Elinor Nauen

Elinor Nauen's books include Cars and Other Poems, American Guys, Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend: Women Writers on Baseball and Ladies, Start Your Engines: Women Writers on Cars and the Road. She is currently completing So Late Into the Night, a book-length poem in ottava rima.

from SO LATE INTO THE NIGHT

from V: Po’ World

"O Ocean, Ocean—salty, cool and green!"
And why not grab a line from Kenneth Koch?
He who in Ko delivered many scenes
Of baseball, cars and kiddies drinking coke,
And though these are subjects on which I’m keen,
My characters don’t drink but snort the coke,
My baseball’s more full of butts than his and
My cars don’t drive on boats but only land.

Although Byron’s my model more than Koch
I honor Kenneth and his fine rima,
His daintiness with color and a joke,
His ability to go to Lima
In the middle of a poem on a cloak
Of folly that is in fact a schema
Of sensibility and sense un-sour.
O Kenneth! O Koch! Yon poetic power!

If only I could learn to fling a rhyme
To the educated cognoscentis
In the formula of Stephen Sondheim
Or the half-forgotten Ogden Nash. He’s
The master of slipping extra words into four/four time
And pulling off silly insoucientis
That illuminate modern mores
In sophisticated, pointed, esprit de corps ways.

Creatures that skulk through much of today’s
Poetry—skimble-skamble who no doubt
Have always hung round what can be a maze
Of peculiar puzzles, ones that a lout
Can be as enclosed by as one who pays
Nuanced attention. Being devout,
Alas, is no guarantee of talent,
Successful poems or enlightenment.

Perhaps you’d like to hear more of Byron—
My love, my master, my poet, my guy—
And the traits that draw me to him: iron-
Y, for one, as modern as any high-
Tech gadget and as assured. The siren
Allure of sex, thrills and sympathy. Why
He’s not everyone’s fave poet I don’t
Get. He isn’t for anyone who won’t

Admit humor and human narrative
To the pantheon of poetic purpose.
Outraged by his moral imperative,
Some spurn his work, as though to disturb us
With the life is to taint the heritage
Of the writing. The life’s wrong, a circus
Of immorality, therefore the po-
Etry’s bad: Scratch that as fatuoso.

When I first showed up at the Poetry
Project, everything was wide open. It
Wasn’t an institution but a furiously
Working school. Our entire social life fit
In its one room and spillover bars, re-
Volving among the Ukrainian, Orchid-
Ia and Grassroots. Everyone knew which tavern
Was in. They switched like a lighthouse lantern.

Parties were better than bars in cer-
Tain ways, though you could leave with someone from
The bar more than split together from your
Apartment. More discreetly, you see. Some
Collaboration would always be occur-
Ring at a party. Typewriter would hum
Along with Motown. Dance—write a line—dance—
Write a line. Each activity would enhance

The other. When the record went off,
Someone’d read the group poem. It was al-
Ways bad. The host would keep it and rip off
The one or two good lines. We would all
Crack up, then more music and it was off
Again with another partnered poem. Al-
Though nothing publishable may have come
>From doing them, the words! the words! did hum.

The first time I was ever at the Church,
Which became my alma mater and home,
Was a Frank O’Hara tribute. I searched
Nervously for Second Avenue, know-
Ing the East Village was dangerous, a virt-
Ual jungle. While I’d used my thumb to roam
Thousands of miles, cities appeared absurd-
Ly primitive. But I found St. Mark’s, heard

Ginsberg. Allen Ginsberg! A famous poet!
Another person who read was a guy
Who looked like Bozo the Clown, in green coat,
Plaid trousers and fluffy reddish hair. I
Soon after moved to the nabe to go it
In verse, enrolled in a workshop taught by
Bozo, that is, Jim Brodey, who said once,
"I haven’t seen any of you for months

At readings. If you want to be a mod-
Ern poet, you have to know what your peers
Are up to." That made sense, and it was an odd
Monday or Wednesday for many years
When I wasn’t at St. Mark’s. A large bod-
Y of work got written there. You had cheers
And challenge from your friends to spur you, plus
Readings you’d want new work for. Entre nous,

The main guys for me were poets: They could talk.
They saw in me what I wanted to top
The list: the work. Perhaps the most evoc-
Ative picture from those days might be stop-
>Ping at the Church for yet another rauc-
Ous collating party. Everyone’d drop
Whatever else we weren’t doing to cruise
Around a big table, assembling news

We knew for sure would stay news, in the form
Of mimeo mags. Some folks were a whiz
With stencils (correcting mistakes caused enorm-
Ous splotches if you weren’t slow and undis-
Tracted). The paper was rough, sturdy, warm
Off the press. We were hot with drink, work, siz-
Zling anticipation: Maybe you could
Go home with the author! Not that you would

Necessarily but desire under-
Lay poetry, as it always has. Once I
Hooked up with Johnny Stanton, I wondered
Why I should write, since it wasn’t to try
To seduce guys anymore. All younger
Poets have to make that shift, put lust aside,
And write toward something else—like parodies
Or even baseball or the damn verities.

