Lucy In the Sky With Darrell: Actualism Part 1

The Story of Actualism

In Iowa City

Actualism in the Seventies

In 1969, I was accepted into the Iowa Writers Workshop. Although I’d been writing poetry since I was six years old, I felt as if I was finally and irrevocably an official poet. In two or three years, I would have a diploma to hang on my wall. The Scarecrow couldn’t’ve done better in Oz.

I took a greyhound bus to Iowa City. After a lazy 8-hour ride, I wound up at the downtown depot. One of the people who worked there asked me why I was coming to town.

“I’m in the Poetry Workshop,” I said. “How about you?”

“I’m in the Fiction Workshop. I’m busy right now. How about getting together after I get off work. Let’s meet at the Mill Restaurant on Burlington.”

At 9:00 we were sitting at the Mill, drinking beer, and talking about our writing. His name was Joe Ribar. He offered to rent a room to me in his 2^nd floor apartment at 214 E. Court Street.

It was a small room, but it was a perfect writer’s lair. Joe and I shared the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom, which made it a very big living space.

At the first meeting of the Poetry Workshop, each of the four teachers--Marvin Bell, Kathy Frasier, Anselm Hollo, and Jack Marshall--took turns introducing themselves and reading one of their poems. I had no previous experience with them, no knowledge of their writing.

After the reading, the students were asked to write the names of three of the teachers in order of preference that they would like to take their first poetry-writing class with. I wrote my three: Anselm, Jack , and Kathy Frasier. With that information, someone in the workshop would decide whose class each student would be in. The next day I found out that I’d be in Marvin’s class.

I was surprised at the decision. Why would I be put in the class taught by the teacher I hadn’t put in my list of choices? It might’ve been because of the manuscript, Fiddling with a Clock, that I’d submitted with my application to the workshop.

The poems in that collection were somewhat dark. They expressed how I felt about family and society at that time. For instance “My father’s head is in a jar” was about my dad’s alcohol problem, and “The Executioner’s Song” was about capital punishment.

I went to the secretary and asked her if I could change from Marvin’s class to Anselm’s. She said I could if both Marvin and Anselm agreed to the change. She gave me a paper to have them sign.

Before the first class meeting, I asked Marvin for permission to switch. He agreed, but he said he didn’t think it was a good idea. Later that day I asked Anselm, and he agreed, too.

The decision makers may have thought I’d benefit most from studying under Marvin. My switch to Anselm changed my relationship with Marvin. We didn’t get along well after that. (However, many years later Marvin and I became very good friends.)

They key tool for classroom discussions was the worksheet, a ditto-copied handout containing student poetry. Each student would read his or her poem, and the rest of the class would comment on it. The comments could become rather severe at times.

In Donald Justice’s class, one student wrote particularly gruesome, violent, negative poetry. To arouse his wrath, I wrote a poem that was purposely and exaggeratedly sweet, and turned it in.

When the next worksheet came out, that student had a poem on it in which he wrote about the joy of throwing a baby down on the ground, and watching the blood pour out of its head as if its skull were a broken bowl. It was an extreme example of “shock and awe” poetry.

The next poem on the worksheet was my pollyanna piece. It began “A little leaf lands on my head / I pick it off with my hand / Hi, it says, my name is Willie Leaf. / O, golden Willie Leaf…”

As soon as I finished reading it, the baby-thrower commented in a whining voice: “That poem’s a buncha shit.”

And my reply: “Your poem’s a bloody buncha shit.”

We were simply criticizing each other’s work. Brutal? Yes. However, he and I despised each other anyway, so we didn’t take each other’s comments seriously any more than we’d take a lecture on morality from a meter maid writing a ticket.

One of the greatest things the Poetry Workshop did was sponsor poetry readings by well-known poets from out of town. Workshop parties almost always followed at a teacher’s house. The parties were packed with people who’d gone to the reading.

A classic moment occurred after one of those readings:

The Actualists heard that the Workshop planned a party after a poetry reading at Shambaugh Auditorium. The location was kept secret from us. Although we weren’t invited, we found out where it was being held.

When the reading ended, the workshoppers, we learned later, went to a bar first. Not knowing about the bar stop, we headed to the party address. Going into the kitchen, we saw several tasty snacks spread out on the table. We also found various drinkables.

Since we were early, we decided to start eating without waiting for the workshoppers. One of us brought up the possibility that we were at a “decoy party” intended to keep us busy with the food there while the workshoppers went to a larger, fancier party elsewhere. So, like ants at a picnic, we ate and drank to our heart’s content.

Sitting on the front porch after feasting royally, we noticed cars pulling up in front of the house and parking. The owner of the house got out of his car and carried two bagfuls of snack food up the steps.

He seemed surprised to see 8 men and 1 woman lounging on his porch.. As he passed by, he said sarcastically, “Are you guys all homosexuals?”

George replied, “No, man, our wives are out working to support us.”

