Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Tim Atkins’s Petrarch (Crater #6)

Dune Grasses

I hardly know a thing about Petrarch. Laura, &c. Canzoniere. The sixth of April, thirteen hundred and twenty-seven, hora matutina in the Church of Santa Chiara in Avignon: kaboom. Follow’d by thirty-seven years of dopey formal singing. Here’s a sonnet, number’d cccx:
Zephiro torna, e ’l bel tempo rimena,
e i fiori et l’erbe, sua dolce famiglia,
et garrir Progne et pianger Philomena,
et primavera candida et vermiglia.

Ridono i prati, e ’l ciel si rasserena;
Giove s’allegra di mirar sua figlia;
l’aria et l’acqua et la terra è d’amor piena;
ogni animal d’amar si riconsiglia.

Ma per me, lasso, tornano i piú gravi
sospiri, che del cor profondo tragge
quella ch’al ciel se ne portò le chiavi;

et cantar augelletti, et fiorir piagge,
e ’n belle donne honeste atti soavi
sono un deserto, et fere aspre et selvagge.
Here’s Tim Atkins’s version (out of the recently print’d Crater #6, edit’d by Richard Parker—the entire letterpress’d, French-fold’d, and sewn issue is made up of fourteen of Atkins’s Petrarchs, with a George Herriman Krazy Kat cover):
It was the golden age of homosexuality
Chairman Mao taking the buffaloes for a stroll
        in the tea-oil camellia groves by banana
        leaf-shade ponds between Heathrow & Slough
Creatures of the sun-loving world       vs
        the pale less resistant ones
Avatars of insufficient definition or
        relation     dressed in animal bird or cowboy forms
Head filled with poem until it was almost
        impossible not to trip over them     for example
Petrarch’s shift between       need to write
        fame       and singular woman
Alas!     My   Place   Is
This     Fuck in this life
Surprise is all I have
I never learned
To turn quickly enough from
All that burns
Feeling each other up and liking each other
        terrifically all the way home from the Odeon
Scat-hazardous and buoyant, with all the zip and sass of a Heathrow-unslough’d O’Hara. Not, decidedly, the programmatic constructivist plodding of routine translation homophonickal, not, apparently, translation exactly at all (though I suspect a rather deftly salacious argument’d carry for ’l bel tempo rimena’s being auscultated as “the golden age of homosexuality,” like running a forefinger around a goblet to make it sing . . .) I spent some no few moments attempting to determine how Atkins arrived at what he arrived at—he’s similarly rework’d a number of Horatian odes in the terrific collection Horace (O Books, 2007)—leaning hard against a book call’d Petrarch in England, subtitled “An Anthology of Parallel Texts from Wyatt to Milton, edit’d by one Jack d’Amico. Therein, unearthing a (somewhat tamper’d with) crib:
Zephyrus returns, and brings clear weather,
and flowers and grasses, the whole sweet family,
and Procne’s quarrelsome call, and Philomel’s weeping,
and spring’s white and vermilion.
The meadows exult and the skies turn serene,
Jove’s happy to see daughter Venus,
air and water and earth, all full of love,
every animal reconciles itself again to loving.
For me, though, alas! the weightiest sighs
return, drawing up out of my heart’s deeps
the one who’d owned the keys to heaven.
And singing of little birds and flowering fields,
the pretty girls act perfectly disgraceful
like in a desert, like bitter and savage beasts.
Petrarch in England clumps up subsequent sonnets that’d appear to siphon energy off Petrarch’s cccx, making for a small, and agreeable, continuum of borrowings and nods. So Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, writes:
The soote season, that bud and blome furth bringes,
With grene hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with feathers new she singes;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Somer is come, for euery spray nowe springes:
The hart hath hong his old hed on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter cote he flings;
The fishes flete with newe repairèd scale.
The adder all her sloughe awaye she slinges;
The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smale;
The busy bee her honye now she minges;
Winter is worne, that was the flowers bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant thinges
Eche care decayes, and yet my sorow springes.
“Minges” = recalls. All renew’d sauf l’amour. One “R. L. Gentleman” offer’d up in the 1600 anthology England’s Helicon a “constanter” version:
ZEPHIRUS brings the time that sweetly senteth
with flowers and hearbs, which Winters frost exileth:
Progne now chirpeth, Philomel lamenteth,
Flora the Garland white and red compileth:
Fields doo rejoyce, the frowning skie relenteth,
Jove to behold his dearest daughter smileth:
The ayre, the water, the earth to joy consenteth,
each creature now to love him reconcileth.
But with me wretch, the stormes of woe persever,
and heavie sighs which from my hart she straineth
That tooke the key thereof to heaven for ever,
so that singing of birds and spring-times flowring:
And Ladies love that mens affection gaineth,
Are like a Desert, and cruel beasts devouring.
Thus Atkins’s strangulated “Alas!     My   Place   Is / With / This     Fuck in this life” runs wonderfully parallel to “with me wretch, the stormes of woe persever”—entering a long line of possibles. Here’s another “version,” by William Drummond of Hawthornden, add’d for the Petrarchan ending:
With floming Hornes the Bull now brings the Yeare,
Melt doe the horride Mountaines Helmes of Snow,
The silver Flouds in pearlie Channells flow,
The late-bare Woods greene Anadeams doe weare.
The Nightingall forgetting Winters Woe,
Calls up the lazie Morne her Notes to heare,
Those Flowrs are spred which Names of Princes beare,
Some red, some azure, white, and golden grow.
Here lowes a Heifer, there bea-wailing strayes
A harmless Lambe, not farre a Stag rebounds,
The Sheepe-heards sing to grazing Flockes sweet Layes,
And all about the Ecchoing Aire resounds.
      Hills, Dales, Woods, Flouds, and every thing doth change,
      But shee in Rigour, I in Love am strange.
“Anadeam” = anadem = garland, crown. One of my favor’d lines in Atkins’s Petrarch: “I won the Eurovision poetry prize in 1341” (“Sonnet 321”), referring undoubtedly to Petrarch’s being crown’d with the laurel wreath in Rome, 17 April 1341, for a prize poem (one said to be unfinish’d). Here’s another Atkins version:
Sonnet 5

How to be happy Volume 3
States that sticking it in gives more pleasure going
        in than coming out but that staying in = stuck
& when standing in front of the Elgin Marbles
        & all creeping things go & outside there is snow
On WH & WB     TS WCW ee & HD
I have PMS in my sestina which is       gnawed
        & angry from the erosion of civil liberties
        a wanker’s book incompetent beasts
        & impossible union
In love with life but not living
Chewing the little pages in order to wad
        up the gums so they can’t protest love
Resigned in this lifetime to being resigned
        intimidated by the English summer with its
Melopœia Festival Enema & Chakra Stall
        Oasis Writing Schools & un-
Free Jazz Steam Toasted Cheese Bhaji Dixieland
        Kleptomaniac White getup & Bunting
When I awoke I discovered that it wasn’t all a dream
Succhi me catzo Dante
The face that I am sitting on is my own
But you can’t
Translate that
It’s the O’Hara of “Biotherm” I hear here mostly. The literary initials “WH & WB     TS WCW ee & HD” correspond wonderfully to Petrarch’s un-subtle spelling out of Laura’s name in the original—“LAUdando s’incomincia udir di fore / il suon de’ primi dolci accenti suoi. // Vostro stato REal, &c. Beyond the furious play, a melancholy: “In love with life but not living.” Retrieved again in Atkins’s “Final Sonnet 366” (as is the lovely disconnect of “standing in front of the Elgin Marbles”):
The boys are singing to drive away the noxious birds
Before women it is useful to practice on statues
& now I am here to tell you all that I have discovered
That living is one of the best things—
        there where I ripped it
That her eyes couldn’t have been more beautiful—
        I just thought they were
Driving my utopian car over the dystopian roads
I go over and look at myself
& look surprised
Because living is one of the best things       I go over
I stand there listening to the sunshine burning the grass
My horn a crumpled dream
Earthlings! Comrades! ¡Adiós!
Work out your salvation with diligence
As if everything were still possible
“As if everything were still possible”—ending with all the heartbreaking candor of the O’Hara poem that begins “Instant coffee with slightly sour cream” and ends: “my life held precariously in the seeing / hands of others, their and my impossibilities. / Is this love, now that the first love / has finally died, where there were no impossibilities?”

Tim Atkins’s Petrarch (Crater #6)

Francesco Petrarca, 1304-1374
(Drawing by Altichiero da Zevio)

Monday, August 30, 2010

Alfred Leslie’s 100 Views Along the Road


Serendipity, the poniard of the fit percept, ready for its muscular lunge. How explain how, dutifully (drowsily) scanning the shelves of the used book emporium the other day, ticking off the usual absences (legion), Alfred Leslie’s 100 Views Along the Road (Timken, 1988) ’d pop up into the optics-slurring “field,” there for a fiver’s dispersal? I drug it home. The grisaille series, begun when Leslie rent’d a “bay-front cottage in Easthampton, Long Island, to make some landscape watercolor studies for The Killing Cycle,” the artist’s lament heroick for the death of Frank O’Hara, had, after thirty or so paintings’d got made, “emerged so strongly” it’d begun to compete with the work of The Killing Cycle itself for Leslie’s attention. (Lovely, Leslie’s sense, in the introductory piece he writes call’d “Our Luminous Paradise,” of the preternatural demands of one’s work, how it and its gods make sudden outlandish claims and denials, spell-determinant.) Ten years later, in 1978, driving a Ford van east out of California at the end of a winter’s (seemingly thwart’d, dogged by failure) trials of painting (“daily foot-slogging burdened with the gear of an itinerant scene painter”) landscapes around Santa Barbara, Leslie had “just outside Laguna, New Mexico” along U.S. 40, a kind of skew’d nigh-religious moment—one of two—that’d point him back to the Long Island watercolors:
      I was regretting the whole trip when a singular pile of colossal stones came into view. Gargantuan stones lying helter-skelter as if they had been casually crumpled by Goya’s mad mammoth just before he began to stuff those screaming babies into his mouth. At the base of the rocks were scattered a few trailers. All this was backlit with a pellucid light in the manner of an epiphany. This sublime western scene hit me hard and interested me more than anything I had just painted in California. I knew I could rescue my trip from failure by drawing it.
      The gods were definitely in control, and they had left a drawing pad and 4b pencil clearly visible in the jumbled mess behind the seat. I pulled off the road again, this time to draw a series of four rectangles on a page one under the other like a vertical cartoon on about twenty sheets. I turned back about five miles and made another run at the site. This time as I approached I didn’t stop. Instead, I pressed my knees against the bottom of the steering wheel and began to draw. I managed a few hasty scribbles and filled in one of the long rectangular boxes with a landscape that was really a succession of views. Since I was not drawing from any fixed position, the landscape sketch became a composite of many angles. They would all merge, making the final drawing a compound of individual sightings. Instead of Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, a painted sequence of stop-motion images all on one canvas, I had condensed a hundred separate percepts into one view. Landscape as myth.

