless as its absence the heart’s as good as the last place it left For in...

Read More
The Brothers Karamazov and Me
Feb25

The Brothers Karamazov and Me

“When I was in the hospital I had a big fat nurse Who kept looking over my shoulder At the book I was reading, ‘The Brothers Karamazov,’ By Gambling Man Fyodor Dostoevsky Of Czarist Russia, a Saint . . .” i I am married to a husband called Gregory Saint Gregory of the Pines We live in a dacha under the conifers deep in the frozen forest of suburban North Jersey Every winter gentle Gregorius gets an armload of Russian novels Dostoevsky...

Read More
Why Can’t They Get It?
Feb23

Why Can’t They Get It?

By Neil Reddy Originally published in Beatdom #14   There are two questions that have to be asked about Beat movies. What do we want and why can’t they get it right? If we’re looking for Beat movies as in expressions of the flow and rhythm of Beat poetry and Jazz Bebop, then you have to go to the source material: Pull My Daisy (1959), or The Flower Thief (1960), or Howl (2010). If you want to get derivative, try any college arts...

Read More
Preakness Springs Young Writer’s Dreams
Feb20

Preakness Springs Young Writer’s Dreams

Preakness springs young writer’s dreams Castles soar in fresh bright air Precious Underwood close at hand And typewriter of thy heart . . . ‘tis furious poet’s tool Notebooks filled with million words American stories colored told Baseball, football, scored by jazz Seaman’s tales and merchant sails Spontaneous flow of poetry prose Languagey language i casual pen Talent, energy, ambition swell Leads to Manhattan lights and nights And...

Read More
Exiled on Beat Street
Feb17

Exiled on Beat Street

In 1957 Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky were in the midst of the obscenity trials in the US surrounding the publication of Ginsberg’s poem Howl. After being shunned by the clean-cut conservative American public, (who despised homosexuality and Ginsberg’s outspoken nature in the radicalised work) the pair went left to seek refuge in more liberal and artistic France. Eventually the couple sought exile with fellow Beat poet Gregory...

Read More
Go… the Summer, Fall, and Winter of Discontent
Feb12

Go… the Summer, Fall, and Winter of Discontent

The summer, the fall, and the winter of discontent, shovel after shovel of snow that turns to filthy slush, as in slush pile (publishers’ slush piles) . . . the discontent of youth, the discontent of marriage, the discontent of writers, the discontent of New Yorkers, and the discontent that turns to temporary joy at the nightclub The Go Hole. “Go! Go!” and “gone.” The discontent of life right from the beginning, as whimsically stated...

Read More
Jack Kerouac’s On the Road Retold by Google Maps
Feb09

Jack Kerouac’s On the Road Retold by Google Maps

There have been more than a few artists from across various media attempt to bring something new to Kerouac’s classic road novel. One element that particularly fascinates is the map . We are forever being shown new interpretations of his journeys, with each artist highlighting some different theme. Gregor Weichbrodt has a very new take – he has attempted to turn Kerouac’s story into a set of directions as told by...

Read More
Letters: Allen and Louis
Feb05

Letters: Allen and Louis

“There are many mansions in the house of poetry,” i writes Louis “Paterson’s principal poet” ii to Allen, many times. Allen, maintain your posture when you meet Edith, sit well with Sitwell. Don’t be maudlin when you chat with Auden . . . at Oxford. Spring has sprung; the thaw has come to Robert Frost (at Paterson State Teachers’ College). iii What’s a father to do? “I keep pounding my typewriter, not wishing to rust on my laurels,...

Read More