When the guy walked inside, he discovered his kitchen had been plundered, and he yelled “What happened to all the food?”

We realized then that it wasn’t a decoy party. It was the real party, and we had just consumed everything in sight. As more people arrived, we made a quick exit down the steps. Later, at the Court Street house, Steve Toth and I asked everyone for a recount of our party raid to memorialize in a list poem.

WHAT WE HAD

All their scotch

“ “ vodka

“ “ pistachios

“ “ peanuts

“ “ walnuts

“ “ chippos

“ “ bar-b-q chips

“ “ beer nuts

“ “ orange juice

“ “ gin

“ “ sherry

“ “ soda pop

“ “ beer

“ “ ice cubes

“ “ potato chip dip

“ “ taco corn chips

“ “ filberts

and a banana.

thanx

In the early 1970s, many literary people, events, and ideas converged in Iowa City. Some of these people were Workshoppers, some weren’t. They got to know each other. As the months went on, they created something totally new, something outside the Workshop.

The Writers Workshop, the first of its kind in the world, was well-established, well-endowed, and well-known. Students who completed the two-year program received degrees from The University of Iowa.The problem was that the Workshop and the town were, for the most part, separate entities. The Workshop had lots of creative people, but they felt little need to share ideas with other groups.

In the late 1960s, this rule of exclusion started cracking. Poets like Anselm Hollo and Ted Berrigan were hired to shake up the Workshop World a bit. The “workshop poem” was fading into the shadows. Other forces for freedom of poetry were cropping up.

The Iowa Arts Council, sponsored by the National Endowment for the Arts, arranged for creative writers of all types to visit schools throughout Iowa in order to teach in the WITS program (Writers in the Schools) and the PITS program (Poets in the Schools).

But the real miracle, totally unexpected, happened in Iowa City. Fourteen poets who were in town for various reasons got to know each other and enjoyed reading and writing poetry together. They were literary rebels who charmed the town and angered the Writers Workshop.

At first they had no group name. They weren’t “Bill’s Poetry Saloon” or “The Evangelists of Free Verse.” A few months later, as their group grew, and as the Workshop began to notice and disapprove, and as--well, for now let’s say they had a name--The Actualists--but keep in mind that the story behind it will soon be told a few pages from now.

Some of the Actualists were in the Workshop, some weren’t. These poets were writing because they loved to write, they had to write, they twisted language to suit their own experiences. They lost interest in what the Workshop was doing--except when the Workshop brought an out-of-town poet to read his or her work.

Actualism was unique. It didn’t have any general rules. It was a multi-faceted diamond, each facet a poet who identified with the other poets in the movement. Each poet had his or her own ideas about what Actualism’s purpose. An Actualist was a rebel with the many causes of poetry.

The main cause seems to have been the desire to write poetry in a community of people who were friends, and this sounds contrary to the Workshop’s approach. To become an Actualist, you just said, “I’m an Actualist.” You didn’t have to live in Iowa City. You didn’t have to pay tuition. You didn’t even have to exist. Visitors were welcome with open arms and poetic feet. Actualism was laid back. Actualism was high energy. Actualism was literary freedom.

You didn’t have to write according to any aesthetic rules other than your own. You could change your style any time. You could imitate other writers’ styles. The Actualists wouldn’t throw you out or give you a bad grade. As a Workshopper, I was good at getting bad grades. I’m the only student who ever received a C in a Workshop class.

Actualism introduced several elements of writing to a small town with a big Writers Workshop. In fact the Workshop recently boasted that it was harder to join than the Harvard Medical School. However, it should be noted that there are many more people trying to get into Harvard and not making it.

Actualism had an open-door policy, which made it easier to join than the Writers Workshop and cheaper than a Hamburg Inn Paper Plate Special (75¢). Just go to 214 E. Court Street, 2^nd floor, turn the knob on the door to the living, and you’re in.

When Actualism was young, the poets were excited about the idea of having a poetry movement. We were a group of friends who wrote poetry. We didn’t restrict people because they didn’t follow a specific set of rules. That would’ve taken away our freedom to write.

Instead of rules, we shared outlooks on certain things. The following list of 10 are my thoughts on what various members of the group considered important--the glue that bound our words together.

1. Actualism brought poetry out of the closet. Instead of classroom meetings, the Actualists held reading series, conventions, marathons, parties, etc., and engaged the town in expanding its idea of poetry.

2. Actualism, because of its challenge to the Writers Workshop, gained creative literary power that had never existed in Iowa City before. Just as there is strength in numbers, there is strength in letters.

3. The Actualists published a wild range of literary magazines to get the word out. Toothpaste, Gum, Search for Tomorrow, Suction, The Spirit That Moves Us, and other magazines provided a stage for the words to actualize.

4. Most of the mags were printed using a mimeograph machine, a device that allowed anyone to become a hands-on editor. The mimeograph revolution, which began in the beat era, brought poetry publishing to the people.

