I curse you, Robert Bly

It’s interesting when the real personality emerges from behind the hero’s carefully constructed persona or façade. I mentally spit on the thought of Robert Bly‘s grave whenever he is mentioned. He was a poet I admired until he let the social veil slip and attacked me in public. I had produced a big poetry reading event honoring a Calliopea Press art book for his Rilke sonnet translations at Sonoma State. Since I was a singularity, I worked like a dogsbody navigating the bureaucracy to rent the room, raising the speaker fee, setting up the stage, I did mike and sound check, placed chairs, was emcee, etc., and at the end, I politely asked him to autograph my hard-earned copy of the hand-letter-press book, with a gorgeous embossed imprint of a purple iris on the cream cover. I guess he was done with his Mr. Nice face. He ripped me a new one in public and refused to sign my copy. Not a clue as to why. Carol Denison, the broadside artist and pressowner, who witnessed the tirade, was equally mortified, and gave me her signed copy. I was completely humiliated and devastated, not to mention exhausted. I am not one to cry, but that evening he made me cry, and that is unforgivable. I have never been able to even read the book. I heard the book is worth a bomb. I need to sell it to exorcise the bad juju. To this day, I curse him. That night, I got to see the real Bly, mysogenist and ogre that he was, in his dandified cravat and knitted vest. Iron John, my ass.

ok, I confess this was from a fragment I never finished, so I posted it on the day of his death tho it was written in situ 7/21/22.

Garbo’s memory (Photo)

I posted on Facebook an early photo of me reading at Garbo's Cabaret and Niteclub in Guernewood Park, which unleashed an onslaught of memories. Not sure who took the photo, maybe Lee Perron? Most people were afraid of my gear.  To a point and shoot camera.

Randy McAtee asked, Do you recall what you were reading? Weirdly, I did. I was testing out Woman is of the Ocean, a poem written in a trance state. No idea what it was about. Of course Randy Googled it, and got nowhere, which led to my adding many old, if questionable, poems to this blog, as a record keeper.

I think it was the night Jack Crimmons and Elizabeth Herron read. I usually didn’t take color photos, far too expensive. So that narrows down the time frame. Jack might have even taken it. We were all Sonoma State classmates enrolled  in an experimental program called Expressive Arts. One of my projects was connecting with local poets, which led to my becoming an organizer of the series. This photo is where it all began.

Classmate Rebecca Clinton said, Garbo's! I remember getting my FIRST full-body hug from robert bly in that corner pub.

I forgot that Bly came to Garbo's. Didn't he also read? Unfortunately that was also the day I quit being a Robert Bly fan. He was such a colossal piece of shit to me—after all that work I did to put on that workshop/ reading and book party/signing for Calliopea Press. Rilke translations. Organizing, raising the funds, etc.

He humiliated me in front of people. I guess he saw me as hired help, a lackey of no import— and that SSU event was my baby. Wouldn't even sign my copy of the book either. So Carol gave me her printer's copy. I probably blocked it from memory. I never could read the book—so beautiful with its embossed irises on cream stock, with purple ink.

In retrospect, I had waited until the very end of the signing, so as not to intrude (and was off in the distance, breaking down the room, folding chairs, etc.,) and he was probably cranky, having kept on his Poet face all those hours. Guess I got the see the poet unmasked.  Not a pretty sight.

Monte Río poet Gail King said, Garbo's was the best ever on the river.  HARD TO REMEMBER BEING SO YOUNG. You remember her name.  I thought her novel gave her the money to buy the bar.  I was all about bars and poetry so a perfect match for me.

Garbo’s was my poetic training ground. I was not into bars, but Monday night was poetry night. And they had great local bands other nights. Uncle Wiggley. Only bar I ever felt safe going to alone. The owner Marjorie Summerfield? what was her story (other than she was a novelist)? "Compression Tested" Nothing about it on the web.

An article I wrote for The Paper in 1988. The Russian River Writers' Guild (RRWG) is the oldest ongoing reading series in the greater Bay Area and north coast. The RRWG has kept the "literatii" entertained in most west county towns, from Monte Rio, its first home, to Occidental, Guerneville, Santa Rosa and Sebastopol. The pen, I found lodged in the spiral spine of an old notebook.

From a FB post, added 8/19

journal Tax Day (photos)

4/15-16

I need to go into the darkroom tonight, and pack up for the next six days. I'll be on the road. National Poetry Week and the California Arts Council Art Day lobbying event. Note to self: Bring Ken Larsen all those Rural Arts Services photos. Darkroom tonight.

The chemicals from the darkroom have hyped me up unbelievably. I couldn't sleep at first, and then I was  glue-eyed and sleepy. I always feel hung over after a long night in the darkroom. I don't know how much of it is being up late at night and the intense activity, or if it's the chemicals. It takes me least an hour to come down afterwards.

I left the darkroom at 12:30 AM and it was 1:30 AM before I was calm enough to think about sleep. Some funny photos of Gary Snyder and Philip Whalen. One of Robert Bly as an old hag. Very appropriate. His fans won't like it as it captures a side of him that the majority of the world does not see. But I know about first-hand.

Robert Bly reading at Sonoma State

I worked so hard to produce that reading, workshop, and book party, and Robert Bly was such an ass towards me and treated me badly. He wouldn’t even sign my copy of the Rilke translations.