Alfred Leslie, “Trailers Outside Laguna, New Mexico,” c. 1978

Leslie continues making “driving drawings”—the unavoidable parallel to “driving writings,” scrawl’d nigh-illegibles of the roil’d up hazards of the brain-box’s mete fervency unleash’d, what’s uncover’d under the full sun and cranny-licking breezes of that box’s (rag-top toss’d off) exposure to the road, Merrill Gilfillan’s wonderful phrase “drive an intelligent mile” meaning a way of connecting to that particular word-hoard, though any focus’d manual labor’d do it, even, say, walking—all the way east to home in Massachusetts and then, inexplicably, abandons the project. Two years later: a second coagulant moment.
I had gone for a ride in my old Volvo. I wasn’t going anywhere specific, I just wanted to saunter on wheels, to clear my head, to think. But I didn’t go very far and parked at the local Stop & Shop in Hadley. It was about 3 a. m. by now and there was a thin sliver of moon crisply stated in the sky. On impulse I sat in a small square of grass in the middle of the asphalt parking lot where a tree was planted. Looking up, I noticed an Exxon sign poised high on a tall mast, like another moon. I thought how similar all this was to the scene outside Laguna with the trailers parked underneath those gigantic ancient rocks. Then as now, everything seemed timeless, steeped in calm, without people and faintly doomed.
(David Shapiro relates the early—Killing Cycle—watercolors in the series to “the cinematic desire in Leslie for the ‘long shot,’ as if a too-detailed sense of the figure would be unbearable. The beach is scrutinized, almost scientifically, as the scene of contingency. Many of these studies show the sensuous delight in the ocean and its almost erotic contours. This indulgence in the sensuous surface of the real keeps the studies from being any kind of morbid or resentful encyclopedia.”) Leslie’s review of “the formal basis of the watercolors, starting with the white band that was at the bottom of every picture”:
I had discovered the band accidentally, after removing the tape I used to mask off sections of paper. When I saw the band for the first time I realized that the white unpainted section of the paper not only looked beautiful, but also provided a simultaneous second reading of the picture. It told the viewer that the painted sky above the white band was paint and nothing more. In this seeming subversion of pictorial realism and naturalness, the white band also functioned as a signifier, signing the wholeness of nature. Its role was similar to the fast gradation of intense blue at the very top of Japanese prints that indicates sky directly overhead, which you cannot see without looking up but you know is there as you are looking straight ahead at the horizon. As that intense blue signifies sky out of sight, my white band stands for earth not in view but as a given. The ground you know you are standing on as you look ahead. Earth as ground, ground as ground, base, surface of the paper. Its conceptual function, though, began with an entirely eyeball pleasure. I liked it, identified it, asked what it might mean, and kept it. The white band both signifies and is.
Kin of sorts (in my current rambunct / conjunct of reading) to some of John Ashbery’s lines out of “For John Clare”: “Kind of empty in the way it sees everything, the earth gets to its feet and salutes the sky. . . . There is so much to be seen everywhere that it’s like not getting used to it, only there is so much it never feels new, never any different. . . . ¶ There ought to be room for more things, for a spreading out, like. Being immersed in the details of rock and field and slope—letting them come to you for once, and then meeting them halfway would be so much easier.” All that marvelous noble chicanery about the percept, what enters the ground “starting in the upper left-hand corner, like a sail.” What Leslie’s white band makes clear: how routinely ground—in Angus Fletcher’s words (A New Theory for American Poetry)—is “an unexamined given, claiming without skepticism to be original, to be immemorial, to be archetypal, and natural” (Fletcher’s arguing for Clare’s—and Ashbery’s—ability to regularly unveil an “experienced ground”—“The term means earth—where lightning finds one dissipative home for its deadly force and beauty, or ground in another sense, when the hunted animal ‘goes to ground.’ These are the ‘earth to earth’ from which we come, to which we adhere.” Other senses of ground (unevenly applicable to Leslie, Clare, and Ashbery): freely and unselfishly inherit’d clichés of the age (“like a good song writer, he uses them”); the blithe standing free of “any uncritical, obsessive, usually resentful desire to get rid of foundations” (signal properties of the self-proclaim’d “avant-gardes”); “innate capacity for philosophy” in face of the Heraclitean “ever, onrushing flux.” I teeter along a stretch’d rope between painting and poetry: is it possible to claim the unmark’d page ground? For the sparse figure / negligible grammar of a simple array? Finding myself writing things like:
      milk’d reveries of       a Camberwell youth

            “big as the bowels of Vesuvius”

          Campo Santo             “signifies and is”

      scoria array’d       dud       beetles in the weeds

        beyond scurrility       prayer busts       septic & flush’d

      wan sober meat of hickory       art-dub       hello, actually

      pokeweed in the reticent field of       mole-color’d gauze

              a fit exegesis / digesteth yron       uncanny / tyranny

                  up out of the diurnal fever like an asterisk

      August / angst               some brackish tannin’d spillway

      la Saltpêtrière             black jelly adherent         glib

        seethe of meniscus                   gulp of dying

            “their dusky backs upheav’d”       boon to descant

    dumb hour       hard quotidian snip         a throw-

                    down song
“To break up the sentence, that ’s the first heave.” Leslie—like my fragment’d nota?—is using “black as a color”:
The white band was also the natural yield of my thoughts about making the sketches with a monochromatic palette limited to black thinned with water. My grisaille would stand for all color. Continuing my past work, I used black as a color, not its absence; black as the carrier of light not its executioner. My strictures: no color but a single black, one size paper, one brush. Simple materials that would not blur the idea of the pictures. For most people reality is the confirmation of their expectations. These pictures would offer alternatives. Minimal means and probity would link the mind and the eye. . . . I would eliminate all esthetic choices in favor or pure information. I would resist meaning and interpretation. I would paint with nature rather than from nature. I would be nature.
      Nature and process, then, were the formal imperatives for the watercolors. But I was helped further in the definition of these ideas by the fortuitous discovery of the Japanese concept of nōtan, in a Chinese library on Essex Street in New York City. The concept is based on the belief that there can be an eternal unchanging response to the certain beauty of just so much white to just so much black. Nōtan has no counterpart in English and was brought into the vocabulary of English-speaking artists by the painter Arthur Dow in his book Composition, published in 1899. The word is both descriptive and judgmental, bespeaking both style and quality. It is a noun and an adjective.
Though refusing white in severest palette, Leslie’s call’d the original Long Island sketches nōtans. The resultant pieces—large—“I worked up to a sheet that was four by six feet”—become depictings condensery (kin, again, to John Clare’s “experienced ground,” that territory so work’d ’s to become one’s “nature”—Leslie’s “I would be nature”):
I wanted the larger drawings to capture all the transcendent weather and light moments I had ever experienced but not recorded. I wanted to put those sensations into the larger watercolors. For many of these I started less with a drawing of a place than with an overall atmospheric effect. I had to set the paint into motion toward the idea of a snowstorm and catch it, instantly, while working. I had to follow the washes, to enter them physically. The Chinese painting masters call this ink play, jazz masters call it improvisation, Harold Rosenberg termed it action painting. The idea is to set a structured theme into motion and ride it, using precision and skill.
And: “The light I paint is paint, not light.” To translate that into the “wan meat” of the word’d construct.

