When Ed Dorn and his wife Jennifer Dunbar
Dorn entered my life, a major shot of life-long adrenalin penetrated
myself and the Chicago atmosphere. Although Ed's Chicago years
(1970,1971) are rarely recorded, these were hard core developmental
years in national and local American history with an impact that I
personally considered nuclear or new-clear. Chicago had just suffered
through the Democratic National Convention havoc in 1968. Martin Luther
King was killed, Bobby Kennedy was killed and the Chi-town air lingered
with the stench of the ongoing conflict in Vietnam. On the other side
of this coin was that the counter-culture was still in latent bloom
although in Chicago it felt like a semi-arid wasteland with no
particular direction. When Ed and Jenny first hit town I recorded a
small two line description about the initial affect of their presence.
It was simply entitled "Ed Dorn New Year"
Ed Dorn New Year
and they were mysterious after landing
Ed was hired by University professor and
playwright Alan Bates. It was a pure hire that struck an amazing
target, giving alignment and purpose to some floundering students who
were fooling around with poetry either as personal therapy or an
expression of emotions that wouldn't allow "the voices"to die.
Jennifer Dunbar Dorn added to the glorious
energy. Jenny had her own unique intensity. She was high strung,
attractive and a talented writer herself, plus she was English complete
with a real English accent. When we discovered her brother John
Dunbar was married to Marianne Faithfull and operated the Indica
gallery and book shop where John Lennon first met Yoko Ono (who was
putting on one of her avant garde shows there) we were in ecstasy.
Jenny's connection that close to the Beatles,
coupled with Ed's poetic fervor was an amazing bit of cosmic karma
thrown in our Midwest laps. As students, it was like getting the Krell
Mind boost. A genius alien race found in a classic sci-fi movie
entitled Forbidden Planet.
Rather than wonder what a working poet was,
other than print in a student's text book, here was a poet who not only
instructed but gave readings of his work, read incredibly and wrote
brilliantly. Ed was a more than a teacher, he was a guide. To me he was
an aristocratic technician with language and thought. And was the
fastest on the word-thought trigger as anyone I ever knew.
I remember forcing my way into Ed and Jenny's
space when I first stopped at the 911 club, the nicknamed address of
the brick two flat they lived in on Diversey Avenue, located on
Chicago's Northside. Many amazing parties happened there accented with
great dialogues, personalities and chemistry, as Ed brought in poets
from throughout the country and abroad. Anselm Hollo, Robert Creeley,
Anne Waldman, Tom Raworth, Philip Whalen, J. H. Prynne and Ted
Berrigan, just to name a few. We couldn't have received a better
creative writing education at Harvard or Yale. In fact in my opinion Ed
and Jenny put us ahead of the game because as students we were reading
books and living an Urban Carlos Castaneda existence that tapped our
Unconscious for future reference. So for a brief flash in time an
English Black Mountain had settled on the plains and if you payed
attention it was quite a combination.
When Ed and Jenny left Northeastern University
in the early 70's we stayed in touch and I followed them throughout
their many travels and homes. From Mexico to Kent State, from San
Francisco to Healdsburg and La Hoya California with many varied stops
in between, finally settling and raising their family in Boulder at the
University of Colorado in 1977, where Ed became a tenured professor and
eventually head of the Graduate MFA program.
I was Ed and Jenny's Chicago Correspondent for Rolling Stock magazine, which they began in 1980. One issue published my report on
the first poetry "bouts"held in Chicago in 1981. Discovered by another
of Ed's students and "Stone Wind Poet" Al Simmons, this article started
a chain reaction of National Poetry "Main Events" (competitions) that
became the premier attraction at the Taos, New Mexico Poetry Circus and
was a blueprint for what eventually evolved into the culture of Slam
performance poetry. Not that Ed or Jenny enjoyed or artistically
approved the "silliness"of such competitions, it was just that their
publishing of this small report was at the root of a performance poetry
movement that sweeps up the youth involved in the poetry world today.
I had the good fortune to hear Ed read from many of his books countless times, once reading the whole of Gunslinger in Evanston, Illinois sponsored by Northwestern University. He blew the roof off the place.
Talk about writing and performance, Ed was the
ultimate example that truly great work can perform itself on the page
or in the listener's ear. Ed was a master of both. He was impeccable
with the short poem or the long. He was Academy and Street. Blue Collar
and White World. R & B and Classics. Funk and Funny. Poetic
Journalist or Political sharpshooter. A pro that could take the poetic
ball and do whatever he wanted with it. His readings were always
intelligent, entertaining, instructive and accessible. He could change
the atmosphere of a room.
Like all of us on Earth, Ed was not a perfect
angel. He couldn't put up with mediocrity and he could cut or nail you
to the core with a line or a look. He was a word chemist who at times
may have seen his students as experiments that he could observe in his
mental lab. But that just came with the territory. An what a manifest
destiny it was.
