Update Lucy In the Sky With Darrell: Actualism Part 1
| Lucy In the Sky With Darrell | |||||||||
Part 1 A History 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 were 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 ‘bout you?” “Fiction. How ‘bout getting together at the Mill Restaurant on Burlington when I get off work?” 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 2nd 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, 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. 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 decision makers may have thought that my poetry was closer to Marvin’s in spirit. The poems in that collection were somewhat dark. For instance, they expressed how I felt about my dad’s alcohol problem: A GODHEADI 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. My switch to Anselm changed my relationship with Marvin. Marvin and I didn’t get along well after that. However, many years later Marvin and I became very good friends. The 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 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. 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, / You and your friends are falling early...” When I got to Willie Leaf’s reply, I spoke it in a high-pitched cartoon-character voice. As soon as I finished reading it, the baby-thrower commented in a whiney voice, “That poem’s a buncha shit.” And my reply, “Your poem’s a bloody buncha shit.” * Memories... John Ashbery, Pulitzer prize winning poet from New York, was invited by the Workshop to read his poems at Shambaugh Auditorium. Ashbery is an avant-garde poet whose works show the influence of Gertrude Stein. He is a greatly respected writer. After the reading, the people left the auditorium and went about their business. Allan Kornblum and I walked to the stage, where Ashbery still stood near the auditorium. “Where’s the party?” Allan asked. Ashbery shrugged. “I don’t think anybody’s having a party.” “Let’s go to the Mill,” Allan said. “We’ll treat you to dinner.” Our gain was the Workshop’s loss. Ashbery was a sweet, brilliant genius of language. It was an awesome evening with an unexpected guest. * Robert Creeley came to Iowa City to give a reading. There wasn’t any party planned for him, either. I suggested we go to the Mill for dinner and drinks. I told him my sister Michele worked there. Michele was a particularly striking-looking woman. She was as beautiful as a prom queen. In fact, in high school she was drafted to be the prom queen because the school preferred her over the girls who were running. They didn’t measure up to her charms and features. At the Mill, Michele led us to a table near her station. It was a slow night. Michele joined us at the table. She didn’t know who Creeley was. “I’m Robert Creeley. You can call me Bob.” Creeley was immediately captivated by her. He tried to charm her in his own way. When Michele waited on a new group of customers, he said to me, “Is she going with anyone?” “No,” I said. “Not now.” Michele returned to our table. Creeley said to her, “Watch this, Michele.” He popped his glass eye out and dropped it into his beer. Then he looked up, leered, and smiled at her. “You’re lucky that thing didn’t drop on the floor!” “How about spending the evening with me? You could show me the town.” Michele stood up and looked down at him witheringly. “Can you do that with your other eye, too?” “No.” “In that case, I’m booked up.” * Allan Kornblum and I had just issued our little magazines. Allan’s was Toothpaste, mine was Gum. We wanted to distribute them as well as we could, so we set up a table in the first floor of the EPB, spread out copies of our mags, and as people passed by, we hawked our wares--loudly. “Get yer red-hot poetry heeeeeeere! Fresh off the press! Get it before the ink dries!” Most of the passersby smiled. Some came over to look and buy. Others ignored us. We weren’t doing it for the money, but for the fun. We made thousands of dollars of fun that afternoon. * I wrote a poem in Jack Marshall’s class that turned out to be one of my all-time favorites. After class, I went into the secretary’s office and said, “What do you think of this little thing?” She liked it and asked if she could copy it and tape it to the back of her typewriter. “That way people can read it when they come in.” “Sure,” I said. “That’d be really nice.” The next day, I was reading material on the bulletin board in the hall. Marvin Bell came out of his office and walked up to me. “Dave, I saw that poem of yours in the office.” I thought he was going to say that it had to be removed. “I think it’s terrific. If you wrote a whole book of poems like that, it might really sell.” Even though Marvin and I didn’t get along very well in those days, I remember that incident with fondness. About 10 years ago, I ran into Marvin at Bruegger’s Bagel Bakery. After buying bagels, we sat at a table and talked--and that was the beginning of a great friendship. The poem of mine that he’d commented on years earlier applied to that meeting: LOVE POEM FOR HUMAN BEINGS When we recognize each other How long do we have to wait In our case, we had to wait 15 years. * One afternoon I pressed the elevator button in the EPB and waited the obligatory minute for it to arrive. When the door yawned open, I got in. Someone rushed in behind me just before the door closed. It was Paul Engle, clutching an armful of manuscripts. “Hi, Mr. Engle,” I said. “How are you?” ”I work!” he replied in a harried voice. After a short pause, he said, “How are you?” “I play,” I said. “I’d like to work.” “I’d like to play,” he said. And that’s how I met Paul Engle. [Insert Photo 1] Paul Engle * In my final semester, I decided to submit for my thesis Tilt, a thirty-page mimeo book published by Toothpaste Press. I took the book to my thesis committee--Anselm Hollo, Jack Marshall, Seymour Krim, George Starbuck, and Kathy Fraser--and they signed it. I took it to the graduate college, and they rejected it, saying it had to be typed, not mimeographed. I decided instead to type up my other published work, Poems, a tiny chapbook of minimal poems printed in a letterpress edition by Al Buck. It was 9 poems long, with an average of 9 words per poem. I brought the correctly formatted manuscript to my thesis committee, and they signed it. I took it to the graduate college, and this time they accepted it.  