Responses to Randy Roark’s Naropa
Questionnaire
Randy Roark: Describe your poetry background before studying at
Naropa.
Jim Cohn: When I was six I wrote a poem called “Red.” I recently
had the experience of the text to that little child’s poem appearing to me in a
dream:
Red
Red
is the color of the
little log cabin in my heart.
I
see Abraham Lincoln in the cabin.
It
is night.
Fire
is red.
My early poetry background was
pretty limited to songwriting and singing in bands. The first gig I had must
have been around 1964. We played things that were in the air––“The House Of The Rising Sun,” “Time’s On My Side,” “You Really Got
Me.” I was lead singer in a band called The Next Of Kin. We played at a
recreation center. My mother got me into music. I was adopted by her second
husband, Marvin Cohn, a distant relative, and he bought me a Wurlitzer electric
piano. I spent most of my free time in the basement working out arrangements to
The Beatles, The Doors, The Yardbirds, Buffalo
Springfield. One night, my sister played me The
Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. She thought he was a comedian. I knew his entire
published catalog by heart. People who knew me back then still come up and tell
me they remember my playing. But keyboards aren’t exactly portable. I was too
interested in getting out into the world. That began in earnest when I was
shipped off to a wilderness camp in the Boundary Waters of Minnesota. I was canoeing down the headwaters of the Mississippi,
backpacking in Ontario,
and camping for weeks at a time at ten years old. I hadn’t read On The Road as a teenager, but I must
have been influenced by the Beats because I was hitchhiking cross country by
the time I was 13, taking notes, hanging out in truckstops all night, avoiding
the law, taking whatever ride came my way, learning the ropes, working out the
tricks of the trade. My birth father’s mother was a poet in the old lyric
closed form style. So there was some poetry in my genes. My mother was a woman
of great integrity. The kind of woman Lew Welch wrote about if you wanted to
know the language of the tribe. The first book that touched me in a profound
way was Siddhartha. Otherwise, it was
the ordinary anemic literary public education most everybody else gets. I was
reading Chomsky before going to college. I was very interested in visual
semantics, in the meaning of images and how they are used in poetry. The most
important book I read during high school was M.K. Gandhi: An Autobiography or The Story of
My Experiments with Truth. It was my introduction to nonviolent politics.
In 1971, I entered the University of Colorado at Boulder
where I majored in English. I took off the next year to travel around the
country. Racked up a lot of miles. My junior year I
lived and studied in Jerusalem.
My professors at Hebrew
University were serious
and thorough. Buses I took every day would occasionally blow up. The cycles of
retaliation between the Israelis and Palestinians sickened me. I saw the
violence of political fundamentalism up close and personal. The year I got back
to Boulder was
the year Naropa Institute landed. It came from over the Himalayas,
but might’ve just as well come to the Colorado Front Range in a spaceship
spilling out aliens from outer space. My college years were punctuated by long
experiments in the field. I met a hairdresser that knew no poetry at all but
could give spellbinding recitations of Whitman verbatim cover to cover. There
were bums I met with newspaper stuffed up their sleeves and legs that would
saddle up to tell me about the letters of the alphabet each being a secret
prayer. My junior year I got an F in a writing class because the professor
thought I’d plagiarized a poem I’d turned in. I went to talk with her,
convinced her I’d written it myself, and that was the turning point. By that
time I was reading all the Kerouac I could find. I was especially enamored with
Desolation Angels. Around that same
period, I saw Allen Ginsberg for the first time. He was giving a reading on the
CU campus. He was sitting on stage reading the New York Times oblivious to the house. The hall was packed at the
beginning and by the time Allen was into his manboy poems people were pouring
out in droves. It was quite a scene. Homophobia was alive and well on the
college circuit. By the spring of my senior year when I signed up for Anne
Waldman’s Poetics course at the 1345 Spruce Street building Naropa was in, I
was pretty burned out with critical analysis of other people’s
fictionalizations. I was pretty aware of the absurdity of the mental work I was
engaged in.
RR: How did you hear about Naropa?
JC: I heard about Naropa from Dan Cooper. Dan had pretty much
ditched his own artistic pursuits for the full-blown life of a Buddhist. We met
when he picked me up hitchhiking in his yellow Volkswagen. It was on that drive
that I first learned about Naropa. It’d happened before and happened after,
crucial signs coming in this way. We ended up living together in a big house in
Boulder in
1975-76. The house where we lived was on Grandview.
