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by Kristin Prevallet
This video presents my poem/performance of “Cruelty and Conquest (OilOilOil),” which was one of many poetic interventions into the GBII years and the War on Iraq. This poem and my subsequent performance of it at Naropa University in 2006, is presented here with gratitude to Anne Waldman for the many years of energy and inspiration.
Context: In January of 2001, I, along with poets Anne Waldman, Alan Gilbert, Anselm Berrigan, and Magdalena Zurawski made unique signs and marched in protest of GBII’s inauguration in Washington, D.C. From 2001-2006, I took Waldman’s vow to poetry seriously as I composed many conceptual and performative texts and interventions designed to expose the lies and deceit that led to the U.S.’s fatal war on Iraq. (Collected in Shadow Evidence Intelligence from Factory School, 2006).
In 2006, Anne invited me to Naropa, and I translated the poem into a performance. The full documentation of that performance is being shown here, in tribute to Anne’s 75th birthday, for the first time. I am delighted that David Kirschenbaum’s Boog City is synthesizing this history—it was in Boog City where I and so many other poets were able to publish GBII and Gulf War protest poems, articles, and rants.
Waldman’s arrow-like prose and femanifestos were a huge inspiration to me, especially her imperative in Vow to Poetry that a woman poet ”explore and dance with everything in the culture which is unsung, mute, and controversial so that she may subvert the existing systems that repress and misunderstand feminine ‘difference’…turn the language of the body upside down.”
It is indeed the “turning of the body upside down” that I am attempting in this piece, as well as paying a deep homage to feminist performance art, which I also absorbed from Anne’s teachings: collaborate, collaborate, collaborate! (Here’s an essay I wrote on Anne’s collaborations with visual artists: http://www.poetspath.com/Scholarship_Project/prevallet.html)
Anne, your inspiration to generations upon generations of women poets is the birth of neutron, pulsar, and kali yuga stars over and over again in this galaxy of language we call poetry. It is an honor and a privilege to be among your expansive field of apprentices!
Kristin Prevallet (trancepoetics.com) a Denver native, is a poet who is the author of five books including I, Afterlife: Essay in Mourning Time(Essay Press) and Everywhere Here and in Brooklyn (Belladonna Collaborative). Between 1998 and 2006, she was an intermittent guest of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University, where she taught with the Summer Writing Program as well as for the online M.F.A. program. Since 2010, she has held the Creative Entrepreneurial Oracle (CEO) of the ever-expanding mindbodystudies.com, a resource of outlier mental health practices including the Trance Poetics homestudy course, her manuscript doulah coaching service, a hypnotherapy certification program, and books that integrate medicines of imagination and language.
Kristin Prevallet with Anne Waldman at the Alchemist’s Kitchen, May 19, 2017. Alystyre Julian, Outrider film.
In putting together this feature on our teacher and friend Anne Waldman, I would mention to potential contributors that in my editorial budget I had slugged the description of what I was looking for from everyone as “My Anne.” What came to mind when you thought of Anne Waldman and her impact upon your life.
For me it was how accepting she was, how forgiving she’s been. Anne has entrusted me, entrusted Boog with her words from soon after we met. The first work of hers that we published was back in 1993 when we did a short-run broadside of her poem cutting up Colorado’s anti-gay rights Amendment 2.
But I remember the missteps just as much as the successes. We were supposed to publish our first perfect-bound book ever, Anne’s Suffer the Mysterium, back around the same time, and I just could never get it together so the book didn’t happen. Years later, when attempting to relaunch boogcity.com, I asked Anne for a poem that we could serialize to get people to keep coming back to the website. Again, a false start, and the site with Anne’s work never materialized.
And what I remember most through all of this, is that the next time I would go to her asking for work she would always say yes. She never brought up the things that hadn’t happened, but instead would give me her latest words to get out into the world. I guess that’s My Anne, forgiving, trusting, understanding.
Welcome to the new boogcity.com. We’ll be publishing the paper at the same schedule of about every six weeks, and we’ll also be updating the website with new work and great content from our archives.
