عزلة مكتظة بالوحدة

by Bob Kaufman, محمد مظلوم (ترجمة وتقديم)

Published in 1965, Solitudes Crowded with Loneliness assembles ten years' work of Bob Kaufman, celebrated in San Francisco as the original Beat and in France as "the American Rimbaud."

Kaufman, one of fourteen children born in Louisiana to a German Jewish father and a Black Catholic mother, ran away to sea when he was thirteen, circling the globe nine times in the next twenty years. In the 1950s, while working as a waiter at the Los Angeles Hilton, he met another erstwhile member of the Merchant Marine, Jack Kerouac, and soon thereafter both moved north to found, along with Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, and others, the San Francisco literary "renaissance" of the time.

Kaufman promotes a spontaneous, prophetic verse, mixing street talk and jazz with vision. Solitudes Crowded with Loneliness contains odes to Charles Mingus, Hart Crane, Ray Charles, and Albert Camus as well as love lyrics, political rants, "Prison Poems," and the prose meditation "Second April."

"Perhaps the best of the Beat poets of the 1950s ... this book collects the best of his work, which is surprising literate and moving." --National Observer

"Mr. Kaufman has a genuine lyric talent and his poetry, at its best is sensuous, exciting, and charged with vitality." --Publishers Weekly
(New Directions Press)

Genres: Poetry, American, Fiction, 20th Century, Literature, Surreal, African American

216 pages, Paperback

First published June 1, 1965

Reviews

[roe · Rating 5 out of 5]

No matter how many times I read this collection, or really anything by Kaufman, I fall in love again. He should be a better known Beat poet than he is, but his lack of fame has its own endearing quality.

The music in Kaufman's work is stunning and the politics thought-provoking. The imagery and use of language always has me rereading and wishing that there was more.

[e · Rating 3 out of 5]

I want to like Kaufman more, and I sense Kerouac cribbed a lot of his spontaneity and onomatopoeic jabberwocky jazz meter from him—"Second April" reads like one of Kerouac's stoned rants and "Boms" toward the end reminds me of the final portion of Big Sur, rhapsodizing the rhythms of the Pacific but taken to the streets—but ultimately I feel like Kaufman just wants to impress me with washes of poetic language and not actually say anything concrete. Not that it has to, and I certainly don't like the, say, Billy Collins school, where reading his stuff feels like a kindergartener teacher trying to put the kids down for a nap, but still, at the same time I do wish the sound & fury of it all would ebb away for some sort of "luminous detail" that doesn't bleed into the next crazed ekstasis. "Prison Poems" is probably the best thing here; "Come, help flatten a raindrop" is just a perfect sentence. Kaufman should definitely be given more attention, though, despite my own indifference to a lot of what he does.

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

He's Better than Ginsberg, I am allowed to say that?

[Batool · Rating 3 out of 5]

"أردت تأليف قدّاس عظيمٍ،
لكنّي لا أجيد الركوع كما ينبغي."

[Mat · Rating 4 out of 5]

A wonderfully eclectic and highly original volume of beat poetry.

In terms of beat poetry, Kaufman (and Micheline) are about as good as it gets when they hit their stride. Although not as consistent in quality of output as Corso or Ferlinghetti, Kaufman and Micheline top them all at the peak of their game.
I've heard that Kaufman could recite lines from t s eliot by heart and here you can feel some of eliot's influence.

Many of the beat big names are mentioned in here - Ginsberg, Kerouac and Cassady and Kaufman obviously knew them all but is not as famous as any of them. Why? Because of his ethnicity? Because of his outspoken views? Because of lack of promotion by his publishers?
i don't know. In any case, he deserves to be better known. The final piece in this volume, The Abomunist Manifesto, is both hilarious and brilliantly creative. A minor masterpiece.

Kaufman was referred to as the 'American Rimbaud' by the French - a very high accolade to bestow upon any poet. Like Rimbaud, he did not publish much, was extremely controversial in his political and social views but fortunately managed to outlive his poetic French confrere by several decades.