Al Buck, publisher of my thesis It was the shortest thesis in Writers Workshop history, and it still is. The following year, the Workshop made a rule that a thesis had to be at least 35 pages long. Soon after that, my thesis disappeared from the library’s open stacks. The librarian said they had the backup copy but not the public copy. It was the second Workshop thesis purloined from the library. The first was Robert Bly’s. I’ve used my copy of the chapbook several times in Writers-in-the-Schools Programs and other poetry classes I’ve taught. I tell the students that I can read the whole book, start to finish, including the colophon, in less than a minute. On good days, I can read it in half a minute. At one class, I said, “I’m going to try and read it in less than 30 seconds.” They watched the clock as I raced through it in 27 seconds. I don’t remember the school, but I remember the applause. The shortest poem in Poems has an Iowa summer theme. Anyone who’s lived in Iowa in the dog days of August will recognize the meaning of irritating frustration expressed in these four simple words: at night the flies * Toothpaste Press published a letterpress broadside of a one-line poem of mine. It was meant to be a poem and not a statement on health or politics, but readers interpret poetry in many ways. Since no one interprets poems in the same way, I signed each of the 90 copies in a different penmanship. I gave my copies to friends. Jim Bateman, a friend and poet in the Workshop, told me that he was going to put his copy up at the daycare center where he worked. The poem, printed in 70-point typeface, was a puff of metaphorical minimalism: A cigarette is a glass of milk. The next evening I ran into Jim at the Mill. He told me of the strange fate that befell his copy of the broadside: “I taped it to the refrigerator at the daycare yesterday. When I got there this morning, someone had drawn a swastika on it and crossed out ‘glass of milk’ and put in different words. Now it says: A cigarette is a machine of death. I guess you don’t let 3-year-olds think cigarettes and milk are the same thing.” * The politics of the Workshop fluctuated often. Here is a sample from a discussion between George Mattingly and Curtis Faville on “The Compass Rose” blogspot. George Mattingly: Was George Starbuck still head of the Workshop? Or was John Leggett? While Marvin Bell had locked horns with the New York (and like-minded) writers, my memory is that Starbuck was much more open-minded & enjoyed creating ferment. After all he invited Ted Berrigan, and couldn’t have been unaware of Ted’s (well-deserved!) reputation. BTW I took a workshop course from Bell and for me he was an excellent teacher. Despite the fact that he referred to me as “Ted’s clone.” (and not just behind my back) Anyway thanks for posting this: a great memory (and history) piece. [September 1, 2010 7:42 PM] Curtis Faville: It’s true, Starbuck was more open-minded than others who held that position, but let’s face it, George was a formalist, tried and true. I remember Dave Morice telling me about his first meeting with George, who told Dave “you have some very nice little ‘genre’ poems in this sheaf.” [David fuming with indignation!]. Bell hated Berrigan, and later “confronted” Watten about the unwelcome “felicity” from the back benchers at the Richard Howard reading: Bell: “You need to tell these people to knock this stuff off.” Watten: “What do you want me to do about it?” Bell: “You know these people. This is unacceptable behavior!” Watten: “Tell them yourself, Marvin!” Anselm later told me Bell had nixed Berrigan’s extension for 1969-70, in favor of Marshall/Fraser/Ray & co. Anselm was bitter about it, because he and Berrigan really liked each other. [September 1, 2010 8:07 PM] * The poetry readings sponsored by the Poetry Workshop were one of the greatest things they did. Well-known poets came from all over the world. Parties almost always followed at a teacher’s or a student’s house. The parties were packed with people who’d gone to the reading. A classic moment occurred after one of these readings. The Actualists heard that the Workshop had planned a party following a reading at Shambaugh Auditorium. The location of the party was kept secret from us. Although we weren’t invited, we found out where the party was going to be held anyway. After the reading, the Workshoppers went to a bar first. Not knowing about the bar stop, we headed to the party address. The back door was open to the world, so we entered. Going into the kitchen, we saw several tasty snacks spread out on the table. We also found various potables. Our group included several ex-Workshoppers and non-Workshoppers. 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 cheap food, while the Workshoppers went to a larger, fancier party elsewhere. So, like ants at a picnic, we ate and drank to our hearts’ 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, carrying two big bags 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....