Alfred Leslie, “Heading for Gallup, New Mexico”

Alfred Leslie, “Bridge, Mill Creek, Youngstown, Ohio”

Alfred Leslie, “Rocky Beach, Santa Barbara, California”

Alfred Leslie, “Rocky Beach, Santa Barbara, California”

Alfred Leslie, ““Rocky Beach, Santa Barbara, California”

Alfred Leslie

Friday, August 27, 2010

Uncenter’d, Circling

Tree and Sunflowers

Conduct’d the faintly film noirish Vibe, all sprezzatura’d-up with new brake-work, out (Wednesday) toward Jackson (“hotter ’n a pepper sprout”), across the placid St. Joseph to snip off the corner (befoul’d, see Gary) of Indiana, and scoot through the “city of big shoulders” (Chicago): end of summer voyage to see violinist Leila Josefowicz (with pianist John Novacek, who bang’d and jump’d and bent morendo down to see off the little dying notes, and made lovely monkey-mouths, indéchiffrable comme un grimoire.) Poetics adage: always identify with the sidekick (see its etymological boots in criminal slang: “Pockets range between ‘side kicks’ and ‘double insiders’), not the hero. Josefowicz play’d Brahms’s 1906 Scherzo in C minor (composed for one Joseph Joachim—a violinist whose “musical motto: F A E” stood for Frei aber einsam—“free but alone”), Shostakovich’s single violin sonata (“unyielding in its modernity, shifting between tonal passages and freely atonal segments” that had the blazer and khaki’d model dottering Republican in front of me in a childish fury), Stravinsky’s 1932 Duo concernante (trigger’d, one notes, by a passage in Charles Albert Cingria’s book Petrarca—“Lyricism cannot exist without rules, and it is essential that they should be strict. Otherwise there is only a faculty for lyricism, and that exists everywhere. What does not exist everywhere is lyrical expression and composition. To achieve that, apprenticeship to a trade is necessary.”) (Out of Stravinsky’s Autobiography. He (Stravinsky, therein) also approvingly quotes Tchaikovsky (in a letter): “Since I began to compose I have made it my object to be, in my craft, what the most illustrious masters were in theirs; that is to say, I wanted to be, like them, an artisan, just as a shoemaker is. . . . (They) composed their immortal works exactly as a shoemaker makes shoes; that is to say, day in, day out, and for the most part to order.” Contra the fit mystical, the abrupt descent (sun-shaft and hearkening voice) of the angelic blow. Though who’s to say it isn’t that diurnal rut that beckons such?) Josefowicz and Novocek perform’d, too, a piece by the Estonian Erkki-Sven Tüür, Conversio (1994)—with a whole midriff of violin and piano seemingly caught in a stutter-y combat regarding the manner of proceeding (or ending), a kind of furious stasis. Tüür, who found’d and perform’d with the rock bank In Spe:
My work as a composer is entirely concerned with the relation between emotional and intellectual energies and the way in which they can be channeled, accumulated, liquidated and re-accumulated. My pieces are abstract dramas in sound, with characters and an extremely dynamic chain of events; they unfold in a space that is constantly shifting, expanding and contracting, not so much like a mosaic, but rather in the manner of a block of sculpture. I have been interested in a combination of opposites—tonality versus atonality, regular repetitive rhythms versus irregular complex rhythms, tranquil meditativeness versus explosive force . . .
Josefowicz end’d with Franz Schubert’s Rondo brillant in B minor, predictably soothing the Republican beast.

To conduct the faintly film noirish Vibe is to find oneself at the center of an advancing circle (I am stuck, of late, re-encountering it in Angus Fletcher’s A New Theory for American Poetry—Iain Sinclair makes it central to Edge of the Orison: In the Traces of John Clare’s ‘Journey out of Essex,’ too), with the lovely Clare report (found in the autobiographical writings) of going toward the (motile, receding) reaches of the horizon—seeking what the Greek Anaximander call’d “the unlimited”—the origin of the cosmos. Clare (in Clare’s orthography):
I loved this solitary disposition from a boy and felt a curosity to wander about spots where I had never been before         I remember one incident of this feeling when I was very young         it cost my parents some anxiety         it was in summer and I started off in the morning to get rotten sticks from the woods but I had a feeling to wander about the fields and I indulgd it         I had often seen the large heath calld Emmonsales stretching its yellow furze from my eye into unknown solitudes when I went with the mere openers and my curosity urgd me to steal an oppertunity to explore it that morning         I had imagind that the worlds end was at the edge of the orison and that a days journey was able to find it         so I went on with my heart full of hopes pleasures and discoverys expecting when I got to the brink of the world that I could look down like looking into a large pit and see into its secrets the same as I believd I could see heaven by looking into the water         so I eagerly wanderd on and rambled among the furze the whole day till I got out of my knowledge when the very wild flowers and birds seemd to forget me and I imagind they were the inhabitants of new countrys         the very sun seemd to be a new one and shining in a different quarter of the sky         still I felt no fear         my wonder seeking happiness had no room for it         I was finding new wonders every minute and was walking in a new world often wondering to my self that I had not found the end of the old one       the sky still touchd the ground in the distance as usual and my childish wisdoms was puzzld in perplexitys . . .
I like the way the “incident of this feeling” is a fell one, liable, apt, unconstrain’d, nigh “fit mystical.” I like, too, the “got out of my knowledge”—moving beyond the quotidian circle into unsuspect’d (fecund) knowings. (Though only by dint of daily practice: that gleaning routine, “off in the morning to get rotten sticks from the woods.”) Rummaging idly in Nathalie Stephens’s new translation of Édouard Glissant’s Poetic Intention (Nightboat Books, 2010), I uncover’d: “For the key to the cosmic secret, writes Hans Urs von Balthazar in his Cosmic Liturgy is still motion, or more precisely, it is the study of the relationship between rest and motion, whose balance is what defines the essence of finite being.” Territory I usually light out of, intrepid around the cosmic (to say nothing of the liturgic, though I find Clare’s “orison” a perfect incidence of misspelling). What I keep thinking: how devise a way of writing it? Writing a still center (in a circle continually and impetuously displac’d). Fletcher turns briefly to Emerson’s “Circles”—“circular wave of circumstance”—pointing out how he (Emerson) follow’d “formal master” Montaigne’s “The shape of my library is round with only sufficient flat wall for my table and chair; as it curves about, it offers me at a glance all my books arranged in five rows of shelves all around.” (Draw that. The necessity of a “flat wall” ’d seem to sideline Montaigne, and why the need for a flat area if one only puts one’s back to it?) At the impasse thus deliver’d (“back against the wall”), turn to the lexicographic. Fletcher: “Since ideas and form are lexically the same—idea being translated into the Latin form—it follows that the history of ideas is actually the history of forms and these in turn belong as much to poets—who manipulate form, arguing against the Platonic absolute—as to the ‘theory of ideas,’ which by its nature must fixate and hypostatize each idea.” O.E.D-city-breakdown: “idea, noun. a. late L. idea (in Platonic sense), a. Gr. ιδέα, look, semblance, form, configuration, species, kind, class, sort, nature, (in Platonic philosophy) a general or ideal form, type, model, f. root ίδ-, ίδεῖν, to see: the word being thus analogous in derivation and original sense to L. species from spec-ĕre to see, behold.” No ideas but in form.

John Clare, 1793-1864
(Painting by William Hilton, 1820)

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Alfred Leslie’s The Killing Cycle

Some Flowers

Chop’d the cilantro straight off the rubber-band’d “bunch” into the white beans, mash’d it down in the stock with the white chunks of poulet rôti, the marvelous little pearls of oignons sautée’d, and the green chili peppers dump’d out the ruptured tin—oh hell, the whole gastronomic topos barely stirs a muscle in my imaginary. At loose ends, I’d rather do anything besides make a meal. For several months now one routine is the pulling down off the shelf of a monograph call’d Alfred Leslie: The Killing Cycle by Judith Stein and David Shapiro, a thing uncover’d somewhere near Chicago, reporting a 1991 exhibit at the Saint Louis Art Museum. (“The artist recalls that his first sketch for the painting was done in the middle of a January night in 1967 in New York. Visible on the drawing, the title The Death of Frank O’Hara, . . . was almost immediately changed to The Killing of Frank O’Hara.”) I read a little and return it to the shelf, hamper’d by something, some tourbillonnant vividry, its rose-color’d end-papers loud’s a schoolgirl’s jupe, the shreds of my reading inklings of some metastasis of a whole new rubric of despair. (Next to it a paperback of Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, the “vigor and frankness” of its garish cover, blitzkrieg-fiery sky behind the soot’d tenements: “neither of the Rougiers”—a couple who sold cartes postales, seal’d up like French pornography, of the Loire’s innumerable chateaux—“had taken off their clothes for four years.”) A kind of incipient pervasive anomie, down to the tints and hues. The usual keep.