Much love to HR Hegnauer for her production assist. But the biggest shout-out goes to Christina Strong, constant sounding board and webmistress to the stars. Without her this is all just a bunch of text and images on my MacBook Pro.
We’d love to hear what you think of the site. Email me to email@example.com with any feedback.
Much Thanks to HR Hegnauer for helping make this happen
Paper is copyright Boog City, all rights revert to contributors upon publication. Boog City is published eight times annually. Boog always reads work for Boog City or other consideration. (Email firstname.lastname@example.org or applicable editor and put Boog City sub in subject line.) Letters to the editor should go to email@example.com.
(l-r.) Anne Waldman in an unidentified Greenwich Village backyard, 1971, Gerard Malanga photo, and Alystyre Julian, Outrider film.
Interview by Nathaniel Siegel
At the invitation of poet, friend, and Boog City Editor David Kirschenbaum, I was entrusted to interview poet and teacher Anne Waldman. Here are my questions. Here are Anne’s answers. On behalf of David and myself, I invite you kind reader, to read on.
Boog City: “Cherish spiritual teachers Even more than your own body – This is the practice of Bodhisattvas”
(Togmay Sangpo The Thirty-Seven Practices of Bodhisattvas)
Anne, who have been, who are your most cherished spiritual teachers?
I have had some generous spiritual teachers, primarily in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition if that is what you are referring too. And many poets and other kinds of mentors and kalyanamitras, or spiritual friends. Books are trembling radiant teachers as well. Songs of Milarepa, The Therigatha and Theragatha, and the Heart Sutra and Ecclesiastes, The I Ching, and Rig Veda, Kalvala, Mahabrharta, other epics, and poems of great Chinese and Japanese sages. Pound’s Cathay was a poetic eye and ear opener, the scent of China: Li Po. The Transcendentalists. Ragas, shakuhachi, gamelan. Of course, the Modernists: Gertrude Stein, Mina Loy, and H.D. Contemporary elders: Adrienne Rich, Gwendolyn Brooks, Audre Lorde. And in contemporary poetry the books of Alice Notley including Descent of Alette and Bernadette Mayer’s Studying Hunger and Joanne Kyger’s Big Moon, and Diane di Prima’s Loba. Mei-mei Berssenbrugge’s new book, A Treatise on Stars. And the performances of Patti Smith and Laurie Anderson and Meredith Monk. Visual art of Pat Steir and Kiki Smith. I enjoy following these women cohorts of my generation. Often in relationships your compañeras are teachers, sharing their worlds. What a generation. It became Our Time.
My first encounter with a Lama, however, was with the Mongolian Geshe Wangyal whose mind was a crystal clear mirror and who threw some notion of theism back at me. He reflected back my doubts and aspirations. What is existence? I know nothing! What about the atom bomb? Why so much suffering? It had to be about one’s own mind and experience, and study and gnosis, not some salvation and remedy outside my own consciousness. We met in the early 1960s, I was still in my teens and working at an arts project in Philadelphia with Percy Heath, a great jazz artist, and his brother and the poet/editor Harvey Brown who had studied with Charles Olson. It was the summer of the so-called Philadelphia riots, 1964, which was a distressing time. Conflict on the streets, the cops were terrible.
Rinpoche was living in a pink suburban house in nearby New Jersey and a retinue of young monks—when we sat for tea—were gnawing on chicken bones. The mantel was adorned with vibrant thangkas of various peaceful and wrathful deities, including a red skinned Vajra Yogini hanging over the mantelpiece. The renowned Buddhist scholar Robert Thurman, 20 years old at the time, and his cohorts from Harvard had started translating sutras, and suggested I not wear lipstick when I went for my darshan (a Zen term meaning an occasion of seeing a holy person) with the lama. They probably had a point, as the lama was a monk, but I found their male uptight conservatism irritating.