It wasn’t all rosy exaltation—
Plenty of whining and feuding as well.
Some people felt dissed if their insatia-
Ble desire for fame was thwarted or fell
Short. Some people took a vacation
>From their marriage, didn’t bother to tell
Their spouse that they weren’t coming home. Events
Of casual sex with lasting consequence.

Drinking Song

Beetle-browed browbeater
Undoes & undone
The stout ale smoothes
Under & undone

We had cheap apartments and no money
And worked as little as we could, enough
To pay the rent, buy cans of beer, many
Of which were drunk as we wrote, argued, puffed
Pot and cigarettes. We all spent minu-
Sculy on clothes. However, we looked buff
Because we were excited all the time.
Every night was a reading or some kind

Of poetry event, usually centered
At the Church. Brodey ran readings at Zu,
And the KOFF girls (the nude male center-
Fold of male poets our claim to fame) drew
Some to our places for readings. Gender
Issues were for real, but we didn’t u-
Se that word—we just made fun of guys. My
Crummy jobs were messenger and truck dri-

Ver for a lesbian magazine-deliv-
Ery service. Not lesbian magazines—
Owned by and employing women. One viv-
Id memory is of talking my ven-
Al way out of a ticket by sniv-
Eling, "I got my period, you’ve seen
How that goes, your honor." Judge was embarr-
Assed and shooed me right on out of there.

Paul Violi, handsome, dark and skittish,
Headed the Project. We were young, or young-
Er anyway. Eileen, Ted and Alice,
Steve Carey and the 12th Street boys, all gung-
Ho about poetry. Interest diminished
For some as it gets harder to stay strung
Out; not unlike a drug, poetry requires
Stamina and optimism. The lyres

Get unstrung as adult life overpowers
Unrealized ambitions. Or adult death,
Often drug-related, I must say. Ours
Was a chemical world, poetry like meth
Or pot as altering to one’s powers
And attentions as a drug. Every breath
Went straight to and from poetry. Ted would say
For a poet it’s 24 hours a day;

All that you do is a poet doing it
And everything is necessary. Now—
Ah, skip the present for the moment. It
Is full of poetry now too, no doubt.
I mean, I’m elated by the young poets
And by a lot of those who’ve been around
Forever. No matter where it comes from,
Poetry’s a big party. All are welcome!

Maggie, Rachel and I edited KOFF,
The main publication of the Consump-
Tive Poets League, first po-mag where men doffed
Their clothing—they were nude from chest to rump.
Some learned from Michael Lally so they fluffed,
That is, were semi-hard. Those who didn’t pump
Looked, thanks to our brilliant photography
Like eggs on a plate. Holman and Lally,

Warsh, Simon Pettet, Tom Carey, Violi,
Rosenthal, Godfrey and Simon Schuchat,
Joel Oppenheimer, Bill Kushner, Kim Chi
Ha, Bill Berkson. That all of ’em? Fuck it.
We got so sick of naked men after we
Did a calendar, we agreed to chuck it,
Though we did publish one KOFF also
On a t-shirt with our manifesto.*

* The KOFF Manifesto

Because I am an artist, things affect me deeply & I am constantly depressed. Because an artist must be totally honest, I can say without a trace of self-consciousness that my inability to deal with the world proves definitively my superiority to most of the human race, yourself included. It is impossible for you to understand even grossly the nature of my pain. In your dull way, you can only admire my suffering, as you might admire a computer or a large, shiny car; I suffer for all of you. As you go daily to your draining and repetitive jobs, I feel the futility of your lives. I understand without having to experience. I am the antennae of the race, & for that reason much more fragile than those of you who make up the thick and ugly body. --Maggie Dubris & Elinor Nauen, from KOFF 4, 1982

What’s new in the world of the subjunctive?
I asked. "Changes in grammar tend toward glacial,"
Jane said. You thought the subject defunct? If
She’s editing textbooks, I guess she shall
Set you straight. She proclaims that the junk is
Tedious, waves it away with a facial
Expression of ennui. Grammar is for
All, but talking about it is a bore.

One time, Johnny Stanton and I went to
A reading. I looked around and announced
Smugly that I’d slept with six poets who
Were there. Johnny quickly confirmed my counts
By naming all six of ’em. How’d you do
That? "Easy," said Johnny smugly. "I bounced
My eye around the place, knowing you’d fall
For the six best writers in the parish hall."

