WATCHING AND WAITING

I have many relatives from a sister to nephews and cousins and in-laws and all kinds of family, clan, extended clan, and just friends, who moved South when Jersey got too expensive, and most of them ended up in Florida.

Fortunately, over the past several days my sister and one of my cousins made it up to Georgia to stay with a niece near Atlanta, and an old and dear friend who's been living in Key West is out of there. But many others are hunkering down for whatever Irma brings.

I hope the response of the federal government is as fast and helpful as the richest country in the world should be able to make happen. But unfortunately that isn't always the case, especially since Republicans have been chipping away at the federal government's budget and capacities to respond.

So, as Blanche, in Tennessee Williams' play Streetcar Named Desire, says: "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers"—which once again may mostly be the case for all the folks in Irma's path of destruction in The Caribbean, Florida, and beyond.

LAST OF THE QUINTETS

My late brother Buddy (AKA James) his oldest daughter, the late future Cathy Freitas, his youngest daughter the future Linda Lally Thompson, one of his three sons, Jimmy, and me in shades getting into my first car (a Morris Minor I bought used—for the radio, which broke soon after—the inside of which I plastered with Downbeat magazine photos of my favorite jazz musicians and poems I'd torn out of The Beats anthology, Belmar NJ (I was in the military stationed at Fort Monmouth near Red Bank) 1962

Rory Mckeag, my then love (with whom I would soon move to NYC) Ana Ross Gongora, me, MaryAnn LaRouche, and musician Bill Holland, at a party in DC 1974

Poet Gary Lenhart, unknown tall man behind poet Greg Masters, me, and poet Steve Levine, at Books & Co. NYC after a reading I was part of c. late 1970s?

unknown man and woman in archway, artist/actress/writer Mary Waranov sitting on floor, artist Diane Lawrence gesturing to camera and me in my then favorite vintage shirt (from the 1950s, thanks to poet friend Robert Slater who gave it to me) in my first Santa Monica home, 1982

magician/actor Albie Zelnick (in one of my vitange shirts), acrobat/juggler Nathan Stein (in my vintage jacket and belt), me (note the open switchblade), my second wife actress Penelope Milford, and the late actor/writer Winston Jones, posing for a publicity shot for my "poetry play" HOLLYWOOD MAGIC (from my book of the same name) L.A. 1983

the late guitarist and composer Sandy Bull with one of his children on his lap, my oldest son, musician Miles Lally, me (in a vintage sweater, a hand-me-down from my older brothers from the 1930s!) and the late jazz reed-man Buddy Arnold, in my Santa Monica home 1983

me, my then love Terre Bridgham with Athena Greco on her lap, my daughter Caitlin and the late composer and director Tony Greco (I'm guessing his wife Suzanne Greco took the shot) in their home in Pacific Palisades CA for Thanksgiving dinner c. 1988?

writer Joel Lipman, actor/writer Michael Harris, writer Hubert "Cubby" Selby Jr., me behind him and my then partner the multi-talented Eve Brandstein, on one of our Poetry In Motion nights at a club in L.A. c. 1990

me and a woman and man I don't remember the names of, Eve Brandstein, and another man I don't remember the name of on a Poetry In Motion night at Tommy Tang's in NYC c. 1992?

actor Jim Keefe, actor/director Karen Allen behind me, artist Ron Ronan behind the multi-talented movie-director/art designer/ etc. Christie Zea, at my 70th birthday party in artist Gabrielle Senza's studio in Great Barrington MA 2012

lawyer/writer Sue Brennan,  dancer/teacher Jeanne Donahue, me, poet/playwright Rachel E. Diken, and "philosopher" John Voight in Belmar NJ 2016

HILTON OBENZINGER'S TREYF PESACH

I'm one of those people who believes the arts can actually save lives, because I feel like poetry saved mine. I also believe the arts can change lives, and that as futile as writing a poem to protest politicians or governments or movements or etc. may seem, It's still worthwhile, even if it only changes one mind, or none but still bears witness to the protest.

I was fortunate to have a few poems in CAMPFIRES OF THE RESISTANCE, a poetry anthology edited by Todd Gitlin, that came out of the Civil Rights and Anti-Vietnam War movements of the 1960s. I don't remember Hilton Obenzinger having any poems in that collection, but he should have. (You can spy him in photos of the famous 1968 Columbia University takeover by protestors.) I included his poetry in an anthology I edited in the 1970s, NONE OF THE ABOVE.

I always liked his independent spirit and critical eye and ear, and thanks to the Internet, we're back in touch. When Hilton's latest book, TREYF PESACH, was put together, he asked me for a blurb, which I will quote here as my take on it:

"Testament and testimony, Hilton Obenzinger's Treyf Pesach embraces echoes of The Old Testament/Torah, Whitman and Dickenson, Robert Frost and Rosa Parks, incorporating all that and more into the poet's bearing witness to the travails of our times in what one poem describes (referring to Frost) as 'American plain-talk verse,' verse that refuses to be silenced, watered down, placated, compromised or ignored."