One of the subtitles Frank O’Hara wrote for Al Leslie’s film The Last Clean Shirt (1964): “I have the other idea about guilt. It’s not in us, it’s in the situation. You don’t say the victim is responsible for a concentration camp or a Mack truck. Maybe if we were all flowers, and someone stepped on us—someone, even God, might say—That’s too bad.” So block’d in, under a scene, repeat’d, of a man and woman in a convertible, driving through a city, just moments after a gunshot is heard. Is it Richard Howard, in an early assessment of O’Hara’s work, who warns so precipitously (that is, helplessly) against reading prophecy into nigh every word of the poet: “A man, in particular that emblematic man a poet, who by his surrogate office must stand, in particulars, for the generality—a man who dies at forty is at every moment of his life, we say, a-man-who-has-died-at-forty . . . and retrospectively we glean, in the course of a broken-off existence, the seeds of a destiny which, planted perhaps only by ourselves and cultivated however arbitrarily by our hunger for the inevitable, will bestow upon the blasted biography this flowering: a more grateful contour, an acceptable outline. We say, he was death-ridden, doom-haunted, and that he belonged to the race—as Thomas Mann said of Cocteau—which dies in the emergency ward.” And Howard (helplessly) provides the slings and arrows of O’Hara’s prophetic (and mock-heroic) “stance”:
                                                            I historically
belong to the enormous bliss of American death
I am really an Indian at heart, knowing it is all
over but my own ceaseless going
                        “Ode to Michael Goldberg (’s Birth and Other Births)”
To be at vespers with Mediterranean
                        “The Argonauts”
The ancient world knew these things (Be not obedient of the excellent, do not prize the silly) and I am unable to convey as well as those poets the simplicity of things, the bland and amused stare of garages and banks, the hysterical bark of a dying dog. . . . I do not want to be the victim of the ability to enthuse myself. . . . Most of my thoughts are blue with miles of figures and chariots and nudes on paths of primrose, going down the drain of modern times like a rhymed heroic tragedienne.
                        “Day and Night in 1952”
And (in an essay on Jackson Pollock):
Our art should at last speak with unimpeded force and unveiled honesty to a future which well may be non-existent, in a last effort of recognition which is the justification of being.
                            I run! closer always move,
crying my name in fields of dead I love.
                        “A City Winter”
Back to leafing through the Leslie monograph. Picture of a jeep hanging outside a second-floor window (in 1972, he’d convinced Amherst—where he taught that year—to provide him with a studio and a Willys). By 1966, Leslie’d lost three friends to car crashes: Jackson Pollock in 1956, sculptor David Smith in 1965, and O’Hara. Following O’Hara’s death, he’d attempt’d to add material—Willem De Kooning and Patsy Southgate talking about O’Hara—to an earlier film call’d Messy Lives (1962-1963) in homage. The seventh of October of that year: Leslie’s studio destroy’d by fire. Twelve firefighters kill’d. All Leslie’s art work, films, and personal possessions lost. “When my studio burned, I gave up filmmaking altogether and merged all my ideas into . . . painted stories. This metastasis of ideas was not unusual for me except for its suddenness. It was not possible to reconstruct all of my working situations after the disaster.” The Killing Cycle: “The Narrator” (1973), “The Cocktail Party” (1967-1978), “The Accident” (1969-1970), “The Telephone Call” (1971-1972), “The Loading Pier” (1975). Leslie:
The Killing Cycle is not primarily about any one thing. Not only about death or Frank O’Hara or about the loss of American innocence or about the defiling of the seashore or about the brutality of the automobile or a lecture to the avant garde or the demise of a hero or the depiction of a single instant in time or multiple figure painting or the loss of my work by fire . . . or . . . or . . . What this work is really about I can’t say, except that formally it is meant to be multi-leveled with its implied meanings focused enough that they are all fighting for ascendancy. And that these jostling meanings seek out the viewers perceptions to combine and recombine with each person so that no one interpretation succeeds.
Is there a tiny echo of O’Hara’s own “batty way to give information about the poem” in the splendid non-notes (contra-Eliotic) of “[Notes on Second Avenue]”? That “the verbal elements are not too interesting to discuss although they are intended consciously to keep the surface of the poem high and dry, not wet, reflective and self-conscious. Perhaps the obscurity comes in here, in the relationship between the surface and the meaning, but I like it that way since the one is the other (you have to use words) and I hope the poem to be the subject, not just about it”? Ongoing here, that “batty way to give information.” One thing Leslie argues for: “a desire to restore narrative subjects to the practice and intellectual life of painting and painters, and to establish story as a formal element and process . . .” And of course, he succeeds by painting in a “cinematic” style (even the initial study sketch includes five notes, a kind of filmic sequence):
1—First see the beautiful sky—
2—Terrific landscape—
3—car lights—
4—Frank being run down—
5—other car—
Leslie’s research for the series, done “intermittently over a period of fourteen years from 1966 to 1980”: interviewing J. J Mitchell [Mitchell, with Virgil Thomson and Morris Golde’d been out at a night spot with O’Hara that night—Mitchell and O’Hara stay’d late, “well past two in the morning”]. Judith Stein:
Leslie felt impelled to visit the actual site of the accident. He wanted to examine the physical layout of the beach on Fire Island and see the location of the dunes and the houses in relation to it. Leslie decided to stay there all day and night. Late in the afternoon he experienced the peculiar driving etiquette practiced on the island. As he lay on the sand close to the water, watching a young child playing near its mother, he saw a beach taxi moving in his direction at a steady clip. He was astonished that it never slowed its pace, and that people on the beach just jumped out of its way. He saw the woman near him run to pick up her child directly from the path of the vehicle, which never altered it speed as it passed right by . . .

When he returned to Manhattan he called the Coast Guard and the Weather Bureau to learn the prevailing weather, the tide, and the position of the moon on the night that O’Hara was struck. Although he did not know exactly how he would use these facts, he was comforted to have descriptions of the authentic conditions at his disposal. But his concern for verisimilitude did not endure: “In the end, I discarded it all. But it was important to me to assimilate it and have it all in my hand and then put it all aside and treat it as a picture, which is what I did . . .
Each picture becomes (note the Poundian “an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time” echo) “the depiction of a specific instant in time,” a frame (though the question of verisimilitude’s need and employ seems one Leslie never fully solved):
In a couple of the drawings and in one of the paintings I actually made it look like Frank. Then I thought it was a mistake. The important thing was to have an authentic picture of a person. At one point in time I thought it was very important that it looked like Frank. At other points in time I thought it was less important. That had to do with the very powerful shift in what I thought really should be happening with the picture. At the very beginning I had decided that the single most important issue in contemporary American painting was the depiction of a specific instance in time. So that in painting this picture of an accident it just could not be a general view of somebody being killed. It had to be a particular person.
Beans done?

Alfred Leslie, Two Drawings Call’d “On the Sand,” c. 1968
Frank O’Hara as Edouard Manet’s “The Dead Toreador” (1864)
The lines read: “He lay on the sand—on his back—one hand on his chest—he looked like he was asleep.” J. J. Mitchell’s words.

Alfred Leslie, “The Cocktail Party,” 1967-1978

Alfred Leslie, “The Accident,” 1969-1970

Alfred Leslie, “The Telephone Call,” 1971-1972

Alfred Leslie, “The Loading Pier,” 1975

Alfred Leslie, “Alfred Leslie,” 1966-1967

A couple pertinent addenda here. I am off for a couple days.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Kent Johnson’s “True Account” (Reprise)

Dunes (Lake Michigan)

In reply—highly expect’d—to Tony Towle’s lengthy and detail’d version of the likely composition of Frank O’Hara’s “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island”—Kent Johnson’s ask’d that I offer up the interlineated words below for readerly exam. I am happy to do so. How’s Dylan put it in some ditty off Love and Theft? “Out the boat I fish for bullheads / I catch a lot—sometimes too many.” (Or, how’s painter Marco Celotti-Restitue put it: “To an aesthetic of buttery consistency, art could suddenly contribute its often rejected bag of rusty nails,” a thing I always recall’s meaning art ought poke its grubby fingers exactly where they are least welcome.) And I must admit it: “Fat Nancy’s” admonishing lines in Dylan’s brilliant Charlie Patton rehash “High Water”—“Take it off the shelf / As great as you are, man / You’ll never be greater than yourself”—continue to recall (for me) the three lines under the title “Oedipus Rex” (and dated “4/7/66”) found in the small “Roma” journal amongst other ordinary items in the beach bag O’Hara carry’d the day he got hit by a jeep:
              He falls; but even in falling
he is higher than those who
fly into the ordinary sun.
[A late Johnsonian addendum: “John, I’m glad you quoted O’Hara’s journal note. I take this up in the book, pointing out this is the single entry in the fresh journal. (There is also another odd thing about this journal, which I mention there, but I’ll leave that aside for now.) It’s eerie, to put it mildly, isn’t it? The “orthodox” view would have it that FO’H wrote a poem that is “almost too neatly prophetic” (as Gooch puts it) of his own death eight years later, that he happened to write it in the location of the tragedy to come, that he went on to keep this poem secret (when there was every reason for him not to at the time, given its excitedly discussed textual source), and then wrote these words (most likely his very last) in the place his life would end—words that hearken back to the secret poem in question. It is almost certain Koch saw this journal shortly after FO’H’s death. The reader is invited to ponder . . . Kent”]

[Additional addendum to the late Johnsonian addendum: “John, when I wrote that ‘addendum’ to you, I hadn’t caught the April date you offer for the single entry by O’Hara, in the journal he had with him at the accident (I missed that date in Le Sueur’s book, too!) So my comment there alluding to FO’H writing it during the fateful July sojourn at Fire Island is obviously incorrect. Le Sueur says in his book that the entry “can be regarded as his final lines of poetry,” and I had taken that remark too literally, I see.

Still, the main point concerning the utter weirdness of it fully remains: To rephrase the last part of that addendum passage, then, to fit the record: We’re apparently to believe, without reservation, the mind-boggling coincidence that O’Hara carried these symbolic last words with him (one can’t help recalling the last poem in Mayakovsky’s pocket) to the self-‘foretold’ place his life would end—symbolic, solar last words, that is, which plainly evoke the mysteriously vanished Sun poem of the foretelling itself, which is only revealed, in turn, after his death. It quite simply defies belief . . . The idea that Koch wrote the premonitory poem to immortalize his friend may seem far-fetched, but it’s at least not based on a near-supernatural scenario, as the standard attribution would have it! It is almost certain Koch saw the journal entry shortly after FO’H died. In terms of the Kochean hypothesis, the reader is invited to ponder what role it may have played for a hidden author of ‘A True Account . . .’ Kent”]

Reply to Tony Towle: On ‘A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island’

I’m glad the esteemed poet Tony Towle has written once again about the questions surrounding “Frank O’Hara’s” canonical poem, ‘A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island.’ As he points out, a book is to be published this fall on the topic, by Richard Owens’s Punch Press (in fine-production release of 100 copies—a larger edition will be done through a trade publisher). Most copies of the first edition have been pre-sold, but a few remain available for order here.

I say I’m glad he has written because it provides me an opportunity to reiterate my ripostes to some of his confusions and misunderstandings from two years ago, numerous of which he repeats here. And glad too, for his letter does present a very surprising claim towards its conclusion. I am willing to assume it is true, until shown otherwise. It is a claim that, despite Towle’s intentions, could be seen as reinforcing the hypothesis for Kenneth Koch’s authorship of the famous poem.

Let me state from the outset, for my tone in what follows is sometimes direct, that I have the utmost regard for the poetic work of Tony Towle, regardless how he may feel about my own. And though we sharply disagree concerning key points in this topic, I do honor the understandable sense of coterie-protectiveness that compels his arguments, however unsatisfactory I may find them.