One of Kaufman's most beautifully political and poetic gestures was when he took a ten-year vow of silence after the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

This guy deserves to be read more. Alas, most of his books are out of print these days.

[A · Rating 4 out of 5]

Having lived in San Francisco in the 1970s, I would see Bob Kaufman every now and then on the streets of North Beach and at different events. I love the title of this book and Kaufman's way with words.

[Sian Lile-Pastore · Rating 3 out of 5]

The first half was great and then the poems got all long and made no sense. Reckon you'd have to hear them read aloud. Also there's a video on YouTube of Bob Kaufman dancing.

[John Allen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poet Bob Kaufman is a black reflection of the surrealists, the beats, and more honed down like a diamond. I knew a poet who would watch Kaufman play his saxophone and generally tried to track him down--a difficult thing--and he told me that, basically, Kaufman was like "a child" who had such intense enthusiasm for his poetry and for jazz that he couldn't really settle down and used dope to calm his constant urge toward creativity. He is cross genre, his own voice distilling itself in the simplest lines. Everyone associated with him was part of this frenetic lifestyle, including the poet who told me all that. A genius.

[James Tracy · Rating 5 out of 5]

For all the time I spend reading and writing overtly political poetry, I always return to this surrealistic, playful, morose, amazing poet. Kaufman was one of the Beats who never received the attention he deserved. Didn't help he spent years in a Buddhist vow of silence.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe he may be only one of two Blacks from the beat generation to be published.

[Ned · Rating 3 out of 5]

I see & hear this homeless man, shuffling the streets, following his own mutterings, & he will not look me in the eye & does not care to know me.

[Lee Foust · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a classic collection from my favorite Beat poet--sorry, Allen, I love you too but you only get one favorite.

I used to see Bob wandering around North beach in 1984-5 when I worked at the second hand book shop a couple of doors down from City Lights. His passing coincided with my getting the notebook in which I'd pen my first novel on an extended European adventure in 1986 and the first thing in that notebook is a meditation on Kaufman's poetic memorial service being held in the doorway of Vesuvios Bar (since Bob had long been permanently 86ed from the interior premises).

What I love about Kaufman's verse is its ability to skirt sense with surreal image in a sweet spot that's right on the ledge of being righteous above the precipice of the ineffable. His writing, more than any other surrealist I can think of, actually comes close to convincing me that there is something called the subconscious and that it might be wiser than we think, consciously. Actually I'm pretty sure that the concept of the subconscious is only another mind game that the mind plays with itself, but, anyway, the literary game Kaufman plays with it is a very good one and the poems satisfy both in the meanings I think I pull out of them as well as the crazy surreal word soup I revel in, the seductive rhymes and associations, the satisfyingly new grammatical combinations, the startling images, the whole shebang.

Of course the San Francisco milieu is nostalgic for me (even if from the decade preceding my birth but the world the poems speak of left ruins that I sought out and inhabited in the 1980s), the Beatnik cool, the hepness also pleases for these were my first loves and the things I first emulated on the trail to becoming who I am today--a failed writing living far away from home.

If only I could go back to 1984 and buy the man a drink. We have so much in common now. I dig and love him very much in sad retrospect in the San Francisco now infected by technocrats and suburban housewives of many stages.

FYI this collection includes scattered lyrics culminating in a long-ish cycle called "Jail Poems," then adds a surreal prose piece that uses rhyme, association, rythm (poetic techniques) to chart a series of "sessions" of what I'm not sure but I suspect maybe group therapy or rehab/detox? called "Second April," and ends with the extremely witty "Abomunist Manifesto" that spoofs manifesti, the New Testament, and US history and nearly out-Dada's Dada.

Eat your heart out Tristan Tzara!

