The Collected Longer Poems of Kenneth Rexroth Book

I became interested in Rexroth slowly, slowly over a lifetime . . . I had seen him read in San Francisco in the late 1970s (more about that later), but hardly know then what I know now. And then I read his short, sardonic poem "The Value of Education" (or something like that) in a compilation, about a slightly disheveled poet in tattered robe drinking hot white wine and drawing naughty pictures in the margins of his book. Later I learned of his noteworthy monastic spiritual inclinations and anarchistic political activities. I started looking for more of his poetry.

I first found a book of his essays ("Assays") and was impressed with his take on race in America, the lyrics of native American song, if a little put off by his overly surefooted erudite opinions. I eventually found these longer poems in the outstanding Strand Bookstore in New York City in late September 2017, used, going for US$15.

In the introduction to the longer poems he states that the first long poem ("The Homestead Called Damascus") was written in his preconscious twenties, as I say, erudite; a narrative poem about two friends, romantic attachments, philosophical musings. Fairly easy going, engaging, full of sensual wit and inevitable melancholy.

The going gets rougher in the next couple of long poems . . . just check the title of one of them: "A Prolegomenon to a Theodicy". Highly abstract. I easily comprehend the shift of influences. Sure, I gave it a go, but felt no compunction to continue.

In the longest poem, "The Dragon and the Unicorn", one of Rexroth's better known works, he again shifts into the more reader-friendly narrative mode, which is effectively broken up by philosophical interludes, mainly about how the individual manifests love as the purest expression of the cosmos which strips away any need for knowledge (did I get that right?) . . . otherwise the narrative recounts his long tramps and bicycle rides through Europe with fascinating, deftly conveyed anecdotes about food, taverns, farmers, weather and any specific region's sex workers (among other things).

Rexroth was associated with the Beat poets being a long time resident of San Francisco and through having come into contact with Ginsburg et al. But he most decidedly disassociated himself, appropriately, from the term while not disassociating himself from the actual people. One of the last poems in this book is dedicated to Gary Snyder.

But it easy to work up the true circumstances of his poetry, influences like (or at least taking into account) Pound and Surrealism as well as Carl Sandburg and haiku. Please enjoy this book . . .

Here's what happened when I saw him in the late 1970s:

Rexroth

A teenager (at the end of my teens, at the end of my coins)
I took a bus across the Bay Bridge
from Berkeley to San Francisco.
I counted my coins.
I went to a Kenneth Rexroth reading
that I-should-have-known charged
admission.
I was adventurous.
I spent all my coins, came up short for the return trip, entered the museum,
attended a Rexroth reading, a well known poet,
the San Francisco Renaissance,
a worldly famous obscure poet at a paid-for reading in a hardly-full venue,
an audience that good naturedly parried with the poet.

And all during the reading I kept asking myself, "How will I get home?"
My whole life different if I asked (during the Q and A)
"Can someone give me a ride home?"
I choose anonymity,
begging coins at the dingy bus stop, the beat bus depot,
frightening a woman until she eased into my passive request and handed over
twenty five cents.

All cities need something between dingy and fancy, not all sweet, not all decrepit.
The young poet needs to request a ride from a stranger,
beg coins at the bus depot
so he can help Rexroth
pay his bills.
All cities can do without extreme luxury or extreme deprivation,
landing somewhere
in between.
Famous poets obscure enough to take the bus
a ratty sedan, the audience who will go about their business somewhere between excess and survival.