As in our previous exchange at Isola di Rifiuti, I enter my answers, in bold font, within his letter.

Dear John,

As you certainly remember, two years ago there was a good deal of correspondence (touched off by chance, I think, with my letter of June 11, 2008 concerning another matter) about Kent Johnson’s theory that Kenneth Koch was the real author of “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island,” that he wrote it after Frank’s death, in July of 1966, and passed it off as O’Hara’s work. He purportedly took Frank’s typewriter from the loft, forged the poem, typed Frank’s name on it, added “Fire Island July 10, 1958,” and slipped it into the considerable number of unpublished poems that had been found in the loft. In this, Kenneth would have deceived Bill Berkson at the moment when it was “discovered,” when they were together making copies of the poems and, soon afterwards, the audience of the first memorial reading for O’Hara, held at New York University in September. Nobody had known of this poem before and, as I mentioned in one of my letters, it blew us all away. We wondered: why had Frank not published it? Let me add, though, nobody thought it sounded as if it had not been written by O’Hara—it was quintessentially him—only that it was an extraordinary poem. I would add that “A True Account” was one of the poems Kenneth read on this occasion (John Ashbery and others read O’Hara’s work, as well), but it occurred to no one that the voice in the poem was the counterpart of the voice that was reading it aloud.

So to begin:

I’ve pointed out (and with all due respect) why Bill Berkson’s very anachronistic memory of the “discovery” occasion must be put in skeptical brackets. Berkson reported, here at Isola di Rifiuti, to have been with Koch at the copy machine when the latter pulled a poem from the pile and shouted “Hey, look at this!” Unfortunately, Berkson also assertively dates this episode at “a year or so after Frank died,” long after Koch publicly presented ‘A True Account . . .’ Copying of O’Hara’s work was taking place at that later time, so it does seem likely Berkson is confusing poems, a reasonable slip after forty-some years. In any event, if Koch had written the poem under the sign of O’Hara’s name, why wouldn’t we expect him to say something like that? He certainly would not have said, “Hey, don’t look at this!” I’m afraid it is a non-issue.

On the matter of the general reaction after Koch’s famous memorial reading of the poem, that “nobody thought it sounded as if it had not been written by O’Hara,” I can only say, again, that such would hardly be surprising, given the emotion pervading the event and the poem’s strange and moving premonitory cast. Koch revealed it as an unearthed masterpiece by O’Hara. Of course nobody on that night would have thought it wasn’t O’Hara’s voice.

But this aside, Towle may want to consider that some very respected critics now feel, as I do, that there is something “off-kilter” about the poem and its companion circumstances: The O’Hara scholar Lytle Shaw, author of the widely admired study (Towle himself admires it) Frank O’Hara: The Poetics of Coterie, agrees there are highly anomalous details in the poem’s history and that these at least justify the raising of hypothetical questions, which is what I have done. Shaw, in fact, has a blurb on my forthcoming book to this effect. Marjorie Perloff, author of the groundbreaking study Frank O’Hara: Poet among Painters, wrote me shortly after the announcement for A Question Mark above the Sun to say she has herself long doubted the poem is by O’Hara and that the sound of it, “by internal evidence,” is much closer to Koch. And Barry Schwabsky, the noted poetry and art critic for the Nation magazine, has also written me that the poem rings much more like Koch than O’Hara (though Schwabsky is strongly skeptical Koch would have written it without eventually revealing his authorship—a reservation I answer in the introduction to the forthcoming book). So it won’t quite do, more than four decades gone, to appeal to a grief-stricken audience’s reaction upon first hearing the poem.

Now, none of that’s to suggest the discussion is primarily a matter of competing “impressions” about voice and tonal registers. These are certainly germane, but settlements concerning attribution often leave the affective side of things in the dust. The major issue, rather, is that the particular poem under consideration has a number of very odd circumstantial things attached to it, and these invite, I believe, added thought, extrapolation, and conjecture. It’s in that spirit that I’m pursuing the topic, “impolite” as the pursuit may seem to some.

Kent Johnson has spun a tale out of very little and defended his preposterous notion against any and all objections on the grounds that it can’t be disproven. Now, as per your blog entry of July 23rd, it seems that Mr. Johnson has seen fit to publish a 140-page book on this subject, apparently as a tribute to his own ingeniousness. I hope you will give me the space to review the entire affair.

I’ll leave Mr. Towle to his assumptions regarding my motives. I do hope he will purchase the book and consider some of the specific questions raised in its introductory essay.

The basis of Johnson’s hypothesis is primarily a couple of musings by Joe Le Sueur in his book, Digressions on Some Poems by Frank O’Hara, who found it “mystifying” that Frank had never shown this beautiful poem to him, or to anyone; and a statement reportedly made by Larry Rivers. It does not appear from the chapter headings of Johnson’s book, which are readable on your blog, that he has changed his mind about sticking to his assertion, and I assume the appendix entitled “Letter to Tony Towle” is a reprint from one of his letters that was posted here two years ago. I invite interested readers to look at the Isola archives between June 11, 2008 and my concluding letter of July 21st of that year to put Johnson’s correspondence (which will include details in defense of his theory) in context with my own, and also to see how other individuals weighed in on the matter at the time.

It’s simply not the case that “a couple musings” by Joe Le Sueur are the basis for the hypothesis. Le Sueur’s head-scratching over the mysteries connected to the poem are certainly intriguing and important to consider (he was O’Hara’s longtime roommate and with the poet on the day the poem was supposedly written), but the whole matter is more involved than that.

It is a fact that no one of Frank’s friends had seen all his unpublished work—far from it—not Le Sueur, not Ted Berrigan (to whom Frank granted access to at least some of his unpublished work in 1963-64), and not Frank’s oldest and closest poet friends: Kenneth himself, and John Ashbery; it was not just “A True Account” that nobody had seen over the years (it was just the most impressive example). I can tell you that every single one of us was astonished when Frank’s Collected Poems appeared at the end of 1971, and his achievement was seen in its entirety (or almost; there have since been two editions of Poems Retrieved that supplement the Collected).

As I explain in the introduction to the book, it is an absolute mystery why O’Hara would not have shared the Mayakovsky imitation with his closest poet-friends. There are specific reasons offered there for why ‘A True Account . . .’ is a case apart, in regards to its “disappearance” during O’Hara’s life, and in particular during the late-50s period when it was purportedly written. Again, Towle’s rebuttals are unpersuasive.

One of the things that puzzled Joe Le Sueur in Digressions is why Frank didn’t at least show “A True Account” to Hal Fondren—after all, he wrote it while staying at Hal’s house on Fire Island. It turned out that Frank did show it to Hal; it was enclosed in a letter sent from New York to Fire Island on July 19th, Frank and Joe having spent a week in East Hampton after leaving Fire Island. In the letter, along with the carbon copy of “A True Account,” was a carbon of the poem he had written at Hal’s the day before, the 9th—the well-known and by 1966 twice-published “Ode: Salute to the French Negro Poets,” but in its (probably only) earlier version, with the title in French. This letter, in which Frank tells Hal that he is enclosing the two poems written during his recent visit, is discussed by Kent Johnson on your blog in his letter of July 17, 2008, and by me in my letter of the 21st—and quoted in part by me, and paraphrased by Johnson.

It bears repeating here, regarding the reliability of Joe’s memory, that Hal Fondren and Jack Shaw’s house was not in Fire Island Pines, as related in Digressions (misinformation Joe must have earlier passed on to Brad Gooch, as it appears in the 1993 City Poet), but in Fair Harbor (that Frank writes as “Fairharbor” in the letter), which is quite a bit further west (there are 16 separate communities on Fire Island), and the ferry that brings residents and visitors across Great South Bay, then as now, leaves from Bay Shore, not Sayville. So there was no ironic coincidence that Frank was killed near the spot where he wrote “A True Account”—as Joe mistakenly thought many years later.

It’s not really a crucial matter, and I am open to correction, but it appears the place where O’Hara and Le Sueur spent the July 1958 weekend (as Le Sueur specifies) was a “beach house” that Fondren and Shaw rented, during summers, at Fire Island Pines, not Fondren’s “house” in Fair Harbor. O’Hara’s reference to “Fairharbor” in the letter, concerning a fanciful future sailboat visit to Fondren, would seem in reference to Fondren’s residence at that location, not to the cottage where he and Le Sueur had recently stayed. Perhaps we can rely on Le Sueur’s rather detailed account.

The existence of this letter and its enclosures became known because they appeared in the on-line catalogue of James S. Jaffe Rare Books, located on Madison Avenue in New York. I will return to the letter after a digression of my own.

Kent Johnson first broached his notion of Kenneth as secret forger in 2007, in an on-line magazine called Almost Island, presumably a reminiscence (called a “tape-essay”) by three Japanese gentlemen—location and year unknown—about a visit to New York in 1990, during which they interview both Joe Le Sueur and Kenneth Koch, and through teasing, prodding and insinuation, seemingly get both Joe and Kenneth to admit there is something in Kent Johnson’s theory, though it is presented as their own. The information in this “essay” is presented as fact, not conjecture or fancy, and it is clearly bogus—I will point out examples in a moment—yet it is been an important device in propping up Kent Johnson’s flimsy structure.

Towle continues here, despite my patient explanations to him two years ago on the matter, to get this completely wrong. As I had stated, the invented status of Motokiyu’s collaborators had been prominently announced and widely known long before the tape-essay’s appearance in Almost Island. In fact, precisely this is noted beneath the tape-essay itself, as it had been thirteen years ago, in the Appendix material of Doubled Flowering: From the Notebooks of Araki Yasusada. It is thus quite conspicuous that the tape-essay is a critical-fictional performance, wherein certain imaginative liberties are naturally present, much as they are in the four pseudo-critical essays I wrote on the O’Hara mystery for the Chicago Review, which also appear in the book. Towle, unfortunately, has read the tape-essay as a conventionally earnest document, rather than as a hybrid-genre experiment candidly offering measures of fancy.

