“The crowd
snakes and weaves
Like the Great
Wall of China
On a cab ride
Out on a
Saturday
Sunny with arms
and chins
All moving at
eye level and they all
Have a Somewhere
as they go.”
--Ruby Tabeata, "Sunny Saturday" from The Beat on Ruby's Street
Greenwich
Village, 1958
YOU’RE telling
me there are no ladies writing poetry that come
anywhere near the level of Allen Ginsberg? You’re
asking for ONE, just one poet who’s a woman who comes near?
…the roses in the gypsy's window in a blue
vase, look real, as
unreal
as real roses.
Two: Elise
Cowan and yeah, she’s Allen G’s girlfriend kinda sorta, or was, but that
doesn’t mean she doesn’t write her own poems and a lot of people are reading
them.
Someone I could kiss
Has left his, her
tracks
A memory
Heavy as winter breathing
in the snow
Has left his, her
tracks
A memory
Heavy as winter breathing
in the snow
1. Diane di Prima, This Kind of Bird Flies Backward,
published THIS year, 1958.
There’s also Joyce
Johnson who pals around with Jack Kerouac
and other women I see reading their work in the park or at Les and Bo’s
parties.
And what about Edna St. Vincent Millay whose house is right here
in the neighborhood? And then all those long-ago poets like Sappho and Emily D and George E and hey, I
almost forgot. Gertrude
Stein.
I think she’s my
pretty-much favorite because of what she said in The Making of Americans. “I write for myself and strangers.”
Which is exactly right
because who ho else would you possibly write for? Like she said, your friends and
neighbors don’t want to know how much they’re like themselves (and everyone
else.) But strangers, you can trust to read you… without worrying about who you
are and what you might be saying about them.
Sometimes reading her
makes me think Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso and
all the Beat poet guys must have read her too, because it’s like they’re little
mirrors of what she’s saying. And if they haven’t read her, they should.
So now I told you not
one, but a lot more. And those cats, those poet cats on the streets of the
Village here, they’d agree with me. The ladies are writing for themselves and
strangers. Writing here.
--Ruby T.
--Ruby T.
Illustration: Scott Rolfs
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