The lama was unusually still and quiet. I was curious about the vivid imagery in his shrine room (yoginis with animal heads). Something he said made it clear that they were energies/aspects of one’s mind and might be allies. They weren’t external saviours or gods, but psychological states of mind. Wrathful, peaceful, pacifying, destroying. I am probably projecting too much here. Geshe Wangyal was like a rock. Gary Snyder thought tantric Buddhism must be more appealing to female practitioners than Zen with its cool interiors, but it’s ultimately the same view of impermanence, letting go of attachments, mindfulness practice, concentrating on the breath, Basic Buddhism. I wrote a later poem “Makeup On Empty Space” with that in mind. But there is something magnetizing about the starkness and clarity of the Zendo with your own mind. Staring at a white wall, staring into the void. The power of aloneness. The Tibetan atmosphere but also the performative aspects of practice seemed less restrained but also just as strict.
Other teachers included the great Kalu Rinpoche whom I first visited in India, His Holiness Karmapa and my root teacher Chatral or Jadtral Rinpoche (not a tulku but a yogin who had a weathered craggy face like Anthony Quinn’s) and of course Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the founder of Naropa, whom I first met in 1970.
I went with Michael Brownstein to pick Trungpa up at the airport in Montpelier, Vt. Trungpa had started the Tail of the Tiger meditation center with students, close by in Barnet, Vt.
He got off the plane a bit inebriated and was talking about the holograms at Disney he had just been “visiting with,” especially the one of Casper the friendly ghost. Casper was like sambhogakaya (“body of light”) realm, an emanation. That was quite charming. I thought to go live in the country for a while, but he recommended I stick it out in NYC which was, as he said, “a holy city.” Certain elder poets were kalyanamitras. You watched the way they spoke and taught. Edwin Denby, Allen Ginsberg, even Burroughs in a strange way. What they pointed to and pointed out in the phenomenal world, what they illuminated for you, as when Edwin at the ballet once pointed out the muscles of Suzanne Farrell’s long neck. Its taut tremor, and I felt the animalia of ballet: a pagan trancelike twitching rite.
Burroughs gave me my one and only artillery lesson at a shooting range in the Rockies. I was nervous. He had accidentally shot his own wife, Joan Vollmer. He spoke in The Job about eliminating women! How could he dare hold a gun? It was these kinds of odd almost risky combinations of energy. Edgy. Trungpa once said Burroughs was a candidate for a tantric adept role. Padmasambhava had blood on his hands. But I was more interested in prajna, feminine energy. Womb-like energy, nourishing energy, as I mused on all this path, practice, and possibility.
Anne, you are the grandmother of a newborn Kora Bye Anaya, congratulations to you, Ed, Ambrose, Natalia, Jesus, and Ana! In your essay Sikelianos’ Delphic Idea: Site & Poetic Legacy In Memoriam, Mark Sikelianos, 1930-2000, you state:
“I am a great-step-granddaughter of Anghelos and Eva Sikelianos, and the imaginative Utopian attempt.
(Vow to Poetry Essays, Interviews, & Manifestos 2001 Coffee House Press)
Anne, what words, stories, myths, and songs will you be most eager to share with and convey to Kora?
And I am also the daughter of Frances LeFevre Sikelianos Waldman, translator of Cesar Moro, Anghelos Sikelianos, and author of Dearest Annie, You wanted a report on Berkson’s class: Letters from Frances LeFevre to Anne Waldman (Hanging Loose Press).
Ambrose has just asked me to start reading poetry to little Kora on FaceTime. Beautiful Kora Bye Anaya, beloved Bebe just a few months old. I think he’s getting tired of listening to me cooing and singing “She’ll Be Comin’ Round The Mountain,” “The Green Grass Grows all Around,” and “If I Had A Hammer.” They are living and sequestered in Mexico City (her wonderful mother, Natalia, is Mexican). It’s been so hard not meeting Kora as yet, I ache to hold her. This pandemic is like war, too many separations.
I’m reading her all that you would expect, the great kid books, Mother Goose, folk tales from all over the world, fairy tales, fables, poetry, Peter Rabbit, Oz. And first off the myth of Demeter and Kora (Persephone), princess of darkness who goes to the underworld and returns to bring light and knowledge of what’s down under. Kora was born at the vernal equinox.