The
last time I saw Ed and Jenny was in Taos, in 1997. He was giving a
reading of his new work at the Taos Poetry Circus. You could see he was
drained but he still read elegantly. A true poet- warrior till the end.
I also had the good fortune to include excerpts and poems from his most
recent work in a Taos poetry anthology entitled Taos Poetry Circus: The Nineties.
When Ed died the poetry world truly lost a
cultural anchor. A truer mentor I could not have experienced in my
wildest dreams. In my opinion he was and is one of the best poets of
the past century. A Bernard Malamud's Roy Hobbs of the written word,
with Jenny's steadfast backing, partnership and support. They will
always remain immaculate inspirations.
Some of that inspiration deposited itself into
my "Memory Banks"--recollections of interactions with Ed over the years
that continue to consistently pay spiritual dividends. Here are a few
excerpts:
MEMORY BANKS
The Poet and the Kid / 1970
THE KID: "God Ed, when I graduate I want to be
just like you. An active writer/poet. Sharp in mind, healthy in body.
knocking down the language like bowling pins in a Oklahoma tornado."
THE POET: (smiling) "Kid, you don't want to do
this.(referring to Poetry as a "Career") Let me tell you Kid, it's not
what you make it out to be."
(But the Kid was overwhelmed by passion and circumstance and he just had to find out. Until years later...)
THE KID: "Ed, You were right. But now I'm too far gone. I've stepped too far in. It's ruined my life."
THE POET: "Kid, it's ruined a lot of lives."
THE KID: Really?
THE POET: Poetry doesn't ruin lives Kid, people do.
On the Clock / 1970
I drove Ed to the Chicago suburbs to check out a
used foreign made car he was going to buy. When we arrived and got in
for a test drive I said, "Ed don't buy this car, the clock works.
Anytime a clock works in a Used car there's something hidden that's
wrong."
Ed gave me a maybe the kid's got something look, started the engine and took it for a drive.
As we headed around the block, made a left turn to stretch it out on Ol' 66, the clock stopped.
When we drove back into the owner's driveway Ed bought the car immediately.
"Any car that can stop time has got to be mine," he said.
Just to make sure, I followed him back to the 911 club for a timeless stay that lasted forever.
The Classroom / 1970
In a University creative writing class, during
the second week of Ed's teaching induction, a young female student
raised her hand and asked, "Mr. Dorn, isn't poetry just an expression
of the pain of life put into words on a page?"
Ed just whisked his hands through his hair and stared right back at the young lady.
"Whew, do people still think like that," he responded.
There was an infinity of silence.
Warlock / 1971
One evening when Al "commissioner" Simmons and I
visited Ed and Jenny at the 911 club we sat in their dining room with
them watching the western film Warlock. It starred Henry Fonda
and Anthony Quinn and was about a good/bad Marshall (Fonda), who
eventually took the town apart and began burning it down when he
smashed a bottle of whiskey into a wall in a bar and lit a match to it,
starting a major fire.
With Quinn trying to quell him, Fonda began
storming through the streets of the town shouting "What are you worth!"
to the frightened and befuddled townspeople. Al and I just sat there
mesmerized.
Just before the movie ended. Ed looked at both
of us and said,"What are you worth!" Then he and Jenny got up from
their chairs and went upstairs. We just sat there, thinking they were
coming back down to finish the film. But they never did. So after ten
minutes of student catatonic staring we realized they weren't coming
down as I gazed at Al and said, "What ARE we worth?"
We both got up, turned off the TV and exited the 911 into the dark Diversey streets wondering if we were worth anything at all.
Spring / 1971
Once the "stone wind poet guys" all gathered at Ed and Jenny's for a 911 club afternoon.
At about 2 pm Ed offered peyote buttons to us all. When we asked, "what's this?" all Ed said, was "Spring Cleaning."
Whatta Spring that was.
Kent State/ 1974 or 75
A few years after the National Guard's gunning
down of the students Ed was teaching at Kent State. We heard there was
a literary Fall festival going on there so Al Simmons and I drove his
VW bus west to the Ohio provinces for an opportunity and a visit.
We slept in Ed and Jenny's barn and one morning
Michael McClure ascended the ladder (complete with poet's scarf)
inquiring what we were doing up there, figuring we were "crashing"the
scene.
Al and I asked Ed and Jenny's permission to
barn-sleep so when McClure's phrasing came off as arrogant and scolding
Al and I responded to Michael by telling him we were "just resting."
After some early morning bantering we felt like throwing Michael down the wood slatted ladder.
Later that afternoon after attempting to view
Stan Brackage's documentary on autopsies there was a spontaneous dinner
gathering where I flung an observation off at Ed.