Oh! A reading! It’s still six weeks away
But I may as well get anxious now...
Not anxious—prepared. Really, not a day
Goes by that I’m not working. I somehow
Pump these stanzas out. And what the hey,
Here they all are. Here you all are! The Tao
Of the long poem, comic rhymes in English,
My life (as I can recall it), unleashed.

After learning to write poems, a young poet
Has two other charges: to organize
A reading series and to put out
A literary mag. You anthologize
Yourself along with a writer of note.
People come to hear Ms. Big lionized
And semi-incidentally you too.
This also applies to the mag you do.

Of course I have to write my "have arrived"
Postcard from Blue Mountain Center. Hurray!
I’m here! For a month! All that time to dive
Into my poem, reading and in my own way
(Scanty) nature. Adirondacks, five
Hours from home, no work! no work! plenty play,
Which even though I expect to be hard-nosed
About this poem, none of that is imposed.

What I’m doing here: Blue’s what is called
An artist colony, where writers et
Al apply then spend about a month walled
Off from the world, allowed to concentrate
Fully on their work alone. We’re fed, mauled
With solicitude, waited on, cosset-
Ed. Meanwhile, back home, spouses and loved ones
Are saving up resentments with shotguns.

You could eat well here at Blue from sunrise
Till the cows come home: eggs, sausage, bacon,
Oatmeal. That’s just breakfast. Let me apprise
You of the cookies, fresh daily, achin’
To be crammed into your mouth. Some guys
Have gained as much as 30 pounds—makin’
Eating their main work here. Sis was no doubt
Happy—if you don’t eat, she says: Get out!

Yesterday took a short hike (.1 mile)
Through Cathedral Pines and past Racquette Lake
And plump stately pines that had somehow, while
Woods were being clear-cut, missed being take-
N down. A plaque to World War II flier
Malcolm Blue rested on a stump "as straight-
Grained" as he. Flowers, flags. What would it be
Like to back a war with the whole country?

Didn’t see a bear out by the dumpster
(From an Old English word that denotes "judge")—
No, wait, not a dumpster, I mean dempster,
Which in those days was dispensed with a cudgel.
Dempster is married name of a friend, sir,
>From high school. How did I manage to budge
So far from the bear of Blue Mountain Lake?
I saw a bolt of sun, mist in its wake.

Here by me a dozen books, all of which
I’m reading this minute, though some have lain
Unopened long enough that they are itch-
Ing to move to "abandoned," not the bane
Of a book’s self-love but where it can bitch
Undisturbed at flighty readers who feign
Interest. One-night stands, as it were. Heed
Joyce, who said it should take as long to read

His works as it did him to compose them.
A book can be read in a couple hours,
But it must take at least a month to em-
Broider, even the most plain. I devour
The fruit of planning, planting, pruning; gem
Of mining, milling, machinery—ours
Is a life made in every way so eas-
Y, hard to see what pains are made to please.

Here are some works and poets and advice,
Though what advice you could want from confused
Me, I shan’t guess. My guidelines for hitchhik-
Ing are sound (see Section III) but to use
My ideas on poetry would be a vice.
Better to listen to Kenneth Koch, whose
"Art of Poetry" I take for my own text.
Better to read lots of poetry, next

Figure out what the poets are getting at
(What you can lift from them, in other words).
Don’t forget the young poets—read cuz that
Is how to develop taste, without herds
Of antique notions stampeding you. Pat
Opinions come when one knows before one learns.
Read a lot, write a lot, reject and embrace
In equal measure and in every case.

It’s already 10 years since Jimmy Schuy-
Ler died (another on the long, long list
Of dead poets and friends)—a fact that I
Hardly need announce at this point in this
Poem, eh? His poems, even the long ones, vie
With Snoopy catching a soap bubble in his
Teeth for transparency and lightness. How’d
He do that? Try it yourself and you’re cowed.

It may seem easy at first—they’re just lines,
You think, until you realize his tightrope
Is a mile above the earth. His balance so fine
It’s impossible to see that the soap-
Bubble is caught, let alone how he winds
It altogether. He said to me once, quote:
"I wake up, write a poem. That takes six minutes.
Then I’ve the rest of the day to myself." Wits,

Take notice. "If the mind is shapely,
The poem is shapely," was Allen G’s motto.
All your energy at all times must be
On poetry; then: "first thought, best thought." Oh,
I know this has engendered lots of ve-
Hement crap, but it’s true you can’t be blotto
Ever. Attention must be paid. And you’ll
Be a poet, trim and true, no fool.