It’s just a parking lot now. I had a piano in the basement and his room was
down there. He was a photographer. I remember his photographs of men’s ties
from back then. No heads, no legs. Slight of figure, a cross
between Charlie Chaplin and a young Leonard Bernstein. Dan immediately
got hooked on the Trungpa scene. It was as notorious as it was profound back
then. Dan was meeting girls left and right. Shedding inhibition was the fad of
the day. He went from a shy guy to Don Juan overnight and he wasn’t alone. I
wasn’t at all interested in becoming a follower of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche. He
was lame in one leg from a car crash into a joke shop in London and that somewhat interested me. Cutting Through
Spiritual Materialism showed he was a real heavyweight. Once, Dan took me
to go hear Rinpoche. As the hour passed that the talk was scheduled to begin,
the crowd grew more and more impatient. You would’ve thought they were waiting
for Hank Williams to be dragged out of his Cadillac onto the stage. When
Trungpa did finally appear, he sat on an ornately designed dais beneath a
basketball backboard. The basketball rim and net right above his head looked
like a halo. The image seemed to make a perfect statement on Buddhism in America.
RR: When did you arrive?
JC: Anne Waldman’s spring 1976 Poetics class was my first encounter
with the Kerouac School. The whole alterian poetics shot
Anne had championed at the Poetry Project in New York
was transplanted out to Boulder.
The poetry she taught was like nothing I had ever seen before. Gertrude Stein’s
“Tender Buttons” was one example. She had Fast
Speaking Woman under her belt, but the best of her work was still to come.
You could tell she was no ordinary teacher. In her presence you felt the
shamanic tradition. I had pretty much given up on literature as hopeless by the
time I walked into the room. I was twenty-three. I don’t know how or why it was
such an influential event in my life. It just was. As soon as the course was
over she went off to join Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Review.
RR: What did you study while you were there? Describe some of your
most memorable classes.
JC: The Kerouac
School was a road show of
poetic traditions. It had its share of magicians, con artists, smoke and
mirrors, and transcendental blues. Having come over with an academic
background, I was amazed at how useless my education was. You could study
Shelley all you wanted at the university and never feel anything for the work
like you could hearing him out the mouth of Gregory Corso. Same
with Blake. Studying Blake line by line with Allen, always with an
emphasis on whatever was happening in Blake with what’s happening today, made
the most cryptic text contemporaneous. That was a crucial lesson in surveying
the lineages leading up to the Beats. First things first was that you could
decipher anybody from any time and that they were equal to you and you were
equal to them and anyone that would come after you and that the poet’s life in
any time took place both of and in and beyond one’s own. It could be John
Skelton or Francois Villon or Li Ch’ing Chao or Bernadette Mayer and it would
always be different but the same in so far as Pound said––only emotion endures.
You’d have to have been pretty much brain dead to not get a heavy dose of where
the writing could go and what could be in a poem after attending a series of
Ted Berrigan workshops. Ted was a Bodhisattva of the highest order. He would
play recordings and muse ripped out of his mind, delivering formalism out of
the hands of the cannibals. Philip Whalen had such a prodigious technical mind,
yet he managed to lay it on the page with such unexpected elegance. and common sense. The list goes on. There wasn’t only the
reading and writing of poetry to learn. There were all the aspects of embodying
it. There were the hundreds of performances. There were all the diverse ways to
talk about it. And there was meeting the poets doing it and the novices wanting
to get into it and the sad hanger-ons who you knew would never get too far
before veering back into whatever oblivion they came from. In a way, it was
pretty pathetic to see what ends people would go to climb the ladder of poetry
fame. Ultimately, I never really fit in except that Naropa changed me. And it
didn’t exactly change me as much as it illuminated a way to see things that
were different from the way I already saw them and I respected seeing those
blind spots but in a way that verified my doing that and in another way was
something to place alongside the hopelessness I knew would come in my becoming
someone committed to poetry.
RR: What did you learn while studying poetry at Naropa that has
continued to be of use to you as a poet?
JC: The introduction to all these dimensions, permeated and merging
as they were with the medicinal aspects of ancient Buddhist orientations toward
neurosis and suffering, compassion and liberation, helped me to see poetry in
equal measures of free agency and social advocacy. I learned how to let myself
open to the assignments the firing squad of life placed squarely right in front
of me. If I am any example, those assignments are as long as one’s alive, if
only you’ve the nerve to face them. As for Naropa, I knew that the Kerouac School would recalibrate in new
directions, just like everything else. The poetry world of today has little in
common with the golden age of the Beats that reached its final bloom there. I
could see the writing on the wall. It was fairly obvious that nobody was just
going to move in and take their place. How many of Whitman’s students or
Stein’s students or Pound’s students does anyone study today? The poetry world
Naropa fostered had expanded, diversified, and was going in directions toward a
promised land that most of the people that brought it that far would never see.