[Hollis · Rating 4 out of 5]

"I am doing my best to dry my mind. The brain's a bully." - from "Sullen Bakeries of Total Recall" (43)

Kaufman wrote from a mournful beatnik tradition, riffing between hip lingoisms and existential confessions padded by cool jazz rhythms. He often wrote with the craft and life of poetry as his open subject, taking more or less successful aim at the squares saturating his SanFran periphery (this approach is least effective when shaped by decidedly unhip sexist jeers). One of my favorite poems, the opening “I Have Folded My Sorrows,” exemplifies his introspective, almost confessional tone--expressing a felt distance from all things (“and the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me”) and even his own composition (“and yes, I have at times wished myself something different” [3]). Another, “Would You Wear My Eyes?,” includes some of his richest, seemingly effortless dreamspeak--characteristic of a confidently surrealist voicing--deftly positioning the poet’s body within a borderless relation to history (“My face is covered with maps of dead nations” [40]).

In short--a great collection, slightly marred by the final inclusions--"Second April" and "Abomunist Manifesto"--which I'd not-so-charitably describe as dogshit. The less said in reference to those vague experiments the better. Read front-to-back, those slogs unfavorable colored my final impressions, but looking at the whole, this is a great way to familiarize yourself with the author. Admittedly, this is a slim collection, but that just means the first two-thirds really worked for me.

Favorites: "I Have Folded My Sorrows" / "Walking Parker Home" / "Sullen Bakeries of Total Recall" / "Jail Poems"

[Interzonatron · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Crash from foggy yesterday
To the light
Of imaginary night.”
- Bob Kaufman, “SOLITUDES, Crowded with loneliness”

I’ve wanted to read Kaufman so badly. The issue with Kaufman is his body of work is limited, and not only is it limited it’s nearly impossible to find. Luckily while in midtown manhattan last week I found a copy of SOLITUDES. I absolutely loved this collection of poems and i firmly believes he’s one of the most talented poets of the beat generation. It’s astounding how central he is to the era, yet so far underrepresented by both the beat generation scholars & scholars of black poetry. The only reason I didn’t give it 5 stars is because the style of the poems dramatically changes to a more experimental and abstract form in the final two chapters “Second April” & “Abomunist Manifesto” - that I wasn’t a fan of. I cannot wait to read/find the last few poetry books of Kaufman.

[Zahraa]

"لقدْ سَمعتُ أغنيةَ الزرافةِ المَكْسُورةِ، وغنَّيتها."

اتحاشى كتب الشعر المترجمة لأنها تقتل روح الأشعار. لكن عنوان الكتاب يمثل البقعة الأشد وضوحًا لحياتي، ولهذا أقتنيته!
وأقدر الجهد العظيم الذي بذله المترجم (محمد مظلوم) في محاولته لإيصال شعر "بوب كوفمان" كما هو للقارئ العربي.⁩

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

TELEGRAPHIC PREFACE TO KAUFMAN IN SOLITUDES CROWDED WITH LONELINESS OF A BLASTED LONG-DISTANCE RUNNER IMPROVISING TE DEUMS OF TOTAL RECALL ALONE IN A LEMMING WORLD AMONG ACID VISIONS OF DOORS OPENING INTO MISPLACED BLUE PARADISES OF THE SENSES HIS TONGUE HUNG OUT TO DRY IN IMAGINARY LOVESCAPES FOLDED HIS SORROWS IN AFRICAN DREAM WALKING PARKER HOME WHERE AFTERWARDS THEY WILL DANCE O CELESTIAL HOBO ON UNHOLY MISSIONS WITH BATTLE REPORTS AND BENEDICTIONS O BIRD WITH GRASS WINGS WHO STILL KNOWS EXACTLY WHERE HE IS HIGH ON LIFE SITTING ON THE CEILING AND WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND AND WOULD YOU WEAR HIS EYES WELL THEN HOLD YOUR BREASTS AND READ HIS TRUE-NORTH LEGEND WRIT ON LANDSCAPES OF LIFE IN MAPS OF AMERICA WHERE NIGHTINGALES STILL SOUND ON US AND THE SEARCH FOR ECSTASY NEVERTHELESS GOES ON

