When most people think of the beat generation and its writers, poets, and characters, the names Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs (all though he was pre and post Beats), Gregory Corso, Lucien Carr, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, LeRoi Jones and of course Neal Cassady, come to mind. There were many other men, whose names are not here, pounding out new forms of poetry, but what about the women? Sometimes it seems as if there are literary periods when women are completely absent from a scene, as if they were only caricatures of women in the stories and poems. They were the girlfriends, the one night stands, the muses, the tragedies or the wives, but never the writers. Yet there were women beat writers. As often happens, many of them have gone to the back shelf of history or vanished from print. However just because a writer does not become iconic it doesn’t mean they weren’t important or that their work did not exist or matter. Here are a few I like. A few Good poets.
Diane di Prima
Diane di Prima
These eyes are amber, they have no pupils, they are filled w/a blue light (fire).
They are the eyes of gods the eyes of insects, straying godmen of the galaxy, metallic wings.
Those eyes were green are still, sea green, or green their light less defined. These sea-green eyes spin dreams on the palpable air. They are not yrs or mine. It is as if the dead saw thru our eyes, others for a moment borrowed these windows, gazing.
We keep still. It is as if these windows
filled for a minute w/a different
light.
Not blue, not amber. But the curtain drawn
over our daily gaze is drawn aside.
Who are you, really. I have seen it
often enough, the naked
gaze of power. We “charge”
the other with it / the leap
into non-betrayal, a wind
w/ out sound we live in. Where
are we, really, climbing
the sides of buildings to peer in
like spiderman, at windows
not our own
Elise Cowen
THE LADY …
The lady is a humble thing Made of death and water The fashion is to dress it plain
And use the mind for border
Joyce Johnson-(about the death of Elise Cowen)
Elise got on the Greyhound bus. Having sabotaged a few clocks in the city– she left me the rest, and a destiny of endless chop suey a beat-up copy of The Idiot She didn’t own much. When the electrical doors closed and the air conditioning began, the black leather roads took her.
Her friends celebrate her departure with beer and a fist fight.
Her parents in their impenetrable living room have drawn the blinds.
Hettie Jones
SONNET
Love never held my hand like those summertime couples palm to palm, the perfectly interlaced fingers the pressures Love never flung himself around my shoulder, or measured my waist love was a grandmaster though, and he laughed when he came on like gangbusters, who could refuse him, ah. I knuckled under, no regrets but I’ve always wondered
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Hi Barry, sorry, I’m not very savvy in the computer world, but I think I have the rss up and running, at least, it looks like it is. Thank you for wanting to subscribe.