Ernest Beyl - "Lawrence Ferlinghetti Interview fragments" in Lit Pot

I met poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti in December 2001 at City Lights, his landmark San Francisco bookstore at 261 Columbus Avenue. In the 1950s, City Lights was a veritable clubhouse for writers of the Beat Generation. Today, it's a magnet for baby-boomer tourists and their offspring who read Ferlinghetti and Beat Generation writers like Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and others. City Lights celebrates its 50th anniversary this year.

I was at City Lights to interview Ferlinghetti for a book I'm writing about San Francisco and, well aware of his towering reputation, I was apprehensive about talking to him.

Ferlinghetti is widely recognized as one of this country's greatest living poets. This is the man -- not actually a Beat poet himself -- who published Allen Ginsberg's epic "Howl," a poem that became a Beat anthem. "Howl" was deemed obscene by the San Francisco Police Department, but Ferlinghetti vigorously defended his right to publish it, as did noted defense attorney Jake Ehrlich, and, after a much-publicized trial, the San Francisco Municipal Court ruled in favor of Ferlinghetti. The judge's opinion: "In considering material claimed to be obscene, it is well to remember the motto: honi soit qui mal y pense (shame to him who thinks evil thoughts.)"

These days, the poet, painter, pamphleteer, former Poet Laureate of San Francisco, publisher, and bookstore proprietor strides through the streets of San Francisco's North Beach like a colossus and continues to rail at big government, big business, civil rights abuses, and this country's pugnacious war stance, as he always has. At 84, he walks tall and straight, his pale blue eyes fixed on another orbit. He has a mesmerizing presence.

Once I was seated in his wedge-shaped, manuscript-cluttered office above the bookshop, this is how that interview went:

LF: Where is your tape recorder?

EB: I'm sorry. I suppose I should have brought it.

LF: This would work better with a tape recorder.

EB: I'll bring one next time.

LF: I don't have much time.

EB: Let's meet again and I'll bring my tape recorder. Meanwhile, let's talk for awhile.

Ferlinghetti shrugs purposively. He looks doubtful about this meeting.

EB: Can we discuss the role of poetry in society as you see it?

LF: Do you mean the roll (r-o-l-l) or role (r-o-l-e)? The poet's role is not to roll over. Get it? The poet's role is to exhort and harangue and to defend our civil rights. Our civil rights are constantly being challenged. They are being eroded daily.

A series of long vertical panels draped along the façade of City Lights Booksellers and Publishers read: "Dissent Does Not Mean You Are Un-American." And: "Stop War and War Makers."

EB: Actually, what is the state of the poet in our society?

LF: The usual.

EB: I take it you mean by "the usual" that most people only read poetry once in awhile or don't read it at all.

LF: Poetry and poets are on the sidelines. If you have the time, it's okay to read Byron, maybe Shelley or Keats, but not a bunch of crazies.

EB: Well, who does read poetry these days?

LF: Almost everything is threatened and repressed. In our colleges and universities, all the professors talk about is, "What is the process of poetry?" They don't ask what it means. I give poetry readings at colleges and the idea of the readings is to get the listener HIGH. Oral poetry, which is just one kind of poetry, should get people HIGH. But everyone wants to know about the process; how you wrote something. No one cares about the content, just the process.

EB: Well, who reads poetry besides the poets themselves?

LF: Maybe a token poet who is a professor; or a token professor who is a poet.

EB: Today, what other kinds of poetry are there besides oral poetry?

LF: There is documentary poetry. I am working on a documentary poem now called "Americus." It's modeled on Ezra Pound's "Cantos."

EB: What do you think your legacy will be?

LF: That's up to the professors to decide, if they are interested in the question at all. They are in the deep sleep of the well-fed.

EB: There's a common idea that you are a Beat poet and were a member of the Beat Generation.

LF: Of course not. I was a member of the last Bohemian Generation. I even wore a beret. I published the Beats. I published Allen Ginsberg until later when he went over to Harper and Row. By that time he had shot his bolt. Did you get that? He shot his bolt by that time.

EB: Let's not dwell on the Beats, but rather on some other ideas and opinions, about the community in which you live. What's good about it; what needs improvement?

LF: Next time bring your tape recorder.

EB: Okay, I'll do that.

I rise to leave.

LF: Sit down and read this.

He hands me The Argonaut, a publication of the California Historical Society.

EB: I was going to leave because you said you didn't have much time. I'll bring my tape recorder next time.

LF: Sit down and read this.

The fall 2001 issue of The Argonaut features a profile of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. We sit silently as I read the entire, five-page profile.

EB: You seem to be a very public person, yet also a very private one. Since what I plan here is a profile on you, what are you comfortable in telling me about your personal life?

LF: Nothing.

EB: I knew you were going to say that.

