Bob Kaufman, Poet; Part 1

Bob really put his mind and his body on the line and paid dearly for it, but what he left us is this great legacy. He was actually the man that Herb Cain coined the term beatnik to describe because he was in the news all the time as being busted and being this. He used to run up and down Grand Avenue, jumping on cars and shouting his poetry. I can remember when he was very young that he he always was a very inward looking, introspective boy. And possibly this came out in his later years. And this might be the reason that some of us portrayed. That's so difficult for some people to understand. You know, sometimes it looks like he was walking a million miles away and in the future. Bob Kaufman, Poet, is a two hour documentary in one hour segments that explores Bob Kaufman's life as a man and a poet. Fellow poets, friends, lovers and scholars, combine with actors

and musicians to give us a unique look at one of America's most powerful yet unsung poets. I was amazed he wasn't just political, but that he was a physical and psychological surrealist. An enlightened. Extending his care to others in civil society, a poetry scene that as the revolution in the way it was a kind of psychological revolution going on along with the liberation of the world, I remember once very well he came in, there were some customers at the counter buying some books, whatnot, and he was gesticulating in the air, kind of like a lobster with five fingers instead of two. And he said, the Wailing Wall is on the rocks. The Wailing Wall is on the rocks.

Bob Kaufman had a tremendously wide knowledge of poetry, and his approach to poetry was really in keeping with poetry as an oral art. I mean, originally it it comes out of speech. It doesn't come out of writing. It comes out of speech and recitation. And there's an old saying that thought is formed in the mouth. And for Bob, this knowledge of American poetry, he could he could call on it, that will. And he endlessly recited great works of poetry. He could recite Elliot Charles Olson, Stephen Spender, Claude McKay, Langston Hughes for hours on end. And he would oftentimes mix these poems in with his own poems. So you oftentimes didn't know where Elliott left off and where Bob Kaufman began. And that was not an egotistical way of putting himself on that level. It simply had to do with the fact that for Bob, all poetry was one, there was a commonality to poetry in his mind. And it's why later in life, he wrote poems,

never signed his name, oftentimes left them behind in cafes. He'd write something on a napkin and and leave it behind. And things were often lost, thrown away. Finally, in the end, he wasn't even writing anymore. He was simply reciting poems. And if you happened to be around him, you heard them. And if you didn't, you didn't. And for me, that is the ultimate act of renunciation for poetry simply to be a byproduct of one's life, to be a part of one's life. Bob's main concern was the revolution, his poetry as as a revolutionary germ that was that was functioning in people's psyches to transform them. And so I think he was also always concerned with transforming his own psyche. Not confirmed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind,

man and in a basement cause of me, Baroon obliteration smelling futures of green anticipated, Cumming's past denied. Now time to thwart time. Time to freeze illusionary emotion. And imagine walls stop bleeding wound. Our clock's booming. Our dead hours gone, gone, gone. On the 2nd April. Ash smeared crowns perfect clinically balanced on pyramid peak heads shattering being done let hell cylinder's on granite flowered windows on frigid triumphs unmounted of shapes assuming aspects of transparent results shattered Gracieuse infant mountains formed one's all time given to disappearance speculation investigation of those rocks caught freak's and skin sandals. Ten million light years drips screaming from hot tubs, crowded ice ages and crying eyes. Insanities packed in century long nights

pointed timewarp to now hollow out trees release captive Satan's explode Rose's sentence grass to death stabbed rivers raged down in St. Cloud unchanged snow Islamistic peaks dehydrate oceans suck up deserts now sky to scattered earth and air we come to second April man these onion constructed in hot gabardine is earth onion to cut open they watch man a thing moralizer thing from conception until noon it cuts questioner's lives. A holy man is to our horror, out of America by God. Tall stallion. He was Einstein on carbuncles feet as it stopped the illusionary motion to Wiggan. They watch last night's Angels of the Sky shut up. Death packed up kitbag. Everything is even now surprise.