In particular, the white male aspect had gone about as far as it was going to
go. America
just isn’t going to replicate Allen Ginsberg any time soon. The kind of radical
candor he brought to American letters might not ever come again. You could hear
it all fragmenting, decentralizing, becoming more equal across the margins, but
at the same time you knew something new was going to be needed to address what
we’re living through now. I looked up the road and saw that all the poets of
the seen and unseen universes could teach me everything they knew, but there’s a certain loneliness inescapable with art. The test of one’s
education lies in one’s own solitary productions. And so I have been doing ever
since––writing past what I learned back then, creating my own time capsule for
people of the future, contributing to the one great poem. The Kerouac School
was all about poetics activism––community service, social justice, and
remembrance. It encouraged taking matters into your own hands, taking the indy route. Publishers, editors, agents, contracts, record
deals are all fine, but I never was one to wait for confirmation. The value of
writing is not in the expectation that anyone else has
the power to acknowledge or negate it nor is the value of writing found in
whether or not it has some kind of hotheaded impact or corrective purpose. What
you would do if suddenly all your emails and text messages and blogs and
websites and manuscripts and publications and MP3 recordings vanished––would
you suddenly become invalid? That’s how Naropa influenced my thinking about the
making of a body of work. And a body of work is made up of numerous sacred and
profane traditions, chosen styles, automatic proclivities, landscapes, musics,
wounds and inventions, energies and speeds all brought to bear on and by their
present carrier. For me, if I’d known that I would be haunted by the fact that
I had worked with Allen as his teaching assistant in 1980, I don’t know if I
would have gone that route, but there was a silver lining in that what I was
assisting him with networked me to younger poets capable and persevering enough
to carry on regardless of any enterprise, including Naropa. In 1980, Allen
introduced me to the Michigan
poet David Cope while compiling a manuscript of poetry by Andy Clausen, Antler,
and Cope for Lawrence Ferlinghetti. City Lights would choose to publish
Antler’s long poem “Factory” and forego the project, but through David I
developed friendships with the early poets of the postbeat generation including
Clausen, Antler, Eliot Katz and Marc Olmsted. Around the same time I met fellow
Boulder community
poets Randy Roark and Tom Peters and so have developed long lines of friendship
over Allen’s skeleton. The best poet of my particular Kerouac School
group was Denise King, who changed her named to Denise du Roi. She just flamed
out. After Naropa, I began studying American Sign Language and in 1986 received
a master’s degree in English and Deaf Education from the National Technical
Institute for the Deaf. As a hearing person from Naropa, I played a significant
role in the emergence of ASL poetics––arranging a meeting with Allen and deaf
poet Robert Panara in 1984, arranging interpreted readings featuring deaf and
hearing poets, and coordinating the first National Deaf Poetry Conference in
1987. During my time in Rochester,
I established friendships with the deaf poet Peter Cook and his hearing
collaborator Kenny Lerner. They have performed internationally for several
decades under the name Flying Words Project. From 1983 to 1987 I published Action Magazine in mimeo format and
since 1990 I’ve published Napalm Health
Spa, an annual poetry journal, now online. When Allen died in April of
1997, I had a dream that the Beat lineage would be paved over and forgotten and
so I began the online Museum of American Poetics in 1998 and that project has
been going ever since.
RR: Describe some of your most memorable experiences at Naropa—in
the classroom and outside of it—with teachers, students, and other events.
JC: Here’s my top ten Most Memorable Experiences (in no particular
order):
Gregory Corso
taking over David Cope’s lecture on Charles Reznikoff to give his shot on how
the “missing link” theory of evolution was that first monkey that ate morning
glory seeds and had an LSD-like experience that opened its mind into that of a
human.
Doing a playreading of The Tempest poolside for an Anne Waldman
Shakespeare class in which the students all wore costumes and at the end jumped
in for a swim.
Sharon Olds on a panel for a
tribute for Allen Ginsberg’s 70th birthday in which she described carrying Howl and Other Poems under her blouse to
silent family dinners in order to remind her that there were people that
actually talked and said things that mattered and then opened a shoebox and
took out a mask she’d made as a child with words from the last stanza of “A
Supermarket in California” painted on the forehead.
Peter Orlovsky’s reading at Penny Lane in which
he swore the audience never to speak of what he told everyone in the room that
night: that Kerouac had been reborn and was living in Brooklyn.
In the beginning,
sitting down with Allen, a row of sharpened pencils on his home office desk.
Learning from him how to edit, how to find the “clear hard
images” in the work. In the end, rerecording his great gospel tune “Lay Down Yr Mountain” with him. Listening to him explicate the
lyric in terms of “renouncing and proclaiming” ego simultaneously. It was his
last recording.
Randy Roark’s Summer Writing
Program lecture on Bob Dylan in which he analyzed different live versions of
the same Dylan song, was shouted down by Bobby Louise Hawkins, and kept going.
