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Archive for the ‘James Laughlin’ Category

 

The ninth day commemorating the last moments of George Floyd’s life.

 

I Want to Breathe

by James Laughlin

 

I want to breathe

 

you in I’m not talking about

perfume or even the sweet odour

 

of your skin but of the

air itself I want to share

 

your air inhaling what you

exhale I’d like to be that

 

close two of us breathing

each other as one as that

 

 

 

“I Want to Breathe” is a love poem, one I’ve featured before in a less fraught context. I’m featuring it again to close out this series not just because the title and the first line echo Floyd’s last words (“I can’t breathe”) but because it is a love poem. A poem to remember that George Floyd was not just a man murdered by police but a man who was loved in his lifetime by his family and friends; a man loved after his death by millions the world over; a man whose life and death inspires love between people united in outrage and grief.

 

And so here is a poem of breath shared from one person to another, an expression of a desire to be loving and close. We are born for connection. We live in shared space. We share earth. We share air. Deep within we want to share ourselves.

 

I want to share

 

your air inhaling what you

exhale I’d like to be that

 

close two of us breathing

each other as one as that

 

The law of the conservation of matter tells us that matter can transform but never disappear. Our air—made of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide, and sometimes water vapors—is ancient. The air we breathe now is the same air our ancestors breathed. The same air as our neighbors breathe. The same as our enemies. It’s possible the very air George Floyd exhaled in his last moments was inhaled by those who murdered him.

 

Maybe there is redemption in that for them.

 

*

 

A brief memoriam for our fellow breather on planet Earth:

 

George Perry Floyd (1973-2020), born in Fayetteville, North Carolina, raised in a Houston housing project. Called “Perry” by his family. Played basketball and football in high school, recruited to play basketball for South Florida State College, transferred to Texas A&M to play basketball, dropped out. Had a brief music career as rapper “Big Floyd.” Worked as a car customizer. Mentored young men from the housing project he grew up in. Went to church. Struggled with addiction. Went to jail. Started over in Minneapolis. Drove trucks, worked for the Salvation Army, worked security at a nightclub. Lost his job because of coronavirus shutdowns. Got coronavirus himself. Read the bible. Prayed with his roommates. A six-foot six-inch tall man known for his hugs and his jokes. Over and over described as a “gentle giant.” A kind man, a caring man. A loving man. A man who fell, got up, tried again, fell, got up, fell. Was crushed.

 

A man who had his mother’s name tattooed on his chest. A man who loved his mother and was loved by his mother.

 

A man who is described by his girlfriend this way:  “He stood up for people, he was there for people when they were down, he loved people that were thrown away.” A man his childhood friend Meshah Hawkins describes as a “sweetie pie.” A sweetie pie.

 

Rest in peace, sweetie pie. Rest in peace, gentle giant. Rest in peace, George Perry Floyd.

 

 

*

 

Two friends described this nine-day project as a novena (a novena is nine days of repeated prayers for an urgent petition), and so it’s only fitting to end with a poem that is also a prayer. My sister forwarded me this one. It’s written by a rising sophomore at Gonzaga, a Jesuit high school in Washington, D.C. located less than a mile from the Capitol building. [Gonzaga is also home to one of the first poets I featured on this blog, legendary English teacher Rick Cannon, who retired this spring.] In “Prayer for Change” young poet Richard Scott writes movingly of his hope for permanent change. Thank you, Richard! Keep on writing.

 

 

I left “Prayer for Change” on the opposite side of “I Want to Breathe.” The two poems flank a statue named “The Freedom of the Human Spirit.”

 

 

Prayer for Change

by Richard Scott

 

I pray for healing in Ferguson

I pray for healing in Minneapolis

I pray for healing in New York

I pray for healing in Baltimore

 

I pray that we will continue to run for Ahmaud

I pray that we will blast our music for Jordan

I pray that we will continue to kneel with Kap

I pray that the police stop killing us

 

I pray that 911 is a beacon of safety, not death

I pray the next time my hands are raised it’s in a classroom

I pray that the voices of the unheard are amplified

I pray that the color of my skin won’t get me killed

 

I pray that Martin’s dream doesn’t become a nightmare

I pray that Rosa’s bravery isn’t blinded by cowards

I pray that Maya’s words are never erased

I pray for change

 

 

*

Note:  Last night as I taped the final two poems to the marble orbs in Shain Park, all but the first two poems were still there. Edges curled, some faded, but still hanging on.

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In last Sunday’s New York Times former science reporter John Schwartz wrote an op-ed piece about the eerie accuracy of novels in predicting the future.  I can’t make any such claims for poetry–-not least because the scope of my poetry reading is so small and for all I know there exists a tradition of science fiction haiku—-but what I can claim for poetry is an accuracy in describing the human condition.  Centuries-old poems can read as fresh, with a few adjustments of diction, as if they were written today.

 

Which brings me to a poem written in 1947 that has an eerie relevancy to this Sunday’s marking of the tenth anniversary of 9/11.  I came across “Above the City” a few months ago while I was researching James Laughlin, American poet and publisher extraordinaire.  (You can read that post here.)  The subject of the poem is another tragedy in Manhattan involving a skyscraper and a plane.  On Saturday, July 28, 1945, an Army pilot, disoriented in heavy fog, crashed a B-25 bomber into the 79th floor of the Empire State Building. Miraculously only 14 people died.  (If you’re weary of 9/11 coverage, click here to read more about the 66-year old crash.)