There's a little more, but that'll give you the idea of why I believe, if you want some great poetic and prose takes on how to view current events and challenges, you should check out this book. I'll leave you with one of the poem/psalms in it:

Be Here

If the soldiers come, 
If the holy ones come,
If the trees come walking through the doors,
If you unscrew the locks from the doors,
If the mountains come, stumbling through the doors,
If you unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs,
If you open doors in the middle of dreams,
If you sanction love without murder,
If the refugees come, muddy and drowned,
If you have joined their stream, ready to drown,
If the Border Patrol covers the earth with shackles,
If the Border Patrol covers the earth with lost doors,
If you make miracles of simple survival,
If you resist all icy embraces,
If the Coast Guard decides there is no coast,
If you can find no doors,
If the holy ones require a forwarding address,
If love needs a place to hide,
If the soldiers come,
You can stay here,
You can hide here,
You can stay by my side,
Be here

MID-AFTERNOON MINI-RANT

I propose that anyone who can't prove they are descended from someone who was living in this country when it became The United States of America, i.e. 1776—or '78 or '82 depending how you figure, but let's say 1776—should be considered an immigrant and have to prove they're making a real contribution to the country in order to stay here.

HAPPY LABOR DAY

JOHN ASHBERY R.I.P.

John Ashbery is one of the seminal figures in the literature of the USA, and the world. And there's plenty you can read about him online and in books, and if you don't know about him, you should. But as in all my posts about the passing of the famous, the infamous, and the not either, the ingredient I get to add is the personal connection.

In 1972 or '73, I was part of a reading series at The Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC that featured six "major American poets" (the organizers' words in the publicity for it) with two poets reading over three nights. I was paired with Lucille Clifton and felt I should support the other four poets—one of whom was Ashbery—by checking out the other two nights. I knew John's work from his first couple of books that friends had touted to me. But at the time I found his work almost too technically brilliant, without the humor and warmth and connection I looked for in the poetry I liked.

I went to his reading with some friends, all of us younger than Ashbery, or most of the staid audience, dressed as if for a formal occasion (we were in our best hippie garb and stoned as well). But I became immediately defensive for Ashbery when the professor who introduced him seemed to be apologizing ahead of time for how difficult John's work was, almost as if he were embarrassed to have to be introducing him.

Then John read his Popeye sestina, as I like to call it ("Farm Implements And Rutabagas In A Landscape"—look it up, really) and I started laughing so hard I had to steady myself by putting one hand on the carpet to keep from entirely falling out of my chair, while most of the audience didn't even crack a smile. But John paused, in his nasally monotone reading style at the time, and stared right at me with a little gleam in his eye, and that was that. For the rest of the reading I finally could hear not only the technical brilliance, but the humor, the passion, the curiosity, the warmth, and insight, and the profundity, whether accidental or incidental or calculatingly intended.

Afterwards he approached me, and I invited him to join me and my friends at an old warehouse in an industrial part of DC, that had been turned into a gay disco (a new phenomena at the time) called Pier Nine. We all danced and laughed and had a great time, and he invited me to visit him in New York, and I did, and we became intimate friends for a number of years. He generously introduced me to his old friends, like the poets Jimmy Schuyler and Kenneth Koch and Barbara Guest and Kenward Elmslie and Edwin Denby and more, and they all welcomed me warmly, thanks to John.

When I moved to New York in early 1975, I spent even more time with him. He was the most delightful host, and one of the most knowledgeable conversationalists I've ever known. Pretty much anything I brought up he could spew facts about, but always in a humorous way, either with an ironic or campy slant, or sometimes with the timing of a stand-up comic. I loved spending time with him and I loved him. And he taught me so much, for instance turning me on to the novels of Ronald Firbank by lending me his own copy of Firbank's novels—which had been a gift from his late friend Frank O'Hara.

I got married for the second time in 1982 (he and his partner, now husband, David Kermani were at my wedding, I have his wedding gift in my archives, an elaborate 19th-Century giant pop-up wedding card, as well as some antique advertisements that I had framed). Then I moved to L.A. later that year and saw him a few times when he visited there. Back before the Internet it was letter writing that connected us and I mostly sent what I thought were funny collages etc.

But eventually life's challenges and events left us more or less out of touch in more recent years. The last time I saw him was after I moved back to Jersey and he did a reading at Seton Hall University in the town I grew up in and now live nearby. I went to see him and David, and when he saw me in the audience he announced, "Michael Lally's here, the author of the famous South Orange Sonnets," which none of the mostly student audience seemed to know or care about, but it was, as usual, very generous of him to acknowledge me that way and remember the connection of my poems to the town he was reading in.

I don't think he ever knew how much he meant to me, but I hope he did. He had a well-rewarded poet's life and a wonderful partner in the always supportive and kind David Kermani. I offer my condolences to David and to all of John's many friends and fans. There was never a poet or a person like him and never will be again.

Here's a short poem from his book A WORDLY COUNTRY:

Anticipated Stranger,

the bruise will stop by later.
For now, the pain pauses in its round,
notes the time of day, the patient's temperature,
leaves a memo for the surrogate: What the hell
did you think you were doing? I mean...
Oh well, less said the better, they all say.
I'll post this at the desk.

God will find the pattern and break it.

MID-DAY MINI-RANT

The good going on and going to, and coming out of, Southeast Texas after Harvey elevates us all with the truth that there's a lot of love in most humans, especially manifested in caring about others, including and most importantly, strangers.

The bad going on and going to, and coming out of, Southeast Texas, is the direct result of corporate greed and the actions of those who serve it, like the deliberate ignoring of and deregulation of safety standards in the construction of oil refineries and chemical plants and pipelines and urban planing and flood control, etc.

Human need versus corporate greed.