- FERLINGHETTI

In black core of night, it explodes
Silver thunder, rolling back my brain,
Bursting copper screens, memory worlds
Deep in star-fed beds of time,
Seducing my soul to diamond fires of night.
Faint outline, a ship-momentary fright
Lifted on waves of colour,
Sunk in pits of light,
Drummed back through time,
Hummed back through mind,
Drumming, cracking the night.
Strange forest songs, skin sounds
Crashing through - no longer strange.
Incestuous yellow flowers tearing
Magic from the earth.
Moon-dipped rituals, led
By a scarlet god,
Caressed by ebony maidens
With daylight eyes,
Purple garments,
Noses that twitch,
Singing young girl songs
Of an ancient love
In dark, sunless places
Where memories are sealed,
Burned in eyes of tigers.

Suddenly wise, I fight the dream:
Green screams enfold my night.

- African Dream, pg. 4

*

For every remembered dream
There are twenty nighttime lifetimes.

Under multiplied arcs of sleep
Zombie existences become Existence.

In night's warped rectangles
Stormy bathtubs of wavy sex
Come hotly drawn.

Everyday, confused in desperate poses,
Loses its hue, to Dada prodigies of black.
There never was a night that ended
Or began.

- Celestial Hobo, pg. 7

*

San Fran, hipster land,
Jazz sounds, wig sounds,
Earthquake sounds, others,
Allen on Chestnut Street,
Giving poetry to squares,
Corso on knees, pleading,
God Eyes.
Rexroth, Ferlinghetti,
Swinging, in cellars,
Kerouac at Locke's,
Writing Neil
On high typewriter,
Neil, booting a choo-choo,
On zigzag tracks.
Now, many cats
Falling in,
New York cats,
Too many cats,
Monterey scene cooler,
San Franers, falling down.
Canneries closing.
Sardines splitting.
For Mexico.
Me too.

- West Coast Sound - 1956, pg. 11

*

When I see the little Buddhist scouts
Marching with their Zen mothers
To tea ceremonies at the rock garden,
I shake my head. . . . It falls off.

- Reflections on a Small Parade, pg. 15

*

Twisting brass, key of G, tenement stoned,
Singing Jacob's song, with Caribbe emphasis.

Flinging the curls of infant rabbis, gently,
Into the glowing East Side night.

Esther's hand, in Malinche's clasped,
Traps the fly of evening, forever.

Ancient log-rolling caps of Caribbe waves
Splashing crowded harbours of endless steps.

Angry, fire-eyed children clutch transient winds,
Singing Gypsy songs, love me now, love me now.

The echoes return, riding the voice of the river,
As time cries out, on the skin of an African drum.

- East Fifth Street (N.Y.), pg. 18

*

Ray Charles is the black wind of Kilimanjaro,
Screaming up-and-down blues,
Moaning happy on all the elevators of my time.

Smiling into the camera, with an African symphony
Hidden in his throat, and (I Got a Woman) wails, too.

He bursts from Bessie's crushed black skull
One cold night outside of Nashville, shouting,
And grows bluer from memory, glowing bluer, still.

At certain times you can see the moon
Balanced on his head.

From his mouth he hurls chunks of raw soul.
He separated the sea of polluted sounds
and led the blues into the Promised Land.

Ray Charles is a dangerous man ('way cross town),
And I love him.

- Blues Notes, for Ray Charles's birthday, pg. 20

*

String-chewing bass player,
Plucking rolled balls of sound
From the jazz-scented night.

Feeding hungry beat seekers
Finger-shaped heartbeats,
Driving ivory nails
Into their greedy eyes.

Smoke crystals, from the nostrils
Of released jazz demons,
Crash from foggy yesterday
To the light
Of imaginary night.

- Mingus, pg. 27

*

The holey little holes
In my skin,
Millions of little
secret graves,
Filled with dead
Feelings
That won't stay
Dead.

The hairy little hairs
On my head,
Millions of little
Secret trees,
Filled with dead
Birds
That won't stay
Dead.

