The Poet Who Didn't Write

 In a room without windows, strange things can happen. And, in a cavernous cellar bar buried deep in the city’s underbelly, the heavy mix of rain and pressure in the Friday night air can warp a man's mind. That’s what happened to someone before my very eyes. He lost his shape.

He seemed to know everybody, but was a friend of no one. The room moved around him like he was the eye of a storm. But he couldn't be. He lacked the calm of a storm’s eye. He may have been physically still, yes, but inside, emotionally, there was turbulence.

I'd seen him hopping between people and the bar throughout the evening. Never long with the people. Always long at the bar, trying to pick up drinks and conversations. Not many conversations—not long ones, anyway. But plenty of long drinks.

When I found myself next to him, he claimed to know me. At first, I thought, maybe he did. I sort of half-recognised him. But then I realised 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.

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

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

'No, I don't do any poetry of any kind,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘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. I was genuinely curious.

'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 believed this act 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.

'Bits.' I said.

'I've just read Desecration Angels...' He leant forward, about to launch into something.

'Desolation Angels?' I interrupted.

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

'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.' 

'Oh yeah, your Dad.' I said, nodding.

'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 animated 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 all of that. ‘ I said when he’d run his course. ‘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 tightened up and slammed his glass down on the bar. I shifted my weight.

'Maybe you're the one who doesn't understand,’ I said. ‘If you want to see the hippies as an extension of the Beats, sure, 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. Meanwhile, 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 they were able to get it down and get heard.

Now, look at the sixties and the social issues going on. The Beats obviously appealed to the liberals and the left, many of whom happened to be hippies. Then look at the politics—a blatant outrage.

Do you really expect the left not to speak out against a terrible war? I mean, even half the right were against that war. The hippies didn’t corrupt the Beat movement. It just happens that's how things coalesced timing-wise. You think if Vietnam had happened in the fifties, the Beats would have just shrugged it off?' I paused, took a sip.

'Yeah, but it's not just Vietnam,’ he said, looking down at his shoes. ‘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 going in circles now. Up alone on his mountain. I picked up the reins.

'Well, if you want to talk about politicising a cultural movement in that era, 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 anything with 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 too many other things that came into play and affected the course of events…’

He looked up and 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 how I see it.’ He said. He was spent now, running on fumes. He looked shrivelled, like a piece of dried fruit.

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

That was as much as 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 a political debate. Something truly unforgivable. So personal.

I went off to enjoy the music and the orgiastic atmosphere in the room without windows while he stayed at the bar, regathering himself. It was a good, long night of fun and feeling. One of the best.

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

-2005-