5. In Gum 8, John Sjoberg wrote, “We aren’t students anymore.” The master-apprentice view of literature cherished by the Writers Workshop was not a part of our show. Or, rather, the Actualists were masters and apprentices to each other.

6. Influenced by the New York Poets, the Actualists often wrote about everyday objects and events, turning them around in the ferris wheel of inspiration.

7. Actualist poetry had a good time. It chuckled or guffawed at the antics of humanity. It mocked the gravity of the Writers Workshop. It made poetry and party into synonyms of each other. Actualist poetry rocked. And rolled. However, it could be serious at difficult times.

8. Actualists took their movement and their poetry seriously. They felt they were discovering new ways of using languge. They were. And that gave them more energy.

9. Actualists got into the community of Iowa City. There was no elitism, no ivy towered workshop. Epstein’s Book Store opened its doors to all writers, Workshoppers or Actualists. Darrell Gray, the great promoter of Actualism, worked at Epstein’s. He always encouraged owners Glen and Harry to sponsor events in their store.

10. Collaboration poems brought the Actualists closer together and expanded the number of people who considered themselves Actualists. They got to know each other’s imaginations.

After the first semester in the Workshop, I decided to start my own mag in Iowa City. I had enough poet friends. I wanted to do something active, something that wasn’t Workshop driven. One afternoon in the fall of 1970, I was walking along the Iowa River with Micky Motyko, a non-workshop friend.

“I’m planning on starting a poetry magazine, Micky. It will measure ¼ the size of a sheet of typing paper. It will be a real little magazine. The only thing I need now is a name for it.”

We passed a few ideas back and forth.

“How about Quick?” he said. “You’re going to put it out quickly.”

“That’s a pretty good title,” I said. “But didn’t Quick used to be the name of a girlie magazine. It’s also the last name of a girl in the workshop.”

We continued batting names back and forth. I didn’t care for any of the titles. Then, when we reached the Art Building, I saw a crumpled gum wrapper in the grass. A lightbulb went on over my head. “Gum!” I said.

Mickey laughed and said, “Gum! That’s it, man. Gum!”

The next day I asked the workshop secretary if I could put a sign up asking for submissions, and she said, “Sure, there’s room on the bulletin board.” I put up a poster. Soon after that, the sign was gone. The secretary was told to remove it because it wasn’t related to the Workshop.

“Not related to the Poetry Workshop?” I said. “This is the Poetry Workshop, isn’t it? They should encourage some real life poetry, they should be happy that a student wants to start a new mag.”

It just surprised me that Jack Leggett wouldn’t want the Workshop to have anything to do with little magazines. His son J.B. Leggett and I were friends. Anyway, I knew enough poets that I could easily gather a full issue.

Over the next few days I asked poets in and out of the workshop for short poems to put in my small little mag. When I had enough, I went down to the Student Union and bought some mimeo stencils. I took them home with me and typed up the first issue, GUM No. ½. I was almost ready to run it off.

My roommate at 214 E. Court was Chuck Miller, who allied himself with the beat poets. He had a poem in Gum--the longest poem. I asked him to help me with the final stages of the issue--printing it on the mimeo machine, cutting the pages into four parts, collating, and stapling.

He and I went to the Union. While Chuck was cutting it, I noticed that he wasn’t getting the pages to be quite the same size. The resulting magazine had a scruffy look to it. I liked the fact that it didn’t look professional. It looked totally unprofessional. That made it truly professional.

Late afternoon. We took the finished copies--about 100 of them--and went to Donut Wagon. While we were sitting there sipping coffee and looking at Gum, a 30-ish guy at the table next to us, well-dressed in a sport coat and tie, said, “What’s that?”

Chuck passed him a copy. I said, “My new poetry magazine.”

He started looking through it, and then he said, “You’re asking 25 cents for this.” His intonation of the word “this” indicated that he thought a quarter was too much. Chuck didn’t like his attitude.

“No, man,” he said. “It’s 50 cents.”

“50 cents?” the guy said.

“No, it’s a dollar.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

“No, five dollars!” Chuck grew louder with each word. The guy flipped the copy back to our table and hurried out of the coffee house.

A few days later, I put a bunch of Gums in a paper bag and went downtown to ask the bookstores to sell copies. On Washington St., a guy riding a bicycle pulled up to me. He had bushy brown hair. He looked very hippyish. He was carrying a cloth sack with the strap slung over his shoulder.

“Hi,” he said in a just-smoked-some-grass voice. “My name is Allan Kornblum. Would you like to buy a copy of my poetry magazine, Toothpaste?”

“No,” I said. I pulled out a copy of Gum. “But would you like to trade a copy for my poetry magazine, Gum?”

After exchanging copies, Allan said, “Why don’t we get together at Donut Wagon tomorrow? Another guy just put out a poetry magazine. I’ll call him and see if he can come, too. We should talk about the poetry scene here.”