As a Brooklyn College MFA student from 1996 to 1998, I was extremely fortunate to know Allen as my teacher and tutorial adviser. Our last goodbye was on a street corner near his Lower East Side loft after having lunch at his favorite little Polish restaurant. He had stopped to show me Tai Chi movements he practiced to help with his balance, which was worsening. He became a little annoyed at tipping over more than once during his demonstration. Allen then headed off to buy vegetables at the market across the street. In his thrift store-bought used dark trousers and jacket, he seemed no more than an ordinary little old Jewish man from my Kew Gardens neighborhood; and yet, he had recently released his “Ballad of the Skeletons” with Paul McCartney CD. Allen (he preferred being called Allen, no matter his age or iconic status) seemed surprisingly unassuming and vulnerable to me–and still too much.
He left too soon at 71. I wonder what he would surprise us with today?
No Matter How Old
Early on
Allen said,
“Don’t give me
poems about poems!”
“Get
to the poem–
stop with the carping
reasons.”
Yet,
he asked,
“Why be a writer?”
I said
something about inspiration,
teachers, poets…
Allen turned off.
A week later
I said,
“Affection, Allen,
that’s what it’s about,”
“Yes, that’s it!
No matter how
old
I get,” he said.
I should have read
his biography
sooner.
Reading
Ambitious
you called my
long poem.
Coming back
to your small
kitchen table,
with T.S.
Eliot
in hand,
I hoped
you would
read for me,
like the time
you read
Reznikoff–
I know not
just for me–
to keep alive
perhaps
an old
friend.
You read
Prufrock now,
softly,
until I heard
the song–
aloneness
that arrives
with old bones
tired heart.
In the middle
of
your offering
I said,
“I have the book
at home.”–afraid
I would lose it–
afraid it was not
replaceable–
that I
would owe
too much.
You said,
“It just cost
a buck
or two…
found it
used
in an old book shop
years ago.”–
looking
a bit sad.
*first appeared in Longshot, 1998.
Until next time,
keep writing.
Peace,
Andrés