When I die,
I won't stay
Dead.

- Dolorous Echo, pg. 30

*

How many ladies in how many paintings
Escaped how many snaked?

How many snakes in how many paintings
Escaped how many ladies?

Every lady escaped, but one.
Not one goddam snake ever escaped.

It's a hell of a lot safer
To be a lady
Than a snake.

- Ladies, pg. 33

*

Come on out of there with your hands up, Chaplin,
In your Sitting Bull suit, with your amazing new Presto Lighter.
We caught you. We found your fingerprints on the World's Fair.
Give us back the money and start over as a cowboy.
Come on, Chaplin, we mean business.

- Patriotic Ode on the Fourteenth Anniversary of the Persecution of Charlie Chaplin, pg. 45

*

A cincophrenic poet called
a meeting of all five of
him at which four of the
most powerful of him voted
to expel the weakest of him
who didn't dig it, coughing
poetry for revenge, beseech-
ing all horizontal reserves
to cross, spiral, and whirl.

- Cincophrenicpoet, pg. 49

*

My eyes too have souls that rage
At the sight of butterflies walking,
At the crime of a ship cutting an ocean in two,
at vision of girls who should be naked
Sitting at lunch counters eyeballing newspapers,
At complacent faces of staring clocks
Objectively canceling lives
With ticks.

- The Eyes Too, pg. 50

*

In the night he comes, my prechanteur,
Singing the silent songs, enchanting songs
Of purple forest, orange woods
Where yellow flower loves yellow flower,
Green limbs budding, twice yellow
Of ebony maidens with happy eyes
In orange garments, noses that twitch
Singing songs of secret love
In dark sunless places
Illuminated only by the light
Of looks in lovers' eyes,
Witnessed only by silent animals . . .
I awake, yearning, grasping.
He is gone, my prechanteur.

- Mt Prechanteur, pg. 53

*

Should I sing a requiem, as the trap closes?
Perhaps it is more fitting to shout nonsense.

Should I run to the streets, screaming lovesongs?
Perhaps it is more consistent to honk obscenities.

Should I chew my fingernails down to the wrist?
Perhaps it is better to blow eternal jazz.

Maybe I will fold the wind into neat squares.

- Perhaps, pg. 54

*

Remember, poet, while gallivanting across the sky,
Skylarking, shouting, calling names . . . Walk softly.

Your footprint on rain clouds is visible to naked eyes,
Lamps barnacled to your feet refract the mirrored air.

Exotic scents of your hidden vision fly in the face of time.

Remember not to forget the dying colours of yesterday
As you inhale tomorrow's hot dream, blown from frozen lips.

Remember, you naked agent of every nothing.

- Forget to Not, pg. 55

*

1
I am sitting in a cell with a view of evil parallels,
Waiting thunder to splinter me into a thousand me's.
It is not enough to be in one cage with one self;
I want to sit opposite every prisoner in every hole.
Doors roll and bang, every slam a finality, bang!
The junkie disappeared into a red noise, stoning out his hell.
The odored wino congratulates himself on not smoking,
Fingerprints left lying black inky gravestones,
Noises of pain seeping through steel walls crashing
Reach my own hurt. I become part of someone forever.
Wild accents of criminals are sweeter to me than hum of cops,
Busy battening down hatches of human souls; cargo
Destined for ports of accusations, harbours of guilt.
What do policemen eat, Socrates, still prisoner, old one?

2
Painter, paint me a crazy jail, mad water-colour cells.
Poet, how old is suffering? Write it in yellow lead.
God, make me a sky on my grass ceiling. I need stars now,
To lead through this atmosphere of shrieks and private hells,
Entrances and exits, in . . . out . . . up . . . down, the civic seesaw.
Here - me - now - hear - me - now - always here somehow.

3
In a universe of cells - who is not in jail? Jailers.
In a world of hospitals - who is not sick? Doctors.
A golden sardine is swimming in my head.
Oh we know some things, man, about some things
Like jazz and jails and God.
Saturday is a good day to go to jail.

