Not Rest In Peace:
How the Ginsberg Memorial That Didn't Happen, Happened
A report from the trenches of the future from Birgitta Jonsdottir of Reykjavik, Iceland. You can cancel technology but not poetry. . .
Prologue
Shortly after Allen Ginsberg died, I got some an e-mail from Al Aronowitz asking me to be a member of an Allen Ginsberg Memorial Committee. I felt honored and a little bit surprised, but after scanning the names I saw that Fernando Rendón, the organizer for Prometeo, the international poetry fest in Colombia from which I had just arrived home, was on the list -- he must have given Al my name. I accepted and passed the word around. Many of my poet-friends joined up as time went by. In the beginning things looked like they were moving in the right direction. Central Park was the aim for a memorial festival to honor Ginsberg. Al and Amiri Baraka, chairmen of the committee, both felt that the other memorials had been held in too-small venues.
I sensed there were some problems with the organization. I had offered to help Al in any way possible (for example, to make a professional Web site, since that is what I do for work). But he never responded to that. I have to admit that when I got an email in which the poets were asked to bring trash bags with them to pick up the trash in Central Park after the festival I had second thoughts.
Mike Pollock, poet and a former student of Allen's in Boulder, and I got grants from the Iceland Ministry of Culture to fly to the USA to take part in the memorial. We had already decided that we would go no matter what, for the sake of creativity.
Friday, June 12th, we woke up bright and early. It was raining while we walked slowly to Central Park. None of us had thought of umbrellas. Mike had a printout from the Internet with directions on how to get to the Bandshell. We stopped at the memorial for John Lennon and I left my poem “Hope” there. I didn't have a clue that people would leave little things at the circle of imagine but I had this poem with me. . . it was the only thing I had with me to leave there somehow. . . .
Both Mike and I were expecting to meet some people we knew through the Net but had never met personally. There was excitement in the air, but both of us had made a vow not to expect anything. We got to the Bandshell at 10 am and the first man we saw was Ron Whitehead, whom we both had been looking forward to meeting. We knew his face from a photo of his CD. Smiles, and the joy of meeting, finally, and the poets’ greeting: an exchange of books and CD's.
Some people were already on the stage. A woman with a sun mask on was dancing slowly. We were standing there talking and wondering where the sound system was. The rain was smooth and warm. I didn't see Al or Amiri Baraka anywhere. A nervous guy came over to us and told us he was from the company that was to provide the sound equipment for the event. He told us that it had been decided to cancel because of the rain, claiming they feared being sued if they went on with it and some poet happened to get shocked to death. We heard someone say “what a way to go.” One could feel a sensation of disapointment, but we also felt that this was not right. Allen would not have wanted us to stop; we all agreed upon that. You can cancel technology but not poetry. So we went towards the stage and joined the people on stage. The show went on anyway.
We stayed there from 10 am until 6:30 pm reading, playing, talking, getting to know each other. After all, people from all over the world had come there to honor Ginsberg -- why should we stop? Many people who had gotten a phone call from Al announcing that the Memorial was canceled came to the park to read -- a feeling of rebellion and raw energy was present throughout the day. I was surprised that none of the people responsible for the festival showed up to be with us, but I had such a good time connecting and reconnecting with new and old friends that it didn't bother me for long. I felt happy that I was there because everything has a link to a bigger picture. I just felt sorry for Al for not daring to face reality -- reality is not always what you think it might be.
I had heard of many memorials to honor Ginsberg but I had not a chance to attend because I really don't belong to the innermost circle of his friends. The way I feel about the Ginsberg legacy is simple. He was a pioneer in many fields, interconnecting poetry with music, daring to be what he was: a human being. I might not like all his poetry, but I liked his way of expressing poetry. I might not like his lifestyle, but I liked his way of being. What I really liked about this thing in the park was there was no sense of intellectual snobbery. We were all equal human beings being rained down upon in the park, with our voices pulsing in the bandshell. I got to hear the cutting edge of poetry expressed from people like Merilene Murphy, Ron Whitehead, Larry Winfield, Jordan Green, W. Loran Smith, Ginsberg’s translator from China, also his Spanish translator from Argentina, Frank Messina, Brett Axel, Lamont Steptoe, Bridgit Monaghan, and many more whose works live with me, but I am terrible with names.
I had promised Maurice Peterson, whom I had worked with for Project Equinox, that I would give a reading at the Centerfold Coffee House around the corner in a church, so Mike and Daniel and I left around 5:30 to get ready for that. I had invited everyone at the Bandshell and someone told Al via the phone and he had promised to show up at Centerfold. He had not arrived at the Bandshell when we left. We got to the Centerfold a bit late and Maurice had thought I would not show up and had taken me off the list. I told him that there would be a lot of poets showing up later on and that it would be nice if I could be last in line to read.
Slowly but surely the place filled with the poets from the park. Jean Portante from Luxemburg, whom I had gotten to know last year in Colombia, showed up, and Merilene Murphy, my sister in spirit, whom I also met last year. In many ways it was like this big family reunion of poets. All of them signed up to give a reading at the Centerfold and even Al came up and told us a wonderful story about how he introduced Billie Holliday to the Beats. I forgave him for the cancellation because, after all, we went on with it, and his way with words is brilliant.
Somehow it felt like a historical day -- where forces joined up and it was impossible for us to stop. We kept on reading at the Centerfold for hours, and Maurice said it was the best event there ever, and they have been running this reading for 20 years. It is always so refreshing to see poets from other countries perform; it vitalizes one’s own sense of self as a poet. We decided to meet Ron the next day to discuss what we could do in the future together. He had already said that he wanted to make a CD with me, Mike, Daniel and W. Loren Smith.
Saturday the 13th of June we woke up late -- I did a little meditation and Mike went to the health shop and bought some natural dope, ginseng and guarana. Soon Ron, Bill and Chris Felver showed up. I talked about the festival I had just started to organize for the year 2000, Iceland's first international poetry festival with a flair of multimedia and music. The result was that Ron offered to co-produce this with me. I felt happiness jumping within me. The Pollock brothers, Bill and Chris, were also on board. I could see the foundation of the festival being build on solid ground. The feeling in this hotel room was unreal -- in every way it was like a reunion of souls -- all of us felt we had known each other before, and reflections of like-mindedness moving so fast. This was indeed the high peak of this trip.
ConclusionHope
If I whisper into
the ear of the
eagle
that I miss you
will you come
riding on his back
to terminate
this emptiness?
If we melt together
will my desire then cease?
Will my soul always be
like a flickering light
looking
for something
that will grow in the rhythm
of my limitless maturity?
That will walk the same
untouched paths?
Will the boundaries of time
grant me roots to grow in foreign soil.
Will I then be a tree
that stretches my limbs
towards the ever changing sky
and the birds of spring
until my life fades away?
Or will I always be
a migrating bird
only travelling with myself.
Flying around in this
gigantic golden cage
of my perception?
Or will I become an angel
with huge wings
and eyes that cut through it all.
Will I then become
your guardian angel
that takes you above it all?
All the people mentioned here would never have entered into my life without my connection to the Internet. It's eliminating borders and the linear sense of time, making me feel truly like an earthling on Planet Earth, not an Icelander from Iceland.
Birgitta Jonsdottir is a multiartist: writer : poet : painter : singer : composer : computer artist : web designer : organiser : journalist. She lives in Reykjavik, Iceland, where she is currently working in all these fields & organizing Iceland's first International Poetry Festival for the year 2000, Words Without Restraint, in collaboration with Wiz-Art Interactive, Ron Whitehead and many many more.
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