Rolling drunks and coffee. Galeries car crabbiness posthumously guilty. Chicken Little was right all along. Ratio's basic salvages drive Buicks. Now God is a parking meter. There's a part of him that that resister, certainly careerist moves, I mean, he wasn't somebody who was trying to assure ensure his place in the Northern Poetry Anthology or trying to make sure that he got onto the syllabi of, you know, poetry courses in universities. I don't. I don't. He didn't do a whole lot of reading that at universities. And, you know, the thing that he's remembered and revered as the street poet, and that's that's diametrically opposite to the kind

of institutionalization of the poet. He in many ways resisted that. And that was contrary to really being a poet for him to go after that kind of recognition and making oneself available to public consumption. Much of of of what people pass on in stories about him are anecdotes about about his outrageousness. And that was that was that was an integral part of his poetic stance and was an integral part of his understanding of what being a poet was. And in many ways, the relative obscurity that his work has remained in is consistent with that. And it's an outgrowth of that. You know, he was not out trying to make it. Actually, we could say that this species is beautiful,

it it has jazz elements, there's improvization, the rhetoric is stylized, actually, but that pattern permits him to combine images with a logic that is very realistic. And in certain of the poems that you read, I listen to you recognize that the logic is a surrealistic logic. This is a mode, I suppose, that had considerable appeal not only to to, uh, to to Koffman, but to a good number of the beat poets. Andre Breton called Ted Jones a surrealist. Jones spoke of Kaufman as being a surrealist. His surrealism is it's not Breton's automatic writing. It appears to be logically derived from his awareness of paradox and discontinuity and from experimenting with bebop and black speech patterns and in discovering in them.

I mean, a vehicle to carry is vision. And I mean that gives him a certain esthetic distance when he makes use of personal experiences. Some of Kauffman's experiences were horrible. Some of his experiences, um, in a way detracted from from his human dignity. And yet he's able to to utilize these in such a way that, uh, the the meaning, uh, that is derived from them is as esthetically satisfying and contributes to the wisdom. Pulling together the idea of physical self-destruction with a transcendent lyrical vision is through the idea of a shaman. One could easily make a case for Koffman as well as playing out that particular role in his community. Bob Kaufman's life as a poet is unique to American literature. He kept no diary, published, no literary essays, wrote no reviews and maintained no correspondences. He is remembered by three concise volumes of poetry,

a broadside and a few songs. Up until his death of emphysema in January of 1986, Carbon was known as a mostly silent, wiry black man who walked the streets of San Francisco's North Beach district day and night, often appearing as a mendicant mad man or panhandler. Yet various schools of American poetry have sung his praises, identified early on as a major figure in the beat generation of writers and poets, Kaufman is also known as one of America's true surrealist poets, a major poet of the black consciousness movement so much that he embodied the French tradition of the poet as outsider madman outcast. But in France, Kaufman is known as the black Rambo. Although there are no known incidents of his reading to jazz accompaniment, Kaufman is considered a premier jazz poet, especially of the bebop era. Bob Kaufman was born in New Orleans on April 18th, 1925. His father, who was half Jewish and half African-American, worked as a Pullman porter for

the railroad. His mother, a black woman from old New Orleans family. Lavinia's was a schoolteacher. His Jewish surname and Creole like features were shared with 12 brothers and sisters. We remember a very large family, George Kaufman, like brother of Bob Kauffman's. So, you know, there there were a lot of clashes and a lot of fun. I, I think we had a very happy childhood. We I would say in our younger days were in the midst of a depression and we didn't realize that there was a depression. My mother was a schoolteacher before she married, played the piano. I always remember the piano when I was a kid in the living room there. And she was quite interested in music and the arts poetry. And I would say that we were born with a book in our hands. Her favorite thing was to go to auctions and buy libraries

when they were being auctioned off our books. And we always had a tremendous shelves of books all over the house. When we a small and possibly this may have been the genesis of of Bob's work from reading from such a young age novel and the one regret I have about this. It was my mother died in 1954 before Bob started writing poetry. She would have been enthralled to read his work. I thought she would have loved it and she never had a chance to see it. My father was a Pullman porter when the trains ran between New Orleans and Chicago. And. We saw him when he was in town and he was gone again. So my mother was just sort of around the house where the children trying them gave them basic values. I guess my father's father

was a Jewish. Joining the Merchant Marines in 1943 during World War Two at the age of 18, Bob Kauffman led the life of a seaman during his youth. He became a militant labor organizer for the Seamen's Union and traveled across America on many assignments before settling in New York City in the early 50s. There he began writing poetry and pursuing his love for jazz music, befriending Charlie Parker, Billie Holiday and other greats of the jazz world. Kaufman was definitely a hipster of the highest order before settling in North Beach at the dawning of the Beat Generation and the mid 1950s. Couple married Eileen Singh in 1958.