 

The poem’s tone is conversational, almost off-hand, surprising for so dark a subject. But the lightness is balanced by the last few lines, words which have only gotten weightier with the passage of time.

 

I’m posting it as a curiosity, not as any part of a tribute or statement.  September 11 is a day of mourning those who lost lives and of tribute to those who saved others or tried to.

 

Above the City

BY James Laughlin

 

You know our office on the 18th

floor of the Salmon Tower looks

right out on the

 

Empire State and it just happened

we were there finishing up some

late invoices on

 

a new book that Saturday morning

when a bomber roared through the

mist and crashed

 

flames poured from the windows

into the drifting clouds and sirens

screamed down in

 

the streets below it was unearthly

but you know the strangest thing

we realized that

 

none of us were much surprised be-

cause we’d always known that those

two paragons of

 

progress sooner or later would per-

form before our eyes this demon-

stration of their

true relationship.

 

(Apologies for the format.  I can’t get the correct spacing with WordPress.  The third line of each stanza should be indented.)

 

 

 

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poem is on bulletin board

I Want to Breathe

by James Laughlin


I want to breathe

you in I’m not talking about

perfume or even the sweet odour

of your skin but of the

air itself I want to share

your air inhaling what you

exhale I’d like to be that

close two of us breathing

each other as one as that

When I tacked this poem to a bulletin board in a mother’s center in Detroit, I thought I should explain what I was doing to the woman manning the front desk.  Whatever, her face said.  She was more concerned with arranging buckets to catch drips from the center’s leaking roof.  I am so embarrassed, my face said back. The contrast in our pursuits was a Marie Antoinette moment for me.  I headed back out in the rain as quickly as I could.

I had gone to the mother’s center, Mom’s Place, to pick up my daughter from alternative spring break.  She had spent a week in the city, cleaning out abandoned buildings, preparing food at a shelter, playing with babies.  One day she called me, buoyant and excited.  An afternoon with mentally disabled adults had ended with a riotous dance party. Dancing always makes her happy, but connecting with people of other races, classes and mental abilities was a joy for her.  Although “I Want to Breathe” is intended as a romantic poem, the longing for intimacy it expresses applies to her dance party experience as well.

Another non-romantic version of Laughlin’s longing for intimacy is “The Poop Thing” subplot in Miranda July’s strangely sweet film You and Me and Everyone We Know.  I won’t describe The Poop Thing because it would sound much creepier in words than it actually is in the film.  You can watch it here but better make sure no one is near when you watch, especially children and anyone easily offended.

(Speaking of movies, this poem also reminds me of a snatch of dialogue from Woody Allen’s Play It Again Sam.  Humphrey Bogart is giving Allen romantic advice:

Move closer to her.

– How close?

The length of your lips.

-That’s very close.  )


After hanging up “I Want to Breath” at the mother’s center, I realized that the shared breath in the poem could also be a mother-baby connection.  How well I remember leaning in face to face with my babies, listening to their tiny breaths, steady inhales and exhales sometimes interrupted by a small shudder as they settled into sleep.  After nursing I loved to smell their sweet milky breath, in and out, in and out, calming and quiet.  Few moments in life rival that for closeness and intimacy.

Laughlin’s poem with its simple language and seamless sentences is dear to me because it speaks of our most soulful need.  Don’t we all long for the purity of the intimacy he describes, breath connected to breath, an intimacy free of the masks of class, race, and religion, an intimacy stripped of what we wear, what we own, how we keep up our bodies, an intimacy that connects us to each other at a deep and fundamental level?  Well, that’s my vision of heaven anyway.

James Laughlin is the most important literary figure I’ve never heard of.  Born an heir to a steel manufacturing empire in Pittsburgh, he used a $100,000 gift from his father to start New Directions, a publishing house that nurtured new and experimental writers.  He befriended and published Tennessee Williams, Nabokov, Henry Miller, Borges, Wallace Stevens, Denise Levertov, Marianne Moore, Thomas Merton and Bretcht, among so many other luminaries, bringing them an audience in the United States they might never have found otherwise.  It took 23 years for the publisher to turn a profit—Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha and a bestseller by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti (imagine!) paid for all the unprofitable books.  Writer Eliot Weinberger says of him, “Laughlin was more than the greatest American publisher of the 20th century; his press was the 20th century.”

Not the least interested in the steel business, Laughlin was nonetheless grateful for the opportunities his fortune allowed.  He took a break from Harvard in his sophomore year, disappointed that modern writers were banned from the classroom, and headed off to Europe.  He worked briefly for Gertrude Stein, and then followed Ezra Pound around for six months.  Pound told him he would never be a good poet and that he should do “something useful” instead.  When Laughlin returned home, Something Useful became New Directions.

Despite Pound’s assessment of his talent, Laughlin continued to write poetry, sometimes under a pseudonym.  Of his seemingly un-complex style he said, “I like to be understood by ordinary people.”  With his fortune, accomplishments, and circle of friends, he might seem far removed from ordinary people.  But he suffered depression and his son committed suicide, and that kind of pain grounds people.  Perhaps this great poet and publisher would have enjoyed his own “publication” at Mom’s Place.

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