A collection of writings by various authors (Chrysanthemums and Scuba Divers: Essays on Araki Yasusada) will be published next year in England. Towles’ confusions (he goes on at some distressed length about Yasusada and Motokiyu below) might be partially remedied by reading that book.

Regardless, almost all the commentary by Le Sueur in the tape-essay (the invented portions are of mostly non-substantive kind) appears verbatim in his Digressions on Some Poems by Frank O’Hara. One is surprised to have to repeat this again. Numerous paragraphs and quotations following here by Towle offer somewhat comically pedantic “corrections” that stem from his simple misunderstanding of the tape-essay’s nature; as such, they are irrelevant to the larger issue, and I pass them over without comment.

[Note: The reader will have to scroll down a bit to come to my next remarks. KJ]

Stilted and completely unbelievable dialogue comes out of the mouth of Joe Le Sueur—and it is in quotation marks, presented as if verbatim, from a tape that was supposedly recorded during the trip to New York. Kenneth’s speech is equally ridiculous, although it must be said that the conversation of the three Japanese themselves is not much more credible—even taking into account that English is not their first language. Johnson is certainly involved in this farce, because the primus inter pares of the three investigators is one Tosa Motokiyu, of whose existence more will be said below. Calling this a “tape-essay” seems to be an attempt by Johnson to evade responsibility for the document’s pervasive phoniness yet, murky as it is, the scenarios and dialogue are presented as having actually transpired. This is a fraudulent way to support a theory. Imagine the consequences in a civil or criminal court case in which it was discovered that one of the parties manufactured conversations and passed them off as genuine to bolster his version of events. Without this “essay,” Johnson’s case is composed of little but conjectures elaborated from the inconclusive and unreliable remarks by Le Sueur. The testimony of Rivers will be dealt with a little further on.

I need now to take a moment for a digression within the digression to remind your readers that Kent Johnson was strongly implicated some years back in presenting the work of an apparently, as it turned out, fictitious Japanese poet by the name of Araki Yasusada. Various publications and Wesleyan University Press were taken in by what was determined to be a hoax, which was generally laid at Kent Johnson’s doorstep. Johnson never admitted writing the poems but stated Yasusada was the pen name of a Tosa Motokiyu, itself a pseudonym (or “heteronym”), who—sadly or conveniently—passed away in 1996: “I have stated in print a number of times . . . that the author of the Yasusada materials is the late Tosa Motokiyu, the pseudonym of a writer who did not wish to attach his legal name to the hyperauthorial person he brought into being.”

Eliot Weinberger, in the on-line magazine Jacket (#5, 1998), in the Postscript to his piece “Can I Get a Witness?” writes that “The Yasusada poems are very much written in the style, not of Japanese poetry, but of American translations of Japanese poetry, including some witty intentional infelicities and bits of translationese. Yasusada, regardless of authorship, is very much an American Japanese poet: a product of the specifically American tradition of translating Japanese poetry.”

I find no difficulty in accepting the astuteness and expertise of such a respected scholar in Asian languages as Mr. Weinberger; and, if his analysis is accurate, Motokiyu-san has as much corporeality as Yasusada.

And so back to the first digression. Some of what Joe Le Sueur says in the “tape-essay” is clearly lifted from the text of Digressions—such as the description of Frank having saved a boy from drowning on the beach at Fair Harbor. So it couldn’t have been Motokiyu who trolled Joe’s book for likely material since, at the time Digressions was published (2003), he had been dead for seven years. Of course if Motokiyu never existed in the first place, there’s no reason why Johnson shouldn’t bring him back for a project once in a while.

Here are a few examples of the dialogue of Motokiyu and friends (the entire “tape-essay” can be found by Googling “Almost Island Motokiyu”):

Ojiu Norinaga: By “nature” of this poem we mean its authorship. Our thesis, so to speak, is that there is strong reason to suspect it was not written by Mr. O’Hara.

This “strong reason” is nothing but a baseless assertion.

Okura Kyojin: Indeed, it is our proposal, let us say it at once, that it was written by his dear friend, Kenneth Koch, shortly after O’Hara’s death in a tragic accident on Fire Island—written in homage to the poet, its spurious attribution to him a strange and moving tribute to the poet’s memory.


Tosa Motokiyu: Yes . . . Well, the story begins with a phone call I placed in 1990 to O’Hara’s long-time roommate and friend, while the three of us were on a trip to New York . . . Well, it was a glorious day in May.

Norinaga then spouts a pastiche of Frank’s “walking around at lunchtime” poems and implies he and his two friends had been in Times Square and saw the Camels smoke-blowing sign—which was dismantled in 1966—and the Bond “waterfall” sign, which was taken down in 1954. Then Motokiyu calls Joe Le Sueur (outside the Automat, also nonexistent in Times Square by 1990) and, after some ridiculously unauthentic-sounding dialogue, Joe “. . . pleasantly said, “Let’s meet at The Cedar at 5 PM sharp, at the outside tables in the sun,” and so we did, walking through the legendary streets of the Lower East Side.”

There were never any outside tables at the Cedar Tavern, in either of its two incarnations on University Place. And why these guys take a detour through the “Lower East Side” to get from Times Square to the Cedar (which was in the Village) demonstrates Johnson’s lack of familiarity with New York in general and the Cedar in particular—and his ignorance is duly passed on to his surrogates.

It is also worth mentioning that in 1990 Joe Le Sueur was living in East Hampton (in the Springs, with Patsy Southgate), so that coming to New York for any reason would mean a three-hour train ride planned around a notoriously spotty schedule—either the 11:47 a.m., which would arrive at Penn Station at 2:44, or the 3:15 p.m., which would get in at 6:20; so “5 PM sharp” is not a time he would have suggested (and who says “5 PM” in this kind of a conversational scenario, anyway?). Then, after drinking martinis for “one or two hours” (Joe was 65!), Le Sueur would have had to be sure not to miss the last train back, at 8:30. This would get him home around midnight, having spent either 9 hours or 12 on the excursion, out of which one, maybe two, was spent actually socializing. This meeting never took place.

Then the trio say goodbye to the martini-laden Joe Le Sueur and take a ride in a “yellow automobile” to go to “the house of Kenneth Koch, after calling him on the telephone.” It’s pretty clear that whoever is writing this has no idea where Kenneth lives in relation to the Cedar Tavern. They would have been in the yellow automobile at least 45 minutes, depending on the traffic, to go from 12th and University to the Upper West Side slightly north and west of Columbia University. This would now make the time around 8 o’clock.

Letting complete strangers drop in out of the blue at night was very much not Kenneth’s M.O. Nonetheless, our intrepid interviewers knock on his door and are greeted with “Come in, come in!” he [Kenneth] said, enthusiastically, waving his arms. “So nice of you to stop by and say hello!” The plausibility of the diction speaks for itself, as well as the gesticulation. Here is some more:

ON: “Mr. Koch,” I said, clearing my throat, “You will forgive us if this question seems impertinent or presumptuous. But are you the true author of ‘A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island’?”

TM: Mr. Koch’s mouth fell a little bit open. There was a long silence . . . The honking of car horns filled the air for a long time, or so it seemed. . . . “What?” he exclaimed. “Just what in the freaking blazes are you talking about?” And then he laughed, but in a way that was very forced, quite nervous.

Kenneth may be a master forger, it seems, but is totally inept at hiding his guilt. The exclamatory sentence above is ludicrously distant from anything the real Kenneth Koch would have uttered.


ON: “Yes,” I continued. “But we understand from Mr. Larry Rivers, with whom we spoke on the phone two days ago, that you took Mr. O’Hara’s Royal with you went you went with your suitcases to Mr. O’Hara’s apartment the day after his death. He said you carried it away from his apartment and that in the grief of it all neither he nor Mr. Frank Lima gave it a second thought.”

All of the above “close-reading” attempts by Towle to prove the fictional nature of the tape-essay have, as I’ve said, absolutely no bearing on the case.

On the question of the typewriter, see below.

The sentence above indicates that Kenneth brought Frank’s typewriter into the loft before he took it away again. Johnson knew from City Poet that Kenneth, Frank Lima, and Larry Rivers went to Frank’s loft to remove his poems and papers, although if this visit was made on “the day after his death” is not clear. Larry is reported to have taken back paintings that he had loaned to Frank, Frank Lima took O’Hara’s passport as a souvenir, and Kenneth concentrated on gathering the unexpectedly large number of manuscripts from the closet, the sheer volume of which was to surprise everyone. The book quotes Kenneth as saying, “Jesus, he’d written a lot that no one had ever seen.” Nothing is mentioned about the typewriter. Considering the patent unreality of the interviews with Le Sueur and Koch, why should any credence be given to “We understand from Mr. Larry Rivers, with whom we spoke on the phone two days ago, that you took Mr. O’Hara’s Royal . . .” Really? This indirect quote from Larry is close to achieving the absurdity of the Le Sueur and Koch conversations. I don’t believe such a phone call was ever made. I don’t believe these three amigos ever existed. By the way, Frank’s sister Maureen remembers that the typewriter was still in the loft after the poems and papers and paintings had been removed.


TM: [quoting Kenneth from a tape recording] “. . . Anyway, all I can tell you is the simple fact that I discovered the poem in Frank’s papers. It’s unmistakably typed, like a great deal of his later poems, on his personal portable Royal, for goodness sakes, which he habitually took with him out of town!”

Another passage that is nothing like the way Kenneth actually spoke. The whole “essay” is composed of fictive people talking among themselves, or fictive people eliciting fictive statements from real people made fictive.