LF: Who's Who sent me a questionnaire once to fill out about my life and I wrote across it "fuck you." They sent me another questionnaire. This time I thought I would give them a surrealistic answer. At that time I thought I was a surrealistic poet. So I wrote, "I was born either in 1919 or 1920. Born either in Paris or New York, etc."

We sit and look at each other for a few minutes. I have run out of gas. I stand and am ready to make my exit.

EB: Thanks. I appreciate your time. Next time I'll bring my tape recorder.

LF: Sit down.

Ferlinghetti reaches back into a cubby hole of the roll-top desk at which he is sitting and brings out what appears to be a greeting card. He turns to the desk, takes up a pen, and writes on the card.

LF: Here, this is for you.

The single-fold, black-and-white card depicts Rembrandt's 1655 drawing, "Abraham's Sacrifice." It shows an angel, one hand over Isaac's eyes, the other restraining Abraham from killing Isaac. Below the illustration Ferlinghetti has written "By Rembrandt and Ferlinghetti." In a cartoon bubble coming from the angel's mouth he has written, "If you can't look him in the eye you can't kill him!"

I open the card. On the left panel he has written, "Happy New Year!" On the right panel he has written, "To the bombers who kill thousands from 20,000 feet. Lawrence Ferlinghetti, 10, December, 01."

What makes Ferlinghetti a great poet is not only his work, but his unshakable belief in the importance of the poetic voice and his confidence that poetry is capable of transforming the world. He's viewed by many as an urban guerilla at the barricades. Critic Karl Malkoff (Crowell's Handbook to Contemporary American Poetry, Crowell, 1973) describes him as a man whose work is "built around the tension between the poet's wish to participate in some greater unity, some wholeness that can survive the prevalent fragmentation he sees all around him, and his need to participate in deadly events of his time, his need to confront the dark heart of experience rather than turn away from it."

In his monumental "A Coney Island of the Mind," published in 1958, he writes about an urban environment in which he was able to bridge the gap between being a passive but visionary poet and an active poet of radical defiance:

