Allen Ginsberg [New York, NY] to Robert Creeley [Buffalo, NY] November 28, 1967

Dear Bob:

Came back to Lower East Side 2 weeks ago, cleaned house up and foot thick pile of letters war resistance brochures books telegrams off desk answered finally, Peter back from driving Irving Rosenthal cross-country to settle near [Dave] Haselwood in S.F., Julius living with Barbara Rubin and girlfriends up on 3rd Ave and talking and socializing a little at last; so I finally started picking thru last 7 years poetry for City Lights book, house clean quiet and phone off.

The bulk of the scribblings difficult to range together because except for ‘historic’ paeans like The Change or May King or Who Be Kind To, the mass of other occasional journal-writing has “too many words” (said Bunting); what I got is a lot of spontaneous music and natural language gaiety but I can put my finger thru holes in every other line. So I’m revising a little mostly blue-pencil to condense words already there, put them closer together and cut syntactic fat. Only fear is the stiffness that comes from revision, unnatural compression. I’d like a surface you can read clearly like clear talk and not have to “study.” So now about a third thru the poems, maybe done in couple weeks; then put together another book re U.S. Vietnam-States-Volkswagen tape machine Wichita Vortex, that’s about 100 pages I hope.

I’m scheduled to read in Buffalo March 5, not seen correspondence (handled by agent) – is that a poetry festival? Will you be there then? I heard rumor you were going back to New Mexico, and then opposite gossip. John W. [Wieners] with long peroxide blond hair?

Got busted by local cops in Spoleto over Who Be Kind To text (came for me in coffeehouse half hour after reading, out of blue, unexpected, in fact surprising, I didn’t do nothing, in fact I thought when they said ‘come with us’ it must have something to do with dope which fortunately I didn’t have any on me). Menotti said he’d take care of legalities (according to Italian law anything formally “art” is exempt from obscenity bust so everything is ultimately safe.) Trouble is that Italian legal structure (prosecutors and upper courts) is still operating on fascist premises, i.e. laws and personnel the same, unchanged, as in Mussolini’s day. Opposite U.S. where best chance is elders of Supreme Court, the last appeal Constitutional Court in Italy is all old men who were respectable judges during fascist days and so all Vatican and old order oriented; and the laws were patchwork thru 30s uncancelled by postwar constitution – requiring definite legislative revision or Constitutional Court decision to liberalize in line with theoretically liberal constitution. So to this day all public gatherings over 5 people require formal authorization by police as “manifestation” – except for political gatherings which don’t require license. That’s fine except it excludes anybody unorganized as a political party i.e. you can’t have be-ins. So everything in Italy’s ossified, as far as polis goes; so for years police vans have been swooping down on Duomo Sq. Milan or Spanish Steps Rome arresting “Capelloni” – longhairs – so naturally by good fortune when I went with family to Italy en famille staying at Hotel Engleterre 2 blocks from Keats’ death room over Spanish Steps, and sat down on steps one dusk to converse furtively with local ragazzi I did by god get busted again for 3 hours. I tried to get out of it by sneaking across street when vans rumored arriving but got nabbed just after I thought I was safe.

Anyway that was later: went to England from Spoleto and stayed in style with Panna Grady and ran around a lot, finished proofs small book now published Cape-Goliard, yakked on TV and sang Hari Krishna in Hyde Park pot picnic, spent evening with Paul McCartney (He says “We are all one” i.e. all the same mystic-real being), spent a lot of evenings with Mick Jagger singing mantras and talking economics and law-politics during his court crisis – found him very delicate and friendly, reading Poe and Alistair Crowley – on thick carpets with incense and wearing ruffled lace at home – later spent nite in recording studio with Jagger, Lennon and McCartney composing and fixing voices on pretty song “Dandelion Fly Away” everybody exhilarated with hashish – all of them drest in paisley and velvet and earnestly absorbed in heightening the harmonic sounds inch by inch on tape, turning to piano to figure out sweeter variations and returning to microphone to try it out – lovely scene thru control booth window, I got so happy I began conducting like a madman thru the plate glass.

Waited in London for my father and stepmother, they stayed a week at Panna’s in garden studio, we gave a reading together at Institute Contemporary Arts and he came on so vibrant (first time in Europe after 71 years) one of the smaller publishers offered him a book, which he needs and hasn’t been able to get since his last, 30 years ago, so that was a capital event; then we went on to Paris and sat on Pont des Arts and looked at the summer trees along the Seine and sat in cafes and sightsaw, I got hotels and taxis and carried luggage and had the pleasure of him realizing how much I knew of the outer world, and him experiencing that dimension, outside of images of movies and newspaper books – his big dream always was to stroll by wooden bookstalls on left bank, and so we did just that and bought views of wooden bookstalls etchings. Then a week in Rome where my arrest livened things up (he came down to the questura to try and get me out and saw the scene and so in reality and person was on my side in what otherwise would’ve been for him a faraway dubious newspaper scandal hallucination) (Tho I was already out of jail, nonetheless he said he enjoyed striding into police station resolved to get an explanation from the culprit authority.) And saw Vatican and a lot of statues, family began getting tired, a couple days in Venice refreshing, then they left for U.S., he wept – old nostalgia – going thru ticket taker to plane ramp.

