Paean and Lament for the Wing'd Heel'd Herald
by
David Cope
"Nothing is mine, a Prince of Poetry
made to
roam the outskirts of society"
—Gregory Corso
"Gregory's difficult," so said friends. Yes, the François Villon of the fifties, poet maudit of
the beats & Prince of Poets, Gregory Corso, could
be damned difficult—every poet I know has a "Gregory story." In a recent pre-mortem edition of Woodstock Journal, famous elders & our own contemporaries told a few of 'em, and I got this weird sense of Gregorio's bleak humor as
he must've read these like aged Huck Finn reading in memoria for his own funeral-to-come,
smile crooked at Big Daddy Death. Next,
his nurse daughter was caring for him, & Eliot Katz went up to read him
Shelley poems when he got a chance. Yes,
Gregory could be trouble—tho I thank God to have seen
him reading, ecstatic so I thought Shelley himself was among us, in 1982, &
again in 1994 like a wild wing'd heel'd
boy-father come home to be Gregory at last, moving measured sense of farewell and
passage with lines so lovely you could turn on 'em in
air. He turned me on to Corelli &
drove me nuts when as a boy-hick I came out of Michigan to Naropa's
annual summer beat rendezvous on Allen Ginsberg's invite in 1980, not knowing
what to expect. When I started my first
lecture on Charles Reznikoff, Gregory shouted from
the back, where he'd camped against a wall, "you're an asshole," and
came up and said he was taking over my stage.
I said, "it's not my stage," &
sat silent on the desk while he made big spiel.
When I tried to start again, he said, "you're an asshole, I'll
throw you through the window." I
said, "if you do, you're coming with
me." Later, he sat down,
inexplicably, & I read Reznikoff's Kaddish for his
mother, which brought Allen to tears, earned me big kiss and thank-you
afterwards. At the time, I was really
pissed at Gregory, but eventually I came to see it as my rite of passage: he made me show myself to everybody there,
& later, I can remember, for years whenever I had difficult passages to
come, I'd think, "if I can face off with Gregory, I can sure as hell
handle this." I think in some ways
he made me grow up fast & find my sea legs in that rocking & rolling
scene, that crazy Rimbaudian ship of mad-dog poets,
seers, & fools, and for that I thank him.
His poem "The Doubt of Truth" still stops me in my tracks in
my most tender moments, dreaming of the passages we all make into the great
silence. Wherever he goes, may he drive
all the gods and demons crazy, wake up all the sleepers & kill all boredom
forever.
“Paean and Lament for the Wing’d Heel’d Herald” first
appeared in The Paper 2.4 (January
25-31).