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	Interview by Ernest Beyl LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI Fragments from an Interview Click for Online Poetry Classroom I met poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti in December 2001 at City Lights, his landmark San Francisco bookstore at 261 Columbus Avenue. In the 1950s, City Lights was a veritable clubhouse for writers of the Beat Generation. Today, it's a magnet for baby-boomer tourists and their offspring who read Ferlinghetti and Beat Generation writers like Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and others. City Lights celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. I was at City Lights to interview Ferlinghetti for a book I'm writing about San Francisco and, well aware of his towering reputation, I was apprehensive about talking to him. Ferlinghetti is widely recognized as one of this country's greatest living poets. This is the man -- not actually a Beat poet himself -- who published Allen Ginsberg's epic "Howl," a poem that became a Beat anthem. "Howl" was deemed obscene by the San Francisco Police Department, but Ferlinghetti vigorously defended his right to publish it, as did noted defense attorney Jake Ehrlich, and, after a much-publicized trial, the San Francisco Municipal Court ruled in favor of Ferlinghetti. The judge's opinion: "In considering material claimed to be obscene, it is well to remember the motto: honi soit qui mal y pense (shame to him who thinks evil thoughts.)" These days, the poet, painter, pamphleteer, former Poet Laureate of San Francisco, publisher, and bookstore proprietor strides through the streets of San Francisco's North Beach like a colossus and continues to rail at big government, big business, civil rights abuses, and this country's pugnacious war stance, as he always has. At 84, he walks tall and straight, his pale blue eyes fixed on another orbit. He has a mesmerizing presence. Once I was seated in his wedge-shaped, manuscript-cluttered office above the bookshop, this is how that interview went: LF: Where is your tape recorder? EB: I'm sorry. I suppose I should have brought it. LF: This would work better with a tape recorder. EB: I'll bring one next time. LF: I don't have much time. EB: Let's meet again and I'll bring my tape recorder. Meanwhile, let's talk for awhile. Ferlinghetti shrugs purposively. He looks doubtful about this meeting. EB: Can we discuss the role of poetry in society as you see it? LF: Do you mean the roll (r-o-l-l) or role (r-o-l-e)? The poet's role is not to roll over. Get it? The poet's role is to exhort and harangue and to defend our civil rights. Our civil rights are constantly being challenged. They are being eroded daily. A series of long vertical panels draped along the façade of City Lights Booksellers and Publishers read: "Dissent Does Not Mean You Are Un-American." And: "Stop War and War Makers." EB: Actually, what is the state of the poet in our society? LF: The usual. EB: I take it you mean by "the usual" that most people only read poetry once in awhile or don't read it at all. LF: Poetry and poets are on the sidelines. If you have the time, it's okay to read Byron, maybe Shelley or Keats, but not a bunch of crazies. EB: Well, who does read poetry these days? LF: Almost everything is threatened and repressed. In our colleges and universities, all the professors talk about is, "What is the process of poetry?" They don't ask what it means. I give poetry readings at colleges and the idea of the readings is to get the listener HIGH. Oral poetry, which is just one kind of poetry, should get people HIGH. But everyone wants to know about the process; how you wrote something. No one cares about the content, just the process. EB: Well, who reads poetry besides the poets themselves? LF: Maybe a token poet who is a professor; or a token professor who is a poet. EB: Today, what other kinds of poetry are there besides oral poetry? LF: There is documentary poetry. I am working on a documentary poem now called "Americus." It's modeled on Ezra Pound's "Cantos." EB: What do you think your legacy will be? LF: That's up to the professors to decide, if they are interested in the question at all. They are in the deep sleep of the well-fed. EB: There's a common idea that you are a Beat poet and were a member of the Beat Generation. LF: Of course not. I was a member of the last Bohemian Generation. I even wore a beret. I published the Beats. I published Allen Ginsberg until later when he went over to Harper and Row. By that time he had shot his bolt. Did you get that? He shot his bolt by that time. EB: Let's not dwell on the Beats, but rather on some other ideas and opinions, about the community in which you live. What's good about it; what needs improvement? LF: Next time bring your tape recorder. EB: Okay, I'll do that. I rise to leave. LF: Sit down and read this. He hands me The Argonaut, a publication of the California Historical Society. EB: I was going to leave because you said you didn't have much time. I'll bring my tape recorder next time. LF: Sit down and read this. The fall 2001 issue of The Argonaut features a profile of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. We sit silently as I read the entire, five-page profile. EB: You seem to be a very public person, yet also a very private one. Since what I plan here is a profile on you, what are you comfortable in telling me about your personal life? LF: Nothing. EB: I knew you were going to say that. LF: Who's Who sent me a questionnaire once to fill out about my life and I wrote across it "fuck you." They sent me another questionnaire. This time I thought I would give them a surrealistic answer. At that time I thought I was a surrealistic poet. So I wrote, "I was born either in 1919 or 1920. Born either in Paris or New York, etc." We sit and look at each other for a few minutes. I have run out of gas. I stand and am ready to make my exit. EB: Thanks. I appreciate your time. Next time I'll bring my tape recorder. LF: Sit down. Ferlinghetti reaches back into a cubby hole of the roll-top desk at which he is sitting and brings out what appears to be a greeting card. He turns to the desk, takes up a pen, and writes on the card. LF: Here, this is for you. The single-fold, black-and-white card depicts Rembrandt's 1655 drawing, "Abraham's Sacrifice." It shows an angel, one hand over Isaac's eyes, the other restraining Abraham from killing Isaac. Below the illustration Ferlinghetti has written "By Rembrandt and Ferlinghetti." In a cartoon bubble coming from the angel's mouth he has written, "If you can't look him in the eye you can't kill him!" I open the card. On the left panel he has written, "Happy New Year!" On the right panel he has written, "To the bombers who kill thousands from 20,000 feet. Lawrence Ferlinghetti, 10, December, 01." What makes Ferlinghetti a great poet is not only his work, but his unshakable belief in the importance of the poetic voice and his confidence that poetry is capable of transforming the world. He's viewed by many as an urban guerilla at the barricades. Critic Karl Malkoff (Crowell's Handbook to Contemporary American Poetry, Crowell, 1973) describes him as a man whose work is "built around the tension between the poet's wish to participate in some greater unity, some wholeness that can survive the prevalent fragmentation he sees all around him, and his need to participate in deadly events of his time, his need to confront the dark heart of experience rather than turn away from it." In his monumental "A Coney Island of the Mind," published in 1958, he writes about an urban environment in which he was able to bridge the gap between being a passive but visionary poet and an active poet of radical defiance: Who may cause the lips of those who are asleep to speak And in the same poem he tackles just what it means to be poet: Constantly risking absurdity and death whenever he performs above the heads of his audience the poet like an acrobat climbs on rime to a high wire of his own making § § § Ernest Beyl is a San Francisco writer currently working on a book about the city called "Why I Live in San Francisco." It is not a guidebook but rather a series of essays on San Francisco people, places, and pleasures. Chapters from the book appear monthly in the Nob Hill Gazette as work in progress. He also has contributed essays to Saveur, Westways, and the North Beach Beat. A poem titled "Gongman" has appeared in the North Beach Journal. He is a former newspaper reporter, Hollywood press agent, and U.S. Marine. He lives on Telegraph Hill and plays the Chinese gong for the Green Street Mortuary Marching Band. He may be reached at:beyl@earthlink.net .. Send the URL for this work to a friend! GO TO NEXT PAGE