They were central figures in the north. We've seen. They're rare interracial marriage produced a son, Parker, named after Charlie Parker, born in 1959. To my son, Pahlka, asleep in the next room. Honokaa was in ice formed caves, shaggy Neanderthal's marked their place in time on germinal trees in equatorial stand's embryonic giants covid beginnings on Tasmanian flatlands, mud clothed first men hacked rock still soft on Melanesian mountain peaks barked. Heads were reared in pride and beauty on steamy javas cooling lava stooped humans

raised stones to alter height on neuborne China's plane, Mithras sons of Han acquired peaked gods with TEAC faces unholy Indio's sacred soil. Future Gods carved worshiped reflections on Coptic Ethiopia's pimpled rock pyramid builders torx volcanoes from Earth on death ravaging Egypt's Godlee Sands living sacrifices carved naked power in some areas. Clift's speechless artists gouged messages to men yet uncreated and glorious Syrias earth and Dennes art priests chipped figures of all and hidden dimensions on splendid perus

gold stained body. Filigreed temples were torn from severed hands, unperfect Greeces bloody sights. Mobbles stood under the hands of men. Unregenerate Rome's trembling sword imitators sculpted lies into beauty on slave. Europe's prostrate form chained soles shaped free men on wild America's green torso. Original men painted glacial languages uncowed Ataka, snowy surface, leathery men raised totems in frozen air. On this show you are all men before forever, eternally free in all things. On this shore we shall raise our monuments of stones,

of wood. Of mud. Of color. Of labor. Of belief, of being. Of life, of love ourself. Of man expressed in self-determined compliance or willful revolt. Secure in this avowed truth that no man is our master, nor can any ever be at any time in time to come and fail. And Eileen Koffman, widow of Bob Kaufmann, went to the new for social research in New York, met Allen Ginsberg and Kerouac. And when he sailed into New York and then they came to them, they actually came to the West Coast. And then he I wouldn't say for a while

back to New York, there was a lot of, you know, how many travel people were told a lot. And for this country and what he was on the ship, probably the elements. And we all grew up one ship, but and always will to be one. But he had a wonderful first mate who took him under his wing and let him read and put forward. So got acquainted with those really wonderful authors. And he started his work. Love, you know, for literature, probably began in before that, but it was certainly cultivated by his first name, Obama. Bob and I lived in New York together when he was a seaman and I was a merchant seaman to and of those he represented the the National Maritime Union at conferences in London and France after the war. Then he got into politics.

He was an area director of Henry Wallace's campaign in 1948, the Progressive Party. He ran into some real problems. He was an area director in the wrong area and he ran into real serious problems with the police forces, definitely trying to see that his point of view wouldn't be heard in that area of the country. And he was arrested many times, brutally treated, thrown into jail themselves, and no heat in freezing conditions kept there long. But that's never stopped him at all. He still had his own way of thinking. And I think maybe he he moved into poetry to express himself in a more abstract manner and then possibly that some of his experiences that occurred in that time, I don't think he ever forgot them. Jerry, CommScope writer, we had a we had a big demonstration

once in about 1959 because the cops were busting all the hotels for marijuana and I had a bookstore at the time on Grand Avenue. And so I organized a big protest meeting on the weekend on Saturday and made a bunch of picket signs and and rented a P.A. system. And Saturday morning at 10:00 in Washington Square, there were two hundred people out there and we were all talking about doing this for us. But this was like 1960 waiting for anything. And I remember when Bob Kaufman got up to speak, he was there, too. And the minute he got up to speak, the bells of the Church of St. Peter St. Paul started ringing Bong, Bong, bong, and he spoke right through and right between them. It was great. It was like poetry coming out, spoke for about ten minutes and consequently the next day and all over the country, there was front page photographs of the movement, you know, protesting, fighting back. It was the first real, real media event I met Bob, I must admit, Bob and 56, Jerry