"Did you notice everyone here is still so
freaked out that they're trying to blend in by wearing after shave
lotion over their beards."
Ed laughed and agreed, then looked at McClure,
author of the great play "The Beard" saying: "That's why I let them
sleep in my barn."
Kerouac / 1982
When Henry Kanabus and I attended the Kerouac
fest back in 1982 sponsored by the Naropa Institute, Ed was teaching at
the University of Colorado. Both academies being situated in Boulder.
Poetic times were tense because of certain polorizations that existed
between what could be considered at the time two factions in poetic
thinking and politics. While in a circle of poets (Allen Ginsberg,
Gregory Corso, Ted Berrigan, Henry Kanabus and myself) chatting inside
the University of Colorado's lobby, Ed struts in, sees the circle, and
makes contact.
"So Ed," Allen says, relieved that maybe some pressure would be eased. "are you hear for the reading?"
Ed just gave the circle that Ed arrowed smile,
took a hit off his Camel and replied, "I'm out to buy hinges." Then he
briskly headed off into the University hallway disappearing into a bevy
of students. The poetic Sphere drifting in Space. Here is one of my
poems from the "Book of God" I wrote in honor of that moment:
THE POET GODS GATHERED
in the spirit of sacred
memory we all gathered
at the Kerouac fest in 82
and even though the future
fences would be mended
it was the immaculate view
of wisdom I remember
while in a circle of poet gods
Ginsberg, Corso, Berrigan
and others
that Ed Dorn appeared
wearing his aviators
in a t-shirt with the
outline of the United States
filled in with working class faces
as he approached
skimming the tangent
of the poet's sphere
the poets said to Ed,
"So are you here for the reading?"
"No."Ed simply replied
whisking fingers through his hair
taking a deep black and white
hit off his Camel
"I'm out to buy hinges."
the doors of perception
fixed
never making a sound
Hombre / 1992
The one line in a movie that always reminded me of Ed, was Paul Newman's (Amer-Apache) half-breed role in Hombre,
an early sixties western. With Newman riding shotgun on a stagecoach
that was ambushed and the passengers robbed, humiliated, raped and left
there most likely to die. Newman took up the responsibility of
attempting to get them through the tough hostile countryside. When
asked by one of the soft East Coast passengers why they should trust
their lives to him. Newman, as Hombre responded, "Cause I can cut it
lady."
When I told Ed of my analogy, he just thought past me and said. "Hombre, huh."
We both left it at that.
* * *
There were hundreds of memory bank moments that
occurred with Ed and Jenny throughout the years; playing guitar at
their parties, shooting pool with Ed in one of the classic Chicago
parlors that has since been torn down, (once I ran the table in two
consecutive eight ball games on him and we immediately switched to
playing billiards where he totally kicked my ass.) Then there was
tennis in Boulder, trekking to Newtown in Chicago to buy the Allman
brothers' "Live at the Fillmore East," album, listening and dancing
away our troubles in their living room on a Chicago summer's
afternoon...
Just a couple of weeks before Ed died, I called
Jenny when I experienced some spontaneous spiritual ballast. It felt
like thought tentacles reaching and pulling me across the grey November
sky. Jenny said Ed was pretty bad and it wouldn't be long. I was
shocked, trying to prepare myself for the inevitable that happens to us
all.
I never ascribe to the practice of writing
post-mortem poems about poets when they, as "the cliche" says, pass on,
but in Ed's case I just had to let out my personal grief in words on a
page. My gut thinks Ed despised this practice but I had to do it
anyway. And my gut also tells me Ed would question or devour me for the
"grand scheme" of my expression in the piece that he put his guns down.
So all virtuous apologies to the poetry gods, whatever plane, whatever
dimension wherein they reside.
THE SPIRIT SLINGER
when the gunslinger died
and went to heaven
the gods knew an old spirit
was returning to town
when the slinger dismounted
at the point of all wisdom
he was shared with the Universe
so he put his guns down
I simply loved the man and his family. It was an
honor to have interacted in his presence for well over 25 years. He
changed my life. He changed a lot of lives. His legacy speaks for
itself.
Terry Jacobus, Chicago, June 2003.
Terry Jacobus received his degree in Secondary
Education and Creative Writing at Northeastern Illinois University in
1971. He studied with Gwendolyn Brooks and Ed Dorn in the University's
creative writing program. Jacobus is the author of three books, The Simple Ballad--a four part performed narrative. Fine, a collection of poems, and The Poet Never Loses His Girl, a collection of prosetry stories. He is currently working on a new book of poetry entitled The Book of God. He was Chicago correspondent for Rolling Stock Magazine from 1980-1990, poetry Editor of Strong Coffee Magazine from 1992-1997, and was the first World Heavyweight Poetry Champion in Taos, New Mexico when he defeated Gregory Corso in 1982. |