In the early 1970s, many literary people, events, and ideas converged in Iowa City. Some of these people were Workshoppers, some weren’t. They all got to know each other. As the months went by, a few miscreants from within the Workshop and a few from without created something totally new, something counter-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 MFAs 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 the Workshop up a bit. The academic “workshop poem” was fading into the shadows. 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, myself included, got to know each other and enjoyed reading and writing poetry together. We were literary rebels who charmed the town and angered the Writers Workshop. Some of the Actualists, as we came to name ourselves, were in the Workshop, some weren’t. We were writing because we loved to write, we had to write, and we twisted language to suit our own experiences. We 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 Actualism, but the main purpose, the magnet that pulled us together, was clear and simple: The Actualists wanted to live as a community of people enjoying each other’s company through poetry. This is somewhat contrary to the Workshop’s master-apprentice approach. The way to become an Actualist was simple: You just said,or thought, or screamed, or whispered, “I’m an Actualist.” We wrote poetry in a community of people who were friends, contrary to the Workshop’s approach. You didn’t have to live in Iowa City. You didn’t have to pay tuition. You didn’t have to write. You didn’t even have to exist, as Joyce Holland discovered. Visitors were welcomed with open arms and poetic feet. Actualism was laid back. Actualism was high energy. More than anything else, Actualism was Actualism. 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, and I think of it as a Red Badge of Courage. Actualism introduced several elements of writing to a small town with a big Writers Workshop. Recently someone said that it is more difficult to get into the Workshop than it is to get into 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 and cheaper to join instead of saving pop bottles for the Workshop or champagne bottles for Harvard. To find Actualism, all you had to do was go to 214 E. Court Street, second floor, turn the knob on the door to the living room, and push it open. Thus you stepped into Actuality. [Insert (Add 1) Photo] 214 E. Court Street, Iowa City, Iowa Original Home of Actualism I have no idea how to define Actualism. If I knew, I would know I didn’t know, but I don’t know. That’s what I knew then, and that’s what I know now. So, instead of defining, I’m providing a list of my thoughts on what various Actualists considered important in making the glue that bound our words together.
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 to start 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 tossed a few ideas back and forth. “How about Quick?” he suggested. “You’re going to put it out quickly.” “That’s a pretty good title,” I said. “But wasn’t Quick the name of a porno mag? 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 them. 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. The day after that, the sign was gone. Jack Leggett, the head of the department, told the secretary 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 surprised me that Jack didn’t want the Workshop to have anything to do with little magazines. His hippie son J.B. Leggett and I were good friends. Anyway, I knew enough poets that I could easily harvest a full issue by just walking down the street. 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 gathered enough, I went down to the Iowa Memorial Union and bought some mimeo stencils. I took them home with me and typed up the first issue, Gum No. ½. I numbered it ½ because I thought it should have twice as many pages to qualify as a 1. My roommate at 214 E. Court was Chuck Miller, who allied himself with the beat poets. He had a poem in Gum, the longest. 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. We went to the IMU to assemble the mag. After awhile Chuck was chopping away with the small guillotine, next to the two mimeo machines, 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 The Donut Wagon. While we were sitting there sipping coffee and admiring our work, a 30-ish guy at the table next to us, | |||||||||