Stone, the photographer. Fifty seven. And in my mind, that's a long time ago. But in my mind, the bombing is man in a manifesto, even though it might have been written in 57 or 58. It was certainly what, Bob, the poetry readings that I was attending and listening to. I mean, you know, Bob was talking about activism. You know, he was functioning as a as you know, as a critic of society, you know, in in a much more social political kind of way than any of the other poets in North Beach were doing. I mean, he was a pioneer. He was a pioneer. I think that it's really clear that people like Ginsberg and the rest of them, when they were political activists, I mean, that they they they follow common, you know, lead Kaufman. I mean, he leads them. He had the he had the political consciousness, the whole thing about Anonymous, what he thought about what a bombing this Amiri Baraka, poet

and writer, imam and nation, abominable, you know, and then. But nothing like that. The one thing. Which sounds like communist or something like that, so that's what I had put that together that was making some kind of excluded radical, some kind of seemed to me some kind of radical outside force that would be a violinist and some sort of a kind of full-service movement of self-rule through commerce, you know, from the feelings, you know, being opposed to society and that whole society would be overthrown. That's what I got from the politicians will do attitude. And I like riding in Alabama this manifestoes and all that, which I don't think are widely circulated.

A Communist manifesto, abominable, join nothing but their hands or legs or other same abominable spit anti poetry for poetic reasons. And Frank, a bombing is do not look at pictures painted by presidents and unemployed prime ministers in times of national peril. A bombing as reality. Americans stand ready to drink themselves to death for their country. A bombing is do not feel pain, no matter how much it hurts a bomb and do not use the word square except when talking to squares, a bomb is read newspapers only to ascertain there are bomb inability. A bombing is never carry more than 50 dollars in debt. Omnium a bomb. And it's believed that the solution of problems of religious bigotry is to have a Catholic candidate for president and a Protestant candidate for pope. A bombing is not right for money. They write the money itself. A bomb is believe only what they dream. Only after it comes true, a bomb in its children must

be reared abominably, a bomb in its poets confident that the new literary form footprint Islam has freed the artists of outmoded restrictions, such as the ability to read and write or the desire to communicate, must be prepared to read their work, said Duno College's embalming schools. Homes for unwed mothers, homes for dead mothers, insane asylums, USO canteens, kindergartens and county jails. A bombing is never compromise. Their rejection, airy philosophy, abominable reject everything except snowmen. Arbol Newscast on Our America Collides with Iceberg piloted by Lindbergh baby Aimee Semple McPherson, former dictator of California discovered in voodoo nunnery disguised as Moby Dick new hit song Sweeping the Country The Leopold and Low Ebb Cha Cha Cha. Pontius Pilot Loses No Hitter on an Arab League Splits over scores decision Hebrew Fireballer Out for a season with injured hands. Civilian Defense Headquarters unveils new bomb shelter with two car garage, complete with indoor patio and barbecue unit that operates on radioactivity comes and decorator colors.

No down payment for beds to be sold only to those willing to sign the loyalty oath. Forest Lawn Cemetery opens new subdivision of split-Level Tounes for middle income group president inaugurates new policy of Aggressive Leadership Declares December 25th, Christmas Day. Pope May Allow Priests to Marry Said to be aiming at one big Holy Family, Norman Rockwell. Cover the lynching. Be from post American Series Wins the Day Are Americanism Award. Russians said to be copying TV format with Frontier Epic filmed in Berlin. Nuclear Wagon Train features of dancers, Red China cuts birthrate drastically blessed events plummet to 200 million a year. Cuban sees Cuba Outrage. U.S. Acts Quickly Cuts Off Tourist Quota. Administration introduces measures to confine all rumba bands to detention camps during emergency. Both sides in Cold War stockpiling atomic missiles to preserve peace. You are listening to Bob Kaufman, Poet.

The opening collages featured Raymond Foy, Jerry Camastra and George Kaufman, Allen Ginsberg, Gary Goke and Jerry Stone. The scholars are in order of their appearance. Nathaniel Mackey, University of California, Santa Cruz. Charles Niland, University of Colorado, Boulder. Maria Daman University of Minnesota. Bob Kaufman read the first poem, A Selection from 2nd April. Roscoe Lee Browne read for my son Parker. Asleep in the next room, Toni Seymour read selections from The Abomunist Manifesto.