Now, back to Frank’s letter to Hal Fondren of July 19, 1958, with the enclosed poems (which is being offered for sale by James S. Jaffe Rare Books). As I mentioned, Mr. Johnson and I each talk about this letter in detail in our respective final contributions to the discussion in your blog in June-July of 2008, but reach different conclusions. I thought this letter and the copy of “A True Account” that was enclosed ended the matter in favor of Frank’s authorship and Kenneth’s sanity, and so, I must admit, didn’t read Johnson’s letter of July 17th carefully. If I had, I would have discovered that this proof was not enough for Mr. Johnson, who declared: But let me say, for now, however counter-intuitive the claim may seem, that even this new material I will now present [the letter with its enclosures] does not completely close the mystery of “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island.”

In an effort to keep his theory afloat, Johnson discusses the possibility (and asked James Jaffe to investigate) that the paper on which “A True Account” had been typed might have been manufactured after 1958 (though it was the same paper that the copy of the “Ode” was typed on), thus leaving open the door that Kenneth Koch could have switched his forged “A True Account” with whatever poem had been originally enclosed along with the “Ode” (since Frank says to Hal that he was enclosing copies of the two poems he wrote at his house).

Jaffe told me he’d attempted, after my inquiries, to confirm through outside expertise that the paper-bond run on both poems was of 1958 or prior issue, but that he’d been unable to get conclusive results. Obviously, if the issue was post-1958, loud alarms would be triggered. Still, that the paper-bond production is the same (if it is) for both texts proves nothing. The same bond would have been easy enough to match in 1966. And clean sheets of the same kind were no doubt present in the mass of papers Koch took from the apartment.

That would mean there was an unknown, unpublished poem by O’Hara enclosed with the letter, a poem that Koch would now have to dispose of.

Here’s Mr. Johnson on this possibility. It would “. . . obviously mean the carbon copy was inserted with the letter at a date subsequent to its first mailing (replacing another poem originally enclosed). . .” Italics mine. Mr. Johnson is suggesting that Kenneth would be capable of destroying an unpublished poem of Frank’s so that he could replace it with a copy of his forgery! I guess the loss of an authentic, real poem of Frank’s would be acceptable collateral damage—anything to fulfill the “strange and moving tribute to the poet’s memory” as one of Johnson’s Japanese phantoms solemnly intones in the “essay.”

Why does Towle jump to this accusatory contention? I have never suggested Koch would have “destroyed” another poem. If, according to the hypothesis, a second, less weighty poem was still present with the letter, Koch would surely have placed it into the O’Hara papers, where it would (hopefully, anyway) still be present, though unattached, as is so much other material in the O’Hara archives, from its original occasion. To be sure, it’s not a given that an extant copy of this poem, if present, would be dated and marked like the poems currently with the letter. Indeed, it is possible (and why not state the possibility?) that Koch faithfully reproduced its text, but sans date and location. Such might be expected, in fact, if one assumes Koch’s intention to maintain ‘A True Account . . .’ under O’Hara’s name. (If such seems implausible, the reader is invited to consult the history of a good number of now-canonical works, which underwent processes of subterfuge many times more extravagant. Koch himself was well-versed in this history and notably admiring of much of it.)

That said, I’ll share here another very intriguing scenario, which I touch on in the book: That ‘A True Account . . .’ may be a mid-1950s O’Hara poem that Koch modified and “re-set” from a text he (Koch) refers to in correspondence as the “Imitation of a Russian.” O’Hara sent the poem to Koch in 1955, when the latter was living in Paris (the poem is lost; the poem that had accompanied it survives). In all probability—their mutual enthusiasms for the Russian poet were approaching a peak around this time—this lost text was an imitation of Mayakovsky. In his letter of response, Koch praises O’Hara’s “Russian futuristic breathlessness” and calls the imitation “just perfect.” One might entertain the possibility that Koch, if his hand is present in ‘A True Account . . .,’ was working from a memory of this mysterious poem—creating an imitation of an Ur-imitation, so to speak. If so, then ‘A True Account . . .’ would stand as a co-authored masterpiece, wherein, one could say, two friends become immortally conjoined.

“Strange” doesn’t begin to describe it. But it is no more outlandish than the notion that Kenneth could have written a poem completely outside the scope of his sensibility and style immediately after Frank’s death; or that in this allegedly forged poem written in 1966 he needlessly pins himself down to a specific time and place of eight years before that could ultimately expose the deception—“Fire Island, July 10 1958” or include the line “talking to Hal last night”; as I pointed out two years ago, Hal and Kenneth were not friends—if Hal discovered that Kenneth had perpetrated a fraud involving Frank, especially one connected to his own letter, he would have exposed it in a New York minute.

The poem is most definitely not “completely outside the scope of Koch’s sensibility.” Quite the contrary, and anyone seriously familiar with Koch’s work should be able to grasp this. And he would not have necessarily written it “immediately,” unless sometime within eight weeks time is considered “immediate.”

As for Fondren’s awareness of an insertion, I discuss this at some length in the book’s introduction.

But if Kenneth destroying an unpublished poem of Frank’s to cover his tracks seems beyond the realm of possibility to any sentient being except Kent Johnson, let me also discuss the chronology involved. Hal Fondren died on July 2, 1999, marked by an unobtrusive, three-line Paid Death Notice in the Times; in other words, there was no attention-getting obituary. He was survived by one brother—who was not socially connected to the New York art and poetry scene. Kenneth Koch passed away on July 6, 2002. This leaves a three-year window for Kenneth, 74 in 1999, to find out about a letter he could not have known existed, get it from Hal’s brother, whom he had never met, tamper with the contents of the letter, and sell it to a dealer. He had two years, really, as I think Mr. Johnson would agree that, after the diagnosis of leukemia in 2001, Kenneth’s attention would be concentrated on more serious matters. Also, I think it would be fair to speculate that Hal’s brother would not have brought those effects of Hal’s that were saleable instantly to the marketplace.

Towle badly misunderstands. The hypothesis centrally posits that Koch had the letter to hand before he wrote the poem, and that the Fire Island location to which the epistle refers (in the vicinity of O’Hara’s mortal accident almost exactly eight years later), along with its uncanny reference to Koch himself (see below), likely prompted the setting and emotion of ‘A True Account . . .’ He could have seen the letter in one of two ways: 1) having received it from Fondren in response to his rapid request to O’Hara’s friends for other manuscripts in their possession, or 2) [and more likely] by finding a carbon copy of the item in the mass of papers he took from O’Hara’s apartment. Both possibilities are perfectly plausible. In the second case, a later placement of the poem into the original epistle could have taken place, theoretically, at any time within the next thirty-five years. (In the book, I present what might be the obvious doubts about such a scenario and offer response.)

James Jaffe has provided me with the following information: I bought the O'Hara letter and poems in April of 2007, at the New York Book Fair at the Park Avenue Armory, and I bought them from another dealer. My impression was that he had just acquired them, and that they had not been on the market before.

As I discuss above, whether or not the letter had previously been “on the market” is not a key point. There is no sequential record, it appears, of whose hands the item was in.

From this, it would appear more than likely that no one outside of, perhaps, Hal’s brother, knew about the letter until well after 2002. I am not at liberty to permit the letter to be reproduced here, but I would like your readers to examine the facsimile copies of the two poems in question. They appear with the following credit line and caveat: “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island” and “Ode: Salute to the French Negro Poets” (in an earlier version, titled “Ode en salut aux poetes negres francaises”) are published in The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., copyright © 1971 by Maureen Granville-Smith and reprinted with permission. All rights are reserved.

Manuscript copy of Frank O’Hara’s “Ode: Salute to the French Negro Poets”

Manuscript copy of Frank O’Hara’s “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island”

Note the parallel signature patterns of the two poems (with the exception of the comma after “Island” on “A True Account”). Consider the odds of someone who had not seen the first poem arriving at this exact formulation for the second (allegedly inserted) one. Kenneth could as easily have written: Frank O’Hara July 10, 1958, or Frank O’Hara / Fair Harbor July 10, 1958, or Frank O’Hara 7/10/58. Or a completely different date.

I’m glad Towle has reproduced the texts. I’ve had copies of the letter and poems for two years now, kindly sent to me by Jaffe. Again, though, Towle is apparently unaware that the hypothetical scenario would have Koch seeing the letter (and whatever accompanied it) before the memorial reading. So his points above are, again, irrelevant.

Incidentally, O’Hara was far from shy about personally signing (usually with inscription) poem manuscripts and ephemera he gave to friends. One might think it peculiar these rather special “gifts” contain no trace of his distinctive script.

I would like to point out that the original of the carbon copy in Frank’s papers—forged by Kenneth, according to Johnson—would have been the copy used by Don Allen for the Collected Poems and is designated Ms 494 in that volume’s notes. I would bet that this would match the carbon copy enclosed in the letter of July 19th exactly. If so, would Mr. Johnson suggest something so off the wall as Kenneth Koch making a carbon copy of his forged “A True Account” back in 1966, in the case that a letter such as the one to Hal of July 19, 1958 ever surfaced in the future and he would need that copy to switch it with the original poem by O’Hara enclosed in this hypothetical letter after he purloined it? He has already suggested it.

No, I haven’t suggested that. See my comments above explaining Towle’s poignant misapprehensions. Of course Koch would have made a carbon or two if he wrote the poem. The writing of it and the furtive placement of a carbon would have possibly (though not definitely) been roughly concurrent. Towle really should read my book and at least come to understand the basic premises of the hypothesis, which is quite open about being just that: a proposal which if untenable should be ready for falsification. In that way, he would be in a better position to offer reasonable refutations instead of immaterial retorts.