Anne, in Allen Ginsberg’s book Death & Fame: Last Poems 1993-1997, he begins with the poem New Democracy Wish List for President Clinton White House. What is on your new democracy wish list?
We are talking about fighting a white supremacist fascist takeover here in the US of A. The antithesis of this fetid psychopathic racist plan. Now they are abolishing the Voice of America? Trying to kill the post office to muck with voting?
Start the chant: Systemic racism end! Total reform of all syndicates of samsara! Bring back poetry and arts to the schools! Poverty, war, all harm, nukes be banned! Everything be undone that this last vile admin has sanctioned, all crimes of robber barons and criminals, land grabs, sexism, homophobia. Trump has the stink of covid death on his hands. He has to be, puppet that he is, one of the most hideous abominations to humanity. A perfect gang of Rudras, his shadowmasters. And please spare us robocops and AI running the show. Total surveillance, can the plugs be pulled on that? The military inverted the internet. We need to hold our imaginations, original mind. Get out of the media traps. Work on telepathy.
Anne, do you remember Joe Brainard making you laugh?
He always made me laugh with his generosity, tenderness, shyness, his smile, his work, his spelling, the three volumes of I Remember, the Nancy series. So much more. There’s a book of letters in the works. I can’t wait.
Anne, where is your sanctuary, your home, your respite?
Several homes. Perhaps most central to my psyche, Macdougal Street where I’ve lived the longest in my dreamlife. That neighborhood—now transformed—growing up in the 1950s was a playground for the senses. What I was born into. Lots of sacred ghosts on the premises: father John, mother Frances waiting for me to come home from nights out so we could talk all night, older brother Mark Sikelianos. All the creative collaboration and poetry and music and celebration in that space, like an alchemical laboratory.
Boulder has also been a sanctuary and haven and scriptorium and a library and where I’ve been in retreat much of the pandemic. This is where my son Ambrose was born and close to where my stepdaughter Althea was raised and now lives close by. And Ambrose’s father Reed Bye and his wife Jill who are family. All the years at Naropa like a happy ghost realm with the conversation that goes on continuously in poet heaven. Ted Berrigan egging me on to be more like Mayakovsky.
And gratitude to long time partner Ed Bowes and his sanctuary on West 27th Street.
Anne, what would you like to see more of and less of in poetry communities? Where do you see the most need for change, for assistance, for improvements to the places and publications we have now?
With the pandemic and uprising for social justice and climate change we have to stay on the case more than ever. Be alert, informed. We are in the middle of an extraordinary time of both pandemic and uprising. Racism has been the wound at the heart of this nation, and the battle is with the systemic white supremacy that poisons everywhere. The suffering that black people have to endure daily with the legion of micro-aggressions, all the inequities, lethal abuse is so horrifying. And the karma of years of genocide of indigenous peoples and the cruelty and bestiality of slavery is almost too much to hold.
Anne, what ideas, what practices best foster expansion of thought and expansion of imagination?
Meditation, study, constant reading in all directions of time and space.
“How you living?” (channeling from Akilah Oliver)
Here in my sequester in Boulder having escaped New York at the end of March, I think a lot about friendships. And a lot about poetry and then, impetuously, I want to send messages to the world.
Everyone: stay friends! We’re living in the Great Reckoning. We need to wake up and struggle for a better planet and do all those things we do for love and sanity and radically shift the social fabric of humanity with our empathy for the suffering of others. We need to defang and eradicate the evils of Capital (which is literally killing us!) and racism (murdering too), or we will succumb to a totally fascist state in the U.S.A. And go dumb. We have to keep on with climate awareness, get back the environmental measures eviscerated by Trump. Get land back, animal rights, endless: pick your battles, pick your animal. Keep guard against nuclear annihilation. Treaties! A massive amount of work to do, and we’re on borrowed time. Don’t forget to vote wisely. Some young poets going into law, into politics, health fields. and back to ancient gnosis, ur-wisdoms. And continuing to teach in whatever form. And keep poetry in hearts. Friends, do this all with friends, or in your hut, with your mind, make friends with your mind, dedicate the merit, and keep close with your intergenerational friends.