So I stayed in Milan with Nanda Pivano a month, worked on translations with her – rewrote poems into Italian word by word for next book – amphetamine babble syntax difficult but I think we did something novel in the tongue. FINALLY, got reply from Olga Rudge and went to Rapallo to spend afternoon with Pound, he wouldn’t talk except “Would you like to wash your hands, she asks?” before lunch; and during lunch said “Ouvert à la Nuit” when Olga R and I asked him name of book by Paul Morand 30 years ago – drove to Portofino with him for hour’s silent sit in cafe, he nodded negative when I asked if he’s ever tried hashish. Sang Prajnaparamita and Hari Krishna. I babbled a bit, but basically he’s stubborn as Julius was, I figured probably for similar reasons (Julius thought good was battling evil in universe and all the evil was coming from him so figured it was best to not do or say anything.)

Then went back to Milan and worked some more and wrote asked Rudge for date again in Venice, she wrote yes so I went alone to Venice and stayed in pension round corner from her tiny house. First day came to lunch as invited and brought gift Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Blonde on Blonde and more Beatles and Dylan and Donovan, drank some wine and smoked a stick of pot at table over coffee (without calling attention) looked Pound in eye and said, “Well old man, how old are you?” so he finally spoke “82 in several days.” Then turned on Beatles and Dylan, recited lyrics so he could distinguish “Sad Eyed Lowland Lady” words, he wouldn’t say nothing but sat thru 3/4 hour of loud rock smiling, then I sang for an hour and went away and got drunk in Harry’s Bar.

Then for the next 2 1/2 weeks I hung around, saw him on street, we went to concert Vivaldi in church one night, ate occasionally together in pension on days when Rudge didn’t cook, Italian TV was there making birthday documentary (he was 82 October 30). After a day or so I began asking specific questions textual. “Where are the soap-smooth stone posts at San Vio, I went and looked and there they’re all rough” and he began answering. I kept record of everything he said, so, in sum stringing it all together exact words but sans context over 2 weeks: “No! No! (to Rudge’s demand he have more Zucchini) . . . Yes, when the font was filled, now they’ve changed it, it used to be like that (to my question about “in the font to the right as you enter / are all the gold domes of San Marco” in Pisan Cantos) . . . Don Carlos the pretender (what’s this “house that used to be of Don Carlos”?) . . . Yes but my own work does not make sense . . . Too late (when I asked if he’d like to read in Buffalo) . . . Bunting told me there was too little presentation and too much reference . . . A mess . . . my writing, stupidity and ignorance all the way through . . . the intention was bad, anything I’ve done has been an accident, in spite of my spoiled intentions, the preoccupation with stupid and irrelevant matters . . . I do (give me, Allen, his blessing, after I demanded it) . . . but my worst mistake was the stupid suburban anti-Semitic prejudice, all along that spoiled everything . . . I found after seventy years that I was not a lunatic but a moron . . . I should have been able to do better . . . No (smiling) he never said that to me (when I reported W.C. Williams told me Pound had a mystical ear) . . . (Cantos) it’s all doubletalk . . . it’s hard for me to write anything . . . I didn’t read enough poetry . . . (Cantos) it’s all tags and patches . . . a mess . . . my depression is mental not physical . . . it would be ingenious work to see any influence (his on younger poets as I described it including quoting from memory some of your poems, Robert) . . . Williams was in touch with human feelings . . . You know a great deal about the subject (replying after I’d explained LSD pot scene asking if I was making sense to him) . . . Worse, and alive . . .” That’s weeks boiled down.

So, I hung around till I thought my presence was getting heavy and left for States – having delivered many concise accurate pep-talks – nicest evening was his birthday, Olga R. invited me in to sing for him by fireplace late in evening, alone, sang Prajnaparamita “No Nirvana no path no wisdom and no attainment because no attainment” he sat quietly, sad, ate some birthday cake, sipped some champagne, said no he hadn’t read Crane’s Atlantis (which I thereat recited 20 lines from memory), signed 110 Canto pamphlet for “Alan Guinzberg dall’autore.” (Had said he hadn’t read any of my poetry, knew yours or recognized your name quickly knew who you were – also responded very fast yes head nod he’d received Briggflats [by Basil Bunting]).

Olga Rudge says that oddly nobody has invited him to the U.S. lately, the last invitations situation wasn’t sure and Laughlin I think’d interfered, or someone had. I asked if it would be alright to make discrete inquires at Buffalo or Berkeley. I think if it were handled gently, without too much fuss, he could be invited to Buffalo (Rudge knows about your and poesy activity there, as a center) especially for a festival. She said there is an invite for Opera Villon from Buffalo. But if situation is OK there, is it possible to invite him to appear like for a short poetry reading, – which he can and does still do – (as he still does write) ? I think they would come. It would be glorious if it worked. They’re worried about a fuss (political and otherwise) being made – need a smooth journey and comfort/privacy/attention for an old man – would presumably have quiet dinners with few people, maybe attend a concert or reading, and give a reading. He has spry physical strength. Don’t know how much money they’d need. But we could all get together and contribute. Mainly I said I’d inquire (said to Rudge) if inquiries could be made without large gossip. Meant to write you earlier. I told Rudge the great scene also would be for him to visit SF read perhaps at Berkeley or SF State. If something can be done at Buffalo, and Rudge and Pound are willing, maybe contact Parkinson. I don’t think they’d be able to do more in public than that, if that. Rudge sort of takes care of him, food, letters, visitors, travel arrangements, etc. Can write her, she said not to circulate address, otherwise.

OK – Bravo! Cheers! love to Bobbie, and where’s Olson? Tell John Wieners salve. Peter says “Tell him a lotta good things.”

As ever
Allen    

Tone of this letter strange to me. I waited so long to write, the letter got to be long, and I couldn’t figure out where to begin about Pound so kept describing other things. Also saw Pasolini, Antonioni, Quasimodo, Montale, Ungaretti and all the Feltrinellis, Mondadoris and Balistrinis and Nonos in sight.