The Poet Who Didn't Write

 In rooms with no windows, strange things can happen to a man's mind. It's the only explanation, surely…

In a cavernous cellar bar buried deep in the city’s underbelly, with a heavy mix of rain and pressure in the Friday night air, it can warp you beyond all recognisable form. And that's what happened to a man before my very eyes. He lost his shape.

He knew everybody but was a friend of no one. The room moved around him as if he were the eye of a storm. But he couldn't be. He lacked the calm of a storm’s eye. His disposition was both rigid and turbulent. I'd seen him through the evening, hopping between the people in the place and the bar. Never very long with the people. Always a long time at the bar, trying to pick up drinks and conversations. Not many conversations, not long ones anyway. Plenty of long drinks.

When I found myself next to him at the bar, he claimed to know me. At first, I thought, maybe he did. I've met lots of random people in my time, and I sort of recognised him. But then I realised that he just had one of those faces. I'd never met him in my life. I'd met some like him, though.

'So, what do you do?' I asked him.

'I consider myself to be a modern beat poet,' came the reply.

'Oh, really. What do you write?' I said.

'Nothing,' he replied.

'Oh,' I said.

At first, I thought this might be some conceptual shit he was talking about. Maybe he was onto something. A poet who doesn't write. Sounds like a good gig.

'So, how does your poetry work?' I asked. I was looking for the big idea here.

'No, I don't do any poetry of any kind,’ He said. ‘But I like the Beats. I've read some Kerouac, and my Dad was a Beat poet.'

'Oh really, what did he write?' I asked.

'Well, just bits really, not much. But he was around at that time, and he was into Ginsberg and stuff.'

He was thinking he was a real cool guy, like he thought this shit would impress me.

'So was your dad’s stuff good? Did he have anything published?' I asked.

'No. But he has all the books. I've been reading them. Have you ever read Kerouac?' He asked me.

'Bits.' I replied.

'I've just read Desecration Angels...' He was about to launch into it.

'Desolation Angels?' I interrupted.

'Yeah. I love the beginning when he's on top of the mountain. But the rest of it is spoiled because all the people ruin it. It's better when it's just Jack on the mountain.' He told me.

'Well, the contrast is kind of the point of the book. But if you want to get into Jacky alone on his mountain, then read The Dharma Bums.' I suggested.

'The what? Oh, I don't know that one.' He said.

'You're some poet.' I said.

'No, I am, I tell you. Because it's a personal thing to me, because of my Dad.' He was starting to get quite animated.

'Oh yeah, your Dad.' I said.

'And Kesey, I'm more into him. But I tell you, I hate the hippies for what they did to what the Beats created.'

He was becoming irate now, adamant to assure me of his credentials as a modern beat poet. As if I needed further convincing.

'I don't see any reason to hate hippies,' I said.

'But they took a beautiful thing and politicised it and used it and destroyed it.'

Then he went on about Vietnam.

'Well, I don't know about that. ‘ I said. ‘I'd say there's a bit more to it, and there's plenty of worse people to hate. Hippies weren't so bad.'

'But it's personal, you don't understand.' He said. I shifted my weight, put my glass down.

'I think you're the one who doesn't understand,’ I said. ‘If you see the hippies as an extension of the Beats, then that's kind of a logical progression, but you have to look at the other factors of the era. In the fifties, you've got the post-war sanitised mass-production ethic going on. The Beats were doing their own thing, rejecting the order of the day, not being self-conscious about it, just living life how they wanted to live it. They just so happened to have something to say and knew how they wanted to say it, and they were able to get their words out and get heard.

Now, you look at the sixties and the issues of the day. The Beats obviously appealed to the liberals and the left, many of whom happened to be hippies. Then look at the politics of the day — a fucking outrage, blatantly.

Do you really expect the left not to speak out against a terrible war? I mean, even half the right were against that war. You think the Beats weren't against the war? The hippies didn’t corrupt their movement. It just happens that's how things coalesced with the timing of Vietnam and the hippies being the main left culture of the day.' I collected myself, took a sip.

'Yeah, but it's not just Vietnam.’ The poet said. ‘The hippies just fucked it up. They were handed something great and they killed it because they had no focus. They ruined it.'

He was running out of steam. Going in circles. Up alone on his mountain. I picked up the reins.

'Well if you want to talk about politicising a cultural movement of that era,’ I said, ‘you can't really ignore Vietnam. I mean, I wasn't there at the time. I can only go on what I've read, and from what I've read between the lines, I can't say with any certainty, but who says the hippies did take over the Beat movement? The Beats were a small group of writers and intellectuals. The hippies were an altogether more public scene, and you're asking for trouble if you don't have some kind of screening process. Hell, half the hippies weren’t even really hippies; they were just along for the ride. But you can’t blame them for corrupting the Beat scene, especially not because they spoke out against Vietnam. There are many other things that came into play and affected the course of events…’

He cut me off. 'But you don't understand. I know because it's so personal.'

‘Personal? Okay, pal, I get it.’ I said.

'No, it's just a thing with me. That's just how I see it.’ He said. He was spent now. He looked shrivelled and dried out.

‘Sure, man. Maybe you should write it all down.’ I said.

That was all I could take. I gave him that last line and got the hell out of there, leaving him at the bar with his idyllic thoughts of Kerouac on his mountain top with the hippies conspiring to ruin the beatniks by dragging them into political debate. Something truly unforgivable. So personal.

I went off to enjoy the music and the orgiastic atmosphere in the room with no windows while my guy stayed at the bar trying to rearrange himself back into a recognisable form. It was a good, long, late night of fun and feeling.

That poet, he doesn't write. But I do.

-2005-