I adore and am obsessed with collaboration kinetics. We have to stay with that, take care of our bodies, these precious vehicles of spirit and poetry and work together in communities of trust and mutual support. Don’t disappear, go remote. Honor ancestors, honor elders, honor the dead. Count blessings as we can. Think about children, their needs, how wrecked their education has been, so much child poverty in the U.S. it’s shocking. Be wary of surveillance and AI takeover. Don’t buy into all the tech loops and versions of reality and don’t go down every rabbit hole. Be skillful, spiritual about the plot to save humanity. Stay engaged and living and contemplative as well. Times of stillness, we like those. I’m preaching. And keep poetry close.
Arts of magic and love and having new insight with words, imagination’s other tongue.
Sun Ra. Break down and cry. There’s little outside work right now in any case to be so careerist. But to help others. Layli Long Soldier spoke in her Naropa class of co-founding an arts school at Dakota Ridge, hands on for future beings. Start little schools O poets! Teaching useful knowledge. Maybe not teach poetry so much but how to read. Study.
I need to get to Mexico City while alive!, while I can—as soon as things get safer and are open—(a difficult President López Obrador there who thinks his country will be saved by an amulet he wears) to meet grandchild Kora and continue projects in collaboration. A growing group of international musicians, artists, poets forming called Rhizoma. Cross the border, swap knowledge.
So how living? Living in the uncertainty, the pain of separation and mourning friends who have died, of covid, such as Hal Willner who passed in April. Worked with filmmaker/poet No Land on a short film “Evening of the Day,” an homage for Hal. Michael McClure’s passing, Susan Rothenberg, Michael Friedman all give fuel and pulse to the work. Mourning. So many doing harm. Celebrating comradeship on the streets.
Missing autonomous zones like Abolition Park. Left for Boulder in late March and have been working on a number of fronts. Have been able to feel grounded here with Naropa close by (and the negative ions that clear the head).
Recently I have been part of a translation seminar and working with some native tongued Persian and Arabic writers/translators to work with Persian Talisman traditions. Astrology, geomancy, charms, curses. Nice syncretics: Hinduism, Kabbala, Koran. Wonderfully generative in these times. A whole passage about locusts. Have been appreciating the work I’ve done with the Buddhist Therigatha, Buddhist female mendicants going back to the time of Buddha, some of the earliest poems by women anywhere. And the expanded book is just out: Songs of the Sons & Daughters of Buddha (Shambhala). Finding ways to make poetry sing through centuries, as here in the Therigatha. So much hardship getting to the notion of impermanence and liberation.
Also got through our June “Carrier Waves” Zoom Summer Writing Program at Naropa, designed with Jeffrey Pethybridge, for our core students. Alice Notley, Cecilia Vicuna, Lisa Jarnot, CA Conrad, Tongo Eisen-Martin, Asiya Wadud, Jos Charles, others beamed in to help us. Transmissions with all our emanations still possible. A koan about space, time, bodies, carrier waves, boxes within boxes. Along with the development of Center for Activist Study and Writing as a Social Practice at Naropa. Surveillance, lock down, nun’s cell.
Students are doing projects out of the extensive Kerouac School Archive which is exciting. Texts of Akilah Oliver, Amiri Baraka. Also a Naropa essay anthology in the works—New Weathers—for Nightboat Books with co-editor Emma Gomis. Out in two years, worth waiting for. CA doing an additional benefit soon for our Kevin Killian summer scholarship. We had a fire in our Harry Smith Print Shop two weeks ago and the response has been wonderful and supportive. Adelante. (The printing presses and type survived.)
Other book projects in works and recordings and collaboration with Janice Lowe, possibly another Sciamachy (Part 2) with Fast Speaking Music and helping my partner Ed Bowes with a hypnogogic movie. My nephew Devin Brahja Waldman just finished production of Cait O’Kane’s album, Notable Deaths.
And Lewis Warsh and I are planning a book of letters around our magazine and press Angel Hair, which ran from 1968-74, back when poets wrote in more voluminous epistolary modes. Ted Berrigan, Lorenzo Thomas, Joanne Kyger, Jim Brodey, Tom Clark, Bill Berkson, Barbara Guest, Diane di Prima, and more.