On the question of Donald Allen: Here, too, if I am properly following his point, Towle seems confused. For Allen likely first encountered the poem when he was creating a retyped partial collection and bibliography of O’Hara’s letters, a task he began in the very early seventies, so far as I know. In fact, the letter to Fondren is entered by Allen, with identifying note concerning the accompanying poems, into the bibliography and copies of O’Hara’s correspondence, now stored at U. of Connecticut / Storrs. I had inquired some weeks back, as chance would have it, with someone directly involved in the curatorship of that collection, asking if it was known, in the case of the Fire Island-letter item, whether Allen was working with copies of the letter and poems originating from O’Hara’s apartment, or from the actual item of correspondence sent to Fondren. This person could not claim certainty. In either case, it doesn’t really affect the hypothesis of Koch’s authorship—though if Allen had been working with the original letter, it would mean, if the hypothesis is true, that Koch would have had to place ‘A True Account . . .’ into the envelope sometime within four or five years following O’Hara’s death. That’s why I inquired.

And there is one more thing. As Mr. Johnson pointed out back in 2008, the letter to Hal has come from one typewriter and the poems from another. Johnson assumed that Frank typed the poems on his portable Royal and the letter was written on another machine—but the reverse is the case. The letter was typed on the Royal and the poems on another typewriter. As it happens, it was easy for me to determine this. I have a draft of a poem I wrote on Frank’s typewriter in 1963, when he let me use it one evening (July 25th) because mine had been stolen from my apartment (Frank and Joe’s old space on East 9th Street that Frank Lima and I had taken over). There is no question that my poem and the letter to Hal came from the same typewriter.

This is, of course, the most interesting part of Towle’s letter, and I thank him for the revelation. As I said, I’ll assume the correctness of what he says until someone presents evidence to the contrary. More on this important information from Towle below . . .

So much for the core concept of Johnson’s theory. If Kenneth took Frank’s typewriter he didn’t write “A True Account” on it. Recall the quote from the faux Kenneth Koch in the “tape-essay,” in which the real authors, Kent Johnson and / or collaborators, have him insist that the copy of “A True Account” found in Frank’s papers in 1966 was typed on Frank’s Royal—to thus incriminate himself and support Johnson’s theory.

But no, I’m afraid it doesn’t at all invalidate the core concept of the hypothesis, which is that Koch produced or modified the poem in a spectacular, radical act of mourning and tribute for his great friend, gifting a poem forever under O’Hara’s name and establishing it as prophetic message of the poet’s death, in significant part by wedding it to another text, which locates the poem at the place of the tragedy to come:

“Go back to sleep now / Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem / in that brain of yours as my farewell.”

Frank never made revisions to “A True Account” and the poem as it appears above is identical to the text in the Collected. However, in the “Ode en Salut aux Poetes Negres Francaises” (francaises is an error; it should be francais, masculine plural—and I am leaving off the French accent marks, as Frank did) the title was translated into English, as were the two lines in French—quotes from Aimé Césaire—with subtle alterations that transformed Césaire’s poetry into O’Hara’s. This revised version, with “Fire Island” omitted, was sent to Don Allen in 1959 for inclusion in the anthology, The New American Poetry: 1945-1960. “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island” was put away, for authorial reasons unknown. Since Frank’s later draft of the Ode would most likely have come from his own typewriter, and since the “Fire Island” part of the signature lines was not carried forward (as per the notes in the Collected), no one (except Hal Fondren) would have realized that these were “companion” pieces, of a sort, written in the same location on successive days with “Africa” as an oblique connective. I wonder if Mr. Johnson will now assert that Kenneth used a different typewriter to forge “A True Account.” and replaced both poems (to keep the typewriting consistent), gratuitously back-editing the published version of “Ode” to this draft version that included three lines of French with one grammatical error—and thus accuse Koch of “disappearing” two unpublished poems of Frank’s. Stay tuned.

I think Towle means ‘Ode: Salute . . .’ where he last mentions ‘A True Account . . .’ Otherwise, I’m not sure I follow the scorn he’s directing my way.

Be that as it may, once again (and my apologies for repeating this point), Towle is assuming that Koch would not have had access to the 1958 letter in the weeks following O’Hara’s death. The hypothesis assumes he did—in fact, the hypothesis rests on this scenario! So the above musings on Koch’s needing to back-edit ‘Ode: Salute . . .’ to a fabricated early version, destroying another poem in the process, and so forth, are neither here nor there.

However, a new possibility in regards to that second poem is raised by Towle’s information regarding the typewriter. See below.

Where and on whose typewriter did Frank type the first drafts of these two poems? Maybe Hal had a typewriter on Fire Island and told Frank he didn’t need to bring his. (Bill Berkson has informed me that Frank did not invariably bring his typewriter along on these visits to his friends.) Frank certainly had the copies above and their respective originals when he got back to town on the night of Friday the 18th, for he wrote the letter to Hal the next day on his own typewriter and did not have to use it for the poems. If he typed them in East Hampton, what did he type them from; he wrote them on Fire Island. Could he have, atypically, written drafts by hand? Both of these poems seem to me to have been composed directly on the typewriter. It is interesting to speculate about this but it does not affect the certainty of who wrote the poems.

As I point out in the introduction to the forthcoming book, the available evidence makes it highly unlikely, logistically speaking, that O’Hara pounded out while at Fire Island perfect copies of “the two poems” mentioned in the letter. Assuming Towle’s previous comments about O’Hara’s portable Royal are accurate, the question leading off the previous paragraph is a very good one, so long as (from the standpoint of the Kochean hypothesis) we leave open the possibility that only one of the poems O’Hara (at least fully) wrote is actually still present with the original missive to Fondren.

We might add the following questions: If by some chance Koch wrote ‘A True Account . . .,’ how did he match the typewriter on which ‘Ode: Salute . . .’ is written—something he would have needed to do to in bibliographic interests of maintaining his contextualized gift to O’Hara? We know that O’Hara was actively with Koch during the week after the Fire Island sojourn (O’Hara, quite eerily, reports in the letter that “Kenneth’s reading was very successful” and goes on to gossip about Koch, Lee [Krasner] Pollock, Patsy Southgate, May Rosenberg, and others, concerning their time together that week). Might O’Hara have told Koch during that time about his most recent poems and where he’d typed them (if he yet had)? Might O’Hara, indeed, have typed them sometime during that post-Fire Island week on a machine to which Koch had access, in some way? One that belonged to an acquaintance of them both, which Koch could have later used, or through this knowledge could have secured identical model of? Or on a machine, even, in Koch’s possession? It’s certainly not unreasonable to imagine Koch having a portable with him, at the time . . .

Really, if the poems are not typed on a machine belonging to O’Hara, one might see that Koch’s authorship becomes all the more feasible: A range of possibilities comes into play, and one is freed from being limited to the image of Koch, two full suitcases already in tow, lugging away his friend’s beloved Royal. The issue of the typewriter is now an added mystery that sparks further questions, though without getting us closer to proof either way.

Nevertheless, it’s worth mentioning this: Given the absence of holographic markings on the copies (with exception of a two-dot umlaut), and given that they came from what is now a mysterious, undetermined platform, as it were (one oddly different from the source of the accompanying letter), it would be also possible to hypothesize a fresh, exact copy of ‘Ode: Salute . . .’ retyped by Koch from an original portable-Royal text by O’Hara, for purposes of creating a typographical match with his own ‘A True Account . . .’ In other words, it’s feasible that whatever accompanied the letter was also first typed, as it would normally be, on the same machine. Koch then, may have substituted both extant typescripts, faithfully transcribing the early version of ‘Ode: Salute . . .’ Granted, this is a stretch inside a long wager, but Towle’s new information brings the possibility into play. And no poem, I should say, would have been destroyed.

(And I am aware, as I mentioned earlier, of the obvious question: What would Fondren have said if he’d noticed? I take this up in the book. Actually, I also point out there a deeply curious lacuna regarding Fondren’s relation to the poem—one that suggests he never saw its typescript.)

In his letter of July 17, 2008, Mr. Johnson opines that Frank “. . . would have been perfectly delighted that true questions remain”—over who wrote “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island.” Mr. Johnson is confusing O’Hara’s sensibility with his own. Frank would have been quite the opposite of delighted at the bizarre and deceitful behavior with which Johnson characterizes his close friend Kenneth Koch, especially the suggestion that Koch would have no qualms about destroying his (Frank’s) unpublished poems to cover up a rather insane and purposeless deception. As to Johnson’s attempted pilfering of “A True Account” from its rightful author, it would be unlikely that Frank would have allowed himself to get publicly upset about it; but he might have delivered an offhand remark along the lines of: “What true questions? Listen, I may not have been completely myself that morning when I wrote the poem, but I certainly wasn’t Kenneth!”

With best wishes,


It’s quite possible O’Hara might say something funny like that, I guess. I don’t make categorical claims that he is not the author; I’ve only advanced what I think are very unusual, even extraordinary, circumstances around the poem—ones that potentially point towards another hand and invite speculation. There is nothing wrong with speculation. Speculation is the air that poetry breathes.

And I would repeat that Towle misunderstands the hypothesis in general if he believes that such an act by Koch would have implied unethical behavior. The opposite would be the case. Such a “forgery” would stand as one of the most beautiful, selfless, and idiosyncratically ethical gestures ever made in the history of American letters. It would ratify, and in singular, moving ways, both Kenneth Koch’s greatness as poet and Frank O’Hara’s greatness of spirit.
Yes, the odds are still on O’Hara, so far as the poem goes, and I’d probably bet on him myself. But every so often, as we all know, the dark horse surprises.
Here they come, as they say, side by side, around the turn . . .

With best wishes from me, too,

Kent Johnson

Kent Johnson