4
Now they give a new form, quivering jelly-like,
That proves any boy can be president of Muscatel.
They are mad at him because he's one of Them.
Gray-speckled unplanned nakedness; stinking
Fingers grasping toilet bowl. Mr. America wants to bathe.
Look! On the floor, lying across America's face -
A real movie star featured in a million newsreels.
What am I doing - feeling compassion?
When he comes out of it, he will help kill me.
He probably hates living.

5
Nuts, skin bolts, clanking in his stomach, scrambled.
His society's gone to pieces in his belly, bloated.
See the great American windmill, tilting at itself,
Good solid stock, the kind that made America drunk.
Success written all over his street-streaked ass.
Successful-type success, forty home runs in one inning.
Stop suffering, Jack, you can't fool us. We know.
This is the greatest country in the world, ain't it?
He didn't make it. Wino in Cell 3.

6
There have been too many years in this short span of mine.
My soul demands a cave of its own, like the Jain god;
Yet I must make it go on, hard like jazz, glowing
In this dark plastic jungle, land of long night, chilled.
My navel is a button to push when I want inside out.
Am I not more than a mass of entrails and rough tissue?
Must I break my bones? Drink my wine-diluted blood?
Should I dredge old sadness from my chest?
Not again,
All those ancient balls of fire, hotly swallowed, let them lie.
Let me spit breath mists of introspection, bits of me,
So that when I am gone, I shall be in the air.

7
Someone whom I am is no one.
Something I have done is nothing.
Someplace I have been is nowhere.
I am not me.
What of the answers
I must find questions for?
All these strange streets
I must find cities for,
Thank God for beatniks.

8
All night the stink of rotting people,
Fumes rising from pyres of live men,
Fill my nose with gassy disgust,
Drown my exposed eyes in tears.

9
Traveling God salesmen, bursting my ear drum
With the dullest part of a good sexy book,
Impatient for Monday and adding machines.

10
Yellow-eyed dogs whistling in evening.

11
The baby came to jail today.

12
One more day to hell, filled with floating glands.

13
The jail, a huge hollow metal cube
Hanging from the moon by a silver chain.
Someday Johnny Appleseed is going to shop it down.

14
Three long strings of light
Braided into a ray

15
I am apprehensive about my future;
My past has turned its back on me.

16
Shadows I see, forming on the wall,
Pictures of desires protected from my own eyes.

17
After spending all night constructing a dream,
Morning came and blinded me with light.
Now I seek among mountains of crushed eggshells
For the God damned dream I never wanted.

18

Sitting here writing things on paper,
Instead of sticking the pencil into the air.

19
The Battle of Monumental Failures raging,
Both hoping for a good clean loss.

20
Now I see the night, silently overwhelming day.

21
Caught in imaginary webs of conscience,
I weep over my acts, yet believe.

22
Cities should be built on one side of the street.

23
People who can't cast shadows
Never die of freckles.

24
The end always comes last.

25
We sat at a corner tables,
Devouring each other word by word,
Until nothing was left, repulsive skeletons.

26
I sit here writing, not daring to stop,
For fear of seeing what's outside my head.

27
There, Jesus, didn't hurt a bit, did it?

28
I am afraid to follow my flesh over those narrow
Wide hard soft female beds, but I do.

29
Link by link, we forged the chain.
Then, discovering the end around our necks,
We bugged out.

30
I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread,
But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

31
From how many years away does a baby come?

32
Universality, duality, totality. . . . one.

33
The defective on the floor, mumbling,
Was once a man who shouted across tables.

34
Come, help flatten a raindrop.

Written in San Francisco City Prison
Cell 3, 1959

- Jail Poems, pg.