“dear anne, I was really happy to get your letter at the fireplace rebuilding a very hot old fire in the middle of a snowstorm car buried stream running & it’s still warm out but I can’t see what I’m typing, your letter with coffee at the stream, in the garage and with Ed who sings.” —Bernadette Mayer
How you living? is Akilah’s question. Culling, grasping, waiting, inventing, remembering too late to drink the water of forgetfulness. We’re all in the oracular chamber. What is the future? It’s an encounter, a trance, a struggle perhaps. And we are touching it, a world turned upside down, end of an empire. Breakdown of a social order that is necessary. Uprising for a better life. Things going out of this world. Glowing embers. Could you be the lyre of another? How is a poet a caretaker? That is the question, the protection. “Earthshine” is the glow on the part of the moon that is not fully lit. Let’s not fracture our music in this existence of urgency.
Nathaniel A. Siegel is a GAY POET, curator, photographer, and artist who loves the in-person conversational interview as a form of immediate historical exchange of ideas, ideals, memories, and dreams!
•(On Buddhism Poetics) Structure Of The World Compared To A Bubble Penguin Poets 2004. •Jaguar Harmonics: Person Woven of Tesserae Post-Apollo Press, 2014. •Sanctuary (Addenda) with collages by t thilleman. Spuyten Duyvil Publishing, 2020 •Songs of the Sons & Daughters of Buddha (Shambhala). Enlightenment Poems from the Theragatha and Therigatha Translated by Andrew Schelling and Anne Waldman. Shambahla Publications, 2020. •Extinction Aria. Pied Oxen Printers, 2017.
Anne Waldman at KTD Monastery in Woodstock, NY, January 2020. We meditated in the shrine room for half an hour and visited the bookstore. It was a warm foggy day on Overlook Mountain.
Raymond Foye (https://raymondfoye.info) is a writer, editor, publisher, and curator, based in New York. He is a consulting editor at The Brooklyn Rail.
The Great Wall of China
This morning I am striding among the Chinese on their way to work or school I’m on my way to breakfast They don’t seem unhappy the streets are clean and they’re in black more than I am in New York City black Everything is ok the way it is
The rain on the Great Wall today makes it look sad not because rain is sad but because it makes the Wall seem even more useless The Wall that was built to keep people out now brings people in I was thinking this this morning in bed happy to be imagining the Wall and my being there later today a place I’ve wanted to be ever since the moment I learned it existed But now Anne Waldman walks up and says Ni hao bowing slightly at the waist with a smile How does she go on being Anne Waldman? The same way the Great Wall goes on going on —the great bonus of life— but look out I am becoming too grand not great and I haven’t even seen the Wall yet I have hit a wall the wall of seeing my old friend in the street so I walk along the top of her head the view on one side is New York on the other is the thing the incredibly big and old thing the thing that is secretly smiling it is what we call China a large vase that shatters and reassembles itself time and again like a clock that goes tick and then tock
Chinese air in my lungs I am lighter than usual and the wall even the little part of it I am standing on at Badaling is suddenly heavier than it was because it is connected to my feet those of a millipede rolling its 4,000-mile-long body into the past and back, I am thrilled at Badaling I am thrilled by the very sound of the word Badaling and what is useless in my life has taken wing into the aether that protects the human race
Am I great yet? No I am smaller and smaller and happier to be so, soon I will be only one chopstick tall and though they say that the journey of a thousand li begins with a single step what they don’t say is that the single step is a thousand li long and it is joyous because you don’t know what a li is and you don’t care for there are li everywhere and they’re fine where they are
The Wall of course has nothing to say It used to groan and growl but now it’s like a very old man you think is grumpy but no he’s not Perhaps at a certain age holiness slips in automatically and says Just sit there and don’t say anything it’s alright But what did I hear was it the holiness of the Wall veering into the distance? Then I come back standing there atop it and above me the clouds on their way to New York one of them shaped like the Wall and I am on it too
“The Great Wall of China” from Ron Padgett’s Collected Poems is used by permission of the author and Coffee House Press.