Allen Ginsberg later came to the microphone to say that Dylan had left most of
his best work unreleased as “treasures for heaven.”
Bob Creeley’s
recitation of “Transcription of Organ Music” at a memorial reading for Ginsberg
at the Fox Theater in Boulder
in celebration of his life and death.
Visiting Ted Berrigan and Alice
Notley and the kids on St. Mark’s Place and Ted showing up at the door in his
knee-length underwear smoking Chesterfield Kings and talking poetry a mile a
second, Alice cooking fried chicken on an electric skillet, running out for
beer, and Edmund and Anselm on the floor beneath the Christmas tree looking up
through the branches.
Being invited to shoot the Anne
Waldman Symposium honoring Anne’s archive at the University of Michigan in Ann
Arbor and making a movie of the proceedings, including Andre Codrescu’s keynote
address in which when he first met Anne Waldman thought she had been introduced
as Walt Whitman, Eleni Sikelianos’s slide show of Anne growing up and the
influence of her mother, great talks by Ron Padgett, Joanne Kyger, Lorenzo
Thomas and myriads other scholars on the profundity of Anne’s work as a
feminist poet.
Ed Sanders’s lecture a creating a
“Zen Zone” in which he described creating an optimum information flow,
including methods of filing and retrieval, so that a writer always has projects
going on, short and long term.
RR: What is your current relationship with Naropa?
JC: For five years, in the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, I coordinated
the American Greats lecture series at the Boulder Bookstore, the site of the
original Naropa performance space, and featured a number of lectures by or
about once Naropa faculty. That came to a halt when my daughter Isabella Grace
was born in 2003, the third day of the U.S.
invasion of Iraq
over the false claims of weapons of mass destruction. In the spring of 2005, I
wrote Tom Coburn, the President of Naropa, suggesting that NU create a Buddhist
oriented social science curriculum called American Karmic Studies and hire Ward
Churchill to head an interdisciplinary contemplative practice of looking at the
history of the United States in causal relation to its acts of domestic
domination and enslavement of historically underrepresented Americans, civil
and human rights social policies, and wars. In the summer of 2005 I was invited
by the Summer Writing Program to introduce Jack Hirschman. Meeting Jack was
terrific. He’s the last of the red-hot Beats. It reminded me that Naropa has
some kind of karmic relationship with the Beat tradition that should not be
forgotten, even as the poetry wheel turns. I’d like to be involved with others
in presenting this tradition as it continues to evolve due to the young poets that have emerged from being there. In the meantime,
I’m working with Randy Roark to mount an exhibit of Kerouac
School printed curricular materials on
the Museum of American Poetics. I also contribute my
voice and resources to dispel any misconception regarding the integrity of the Kerouac School. Any perception that the best
works of the Beats engaged with the Kerouac
School were behind them
as they passed through middle and into old age is false. The works of the
latter period by Ginsberg, Burroughs, Corso, Whalen, Synder, Kyger, di Prima,
Waldman and Baraka bares this out.
RR: What are you currently doing now?
JC: At 50, I became a father. Gary Snyder once said having a child
is like living with a Zen Master in the house and he wasn’t wrong. Today, my
muse gravitates toward trying to inform my daughter who her father was and what
open roads await her. I have worked professionally as a disability specialist,
first as a teacher of the deaf, then later one-on-one with people with
nonvisible disabilities. I’ve been doing this for twenty years now, kind of
following a William Carlos Williams track. Combining the theoretical ideas of
American Sign Language poetics and Disability Studies with the pragmatic world
of Disability Services was a right livelihood I could live with. I just put out
my sixth spoken word recording, Trashtalking
Country. Last year I published a new collection of poetry, Quien Sabe Mountain, my fourth. I
almost dimmed the lights on the Museum of American Poetics in January, 2006,
because I thought it had become irrelevant, but friends convinced me that it
was worth it to keep going if only as an example of early transitional
treatment and organization to web-based poetics in the postbeat era. This era
is really quite interesting. Cyberspace is the home of the global underground.
It has not yet become an international business card club. We’ve seen the
golden calf of ‘objectivity’ fall to the wayside. America’s status as a “superpower”
has been marginalized by all the harnessing of machines and political will and
monotheistic obedience and creative brainpower and lethal force used to exploit
and not sustain international activism. Governments are addicted to national
security, but they never harness the essence of power. Corporate interests seem
capable of nothing else but devising the most intricate and far-reaching
business plans to deceive the most people. Poetry has been graced by the
formidable energy of all the multiple portals of language, style, narrative,
form and experience more or less suddenly available to the individual. It may
arc toward downloadable I-pod Matrix-style
directly-into-the-brain-files of MFA students, but will these instant
journeymen and women poets be able to find the means of original voice through
which to work out mass compassion and their own impermanence?
19 February 2006