[Lameesh]

The hungry heart inside the hungry hearts,
Beats silently, beats softly, beats, beats.

favourites- Bird with painted wings, dear John, Hollywood, would you wear my eyes?, perhaps, jail poems

[Zahra · Rating 3 out of 5]

"لقد مرّ عمر على ما يبدو
‏لم أعد كما كنت
‏لذا لا أجيد الكلام ببلاغتي القديمة
‏أصبحت أقلّ من ظل ، و أكثر عتمة منه .."

#‏بوب_كوفمان

بترجمة ممتازة لهذه العزلة الممتلئة بالالم و الآسى لكوفمان

[Nouru-éddine · Rating 3 out of 5]

::انطباع عام::

يتسم شعر بوب كاوفمان بالعالمية والسرية الشديدة والسخرية اللاذعة، فكما يقال: لا تظهر السخرية إلا من الأشخاص الكاملين! علاوة على أن تعبيرات كاوفمان جذابة، وهي تعلو بالقارئ من سمو الأفكار النبيلة والجمالية إلى مهبط لغة الشارع السوقية، وهذا التناقض يظهر كم "الحياة" التي تعيش داخل شعر كاوفمان. لا أزعم أني فهمت كل ما كتب، فيجيب مسايرة الحياة الجماعية والخلفية الثقافية للخمسينيات في الولايات المتحدة آنذاك لفهم السياق الذي يتحدث من خلاله بوب كاوفمان. لكن أكثر القصائد جمالاً وروعة هي قصائد السجن، وهي التي سوف أوردها هنا في هذه المراجعة باللغة الإنجليزية.

***

::قصائد السجن::

Jail Poems
BY BOB KAUFMAN
1
I am sitting in a cell with a view of evil parallels,
Waiting thunder to splinter me into a thousand me's.
It is not enough to be in one cage with one self;
I want to sit opposite every prisoner in every hole.
Doors roll and bang, every slam a finality, bang!
The junkie disappeared into a red noise, stoning out his hell.
The odored wino congratulates himself on not smoking,
Fingerprints left lying on black inky gravestones,
Noises of pain seeping through steel walls crashing
Reach my own hurt. I become part of someone forever.
Wild accents of criminals are sweeter to me than hum of cops,
Busy battening down hatches of human souls; cargo
Destined for ports of accusations, harbors of guilt.
What do policemen eat, Socrates, still prisoner, old one?

2
Painter, paint me a crazy jail, mad water-color cells.
Poet, how old is suffering? Write it in yellow lead.
God, make me a sky on my glass ceiling. I need stars now,
To lead through this atmosphere of shrieks and private hells,
Entrances and exits, in . . . out . . . up . . . down, the civic seesaw.
Here — me — now — always here somehow.

3
In a universe of cells—who is not in jail? Jailers.
In a world of hospitals—who is not sick? Doctors.
A golden sardine is swimming in my head.
Oh we know some things, man, about some things
Like jazz and jails and God.
Saturday is a good day to go to jail.

4
Now they give a new form, quivering jelly-like,
That proves any boy can be president of Muscatel.
They are mad at him because he's one of Them.
Gray-speckled unplanned nakedness; stinking
Fingers grasping toilet bowl. Mr. America wants to bathe.
Look! On the floor, lying across America's face—
A real movie star featured in a million newsreels.
What am I doing—feeling compassion?
When he comes out of it, he will help kill me.
He probably hates living.

5
Nuts, skin bolts, clanking in his stomach, scrambled.
His society's gone to pieces in his belly, bloated.
See the great American windmill, tilting at itself,
Good solid stock, the kind that made America drunk.
Success written all over his street-streaked ass.
Successful-type success, forty home runs in one inning.
Stop suffering, Jack, you can't fool us. We know.
This is the greatest country in the world, ain't it?
He didn't make it. Wino in Cell 3.

6
There have been too many years in this short span of mine.
My soul demands a cave of its own, like the Jain god;
Yet I must make it go on, hard like jazz, glowing
In this dark plastic jungle, land of long night, chilled.
My navel is a button to push when I want inside out.
Am I not more than a mass of entrails and rough tissue?
Must I break my bones? Drink my