by Katie Yates
I met Anne at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn. when Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche passed into Parinirvana in April of 1987. She invited us out to Karme Choling in Vermont for his sukhaviti. Had I attended as she suggested I might have circumvented my life as a Naropa student by taking a reasonable path as a translator for the U.S. Department of State. My own mother had recently passed away so Anne became mother Anne to me, as I know she is to many, offering sound advice for most things Vajrayana, fashionable, and/or intellectual, always sensible, adamant, and straight forward. Without her my life might have been richer in simplicity and paychecks. With her it is diverse: Premier League as this now Connecticut soccer mom calls it.
I have eternal gratitude for Anne’s classy wisdom, honesty, work ethic, and style, which I’ve emulated more as a Shambhala Buddhist than as a writer perhaps because meditation is truly easier than writing, though the politics of the dharma, it turns out, are so much worse. Anne reconnected me to India where I lived as a child via the magnificent tent culture holding the summer programs at Naropa as well as the summer seminaries at Shambhala Mountain Center, not to mention the gorgeous Great Stupa of Dharmakaya in Red Feather Lakes, where I lived for many years chaotically, mindfully happy working in meditation center finance.
Again, it was as though my life were poetic or magical and that Anne led me to a place in North America which embraced the wisdom traditions I’d been immersed in as a child growing up in the Foreign Service: Anne was and has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. Her vision and generosity entered me into a family of practitioners which became home. She helped me pay some bills following graduate school by giving me an editing job or hiring my boyfriend to mow her lawn in Boulder. I did many dishes with her and Andrew late into nights following excellent Summer Writing Program picnics with luminaries of the best kind.
From Anne I learned to write a proper New York School list poem, the only poetry I can teach to perfection really and truly a multi age group form everyone can benefit from. The last time I saw Anne at Yale she met my daughter Juliette. She praised her as my mother would have and gave her a bag of chips from her hotel room. I love Anne, she’s quite simply the best.
Katie Yates (We and Stockport Flats Press) lives with her family in New Haven, Conn. She teaches Drala Camp in East Rock Park. Follow her on Instagram: katieyates108.
Joanne Pagano Weber (http://www.bewareoftheyear7000.com/) is a visual artist, writer, and educator. As a painter of the “theatre of life,” she has exhibited socio-political narratives throughout the tri-state area, most meaningfully for her at Art 101, presided over by the beloved, now deceased artist and curator Ellen Rand, and at East Village venues such as Tribes Gallery, ABC No Rio, Kenkelba Gallery, and the Tompkins Square Library Gallery. She has contributed cover art to numerous “What Happens Next” anthologies compiled at A Gathering of the Tribes, and other publications.
In recent years she has collaborated with the sculptor Janice Mauro on cross-disciplinary installations, such as Beware of the Year 7000 (see above url), which include text and combine humor and social critique concerning the ramifications of global warming.
She created the first of many sets for the Alternative New Year’s Day Spoken Word/Performance Extravaganza, establishing thematic set design as an integral part of the yearly East Village event instituted by then boyfriend, now husband, Bruce Weber. (Other artists, especially Su Polo, as well as Mindy Levekove and Nigia Stephens have created sets for the event too, and Yuko Otomo and Joanne collaborated on two sets.) Joanne was involved in “The Alternative’s” evolution from the start, as a performer, graphic designer, greeter, and organizer at the communal book table. While the “Alternative” continues in NYC, this year she and Bruce have begun a new upstate tradition for New Year’s in Ulster County, where they now live. Joanne is an avid member of Shout Out Saugerties, a vibrant town arts organization that spans all creative disciplines, and includes activism.
Joanne had a long career as a textile designer in N.Y., and has just retired from her second career as an adjunct professor of studio art and art history, but she continues to teach for Greenwich House Senior Center in N.Y.
Anne’s son Ambrose reads to his daughter Kora, Anne’s first grandchild, “Assent,” from First Baby Poems (Blazevox [books]), one of the poems his mom wrote for him when he was a baby.
by Natalia Gaia
In the fall of 2018 a group of poets, including Anne Waldman, and musicians visited El Centro de Capacitación Musical y Desarrollo de la Cultura Mixe (CECAM) in Santa María Tlahuitoltepec, Oaxaca, for a two-day poetry and music collaboration. This Natalia Gaia film documents the meeting of the minds.
Natalia Gaia is a photographer living in Mexico City. She has worked for El Economista, Casa del Lago UNAM, and currently at the Secretaría de Salud. She also works as a freelance videographer.
Anne and Alice in Florence, 1979.
by Alice Notley
I met Anne in 1969, I was with Ted we’d traveled from the Midwest We climbed the stairs at 33 St Marks Place to the first floor she answered the door wearing a blue mohair cap She said Hello Boss to Ted He told me afterwards they’d all started calling each other Boss, after seeing Cool Hand Luke She never took the cap off! I said and Ted said She’s always got something on her head.
She comes to visit us in Wivenhoe, Essex, England in oh 1973 . . . 4? She and I go for a walk through the village of Wivenhoe. At an open-air stall she buys a bunch of watercress, holds it like a bouquet and then begins eating it voraciously – watercress? Watercress! Walking and eating watercress.
Around 1978 I’m at Naropa She invites me to meet her to be interviewed one evening, where? I arrive in the room first and wait She bursts through the door and leaps at me like a dancer making a roaring noise — there were a lot of dancers at Naropa then Jim Cohn comes in, conducts the interview, my first ever. I mean she came through the door like a fast lion.
She Ted and I go to Florence together in ‘79 and stay at a hotel on the Arno, full of murals mosquitoes noise We awaken and check out, hail a cab don’t speak Italian but Ted tells the cabbie, we need a quieter hotel because Anne is pregnant – a lie. He drives us to a sanatorium on the outskirts of town. A medical institution white buildings and restful green grounds . . . We have to tell him to take us back to Florence.
A few years later she and I trade Buddhas Ted is no longer among us and I give her a Buddha that Joe’d given Ted so she gives me one back, her tiny traveling Buddha.
Once in the 90s in Boulder Anne needs to buy a car I go with her to the used-car lot, she already has a car in mind afraid it’s an old-lady car I say something like, Just buy it, it’s just a car And she does And is grateful I said that and tells me so often.
That time in 1969, there was a dress shop below her apartment, on St. Mark’s wife of a painter was the proprietress An outfit in the window – blue skirt long with red roses and silky black top Ted bought for me . . . Recently Anne and I were trying to remember the proprietress’s name Howie Kanowitz’s wife, she’d said, she was an artist. Mary Kanowitz, Anne! I have since remembered and take this opportunity to tell you.
I’m turning 75 soon myself but we’re the youngest people I know! That’s the most important thing I have to say, Who really is younger than us? We both have so much to do that no one else can . . . It doesn’t matter. It’s just a car. I myself don’t even drive. Is it a car or a Buddha? Does the poem name it? maybe. Happy Birthday, Anne!
Alice Notley was born in Bisbee, Ariz. in 1945 and grew up in Needles, Calif. in the Mojave Desert. She was educated in the Needles public schools, Barnard College, and The Writers Workshop, University of Iowa. She has lived most extensively in Needles, in New York, and since 1992 in Paris. She is the author of numerous books of poetry, and of essays and talks on poetry, and has edited and co-edited books by Ted Berrigan and Douglas Oliver. She edited the magazine Chicago in the ’70s and co-edited with Oliver the magazines Scarlet and Gare du Nord in the ’90s. She is the recipient of various prizes and awards, including the Los Angeles Times Book Award (for Mysteries of Small Houses, which was also a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize), the Griffin Prize (for Disobedience), the Academy of American Poets’ Lenore Marshall Prize (for Grave of Light, Selected Poems 1970-2005), and the Poetry Foundation’s Ruth Lilly Prize, a lifetime achievement award. She is also a collagist and cover artist. Her most recent books are For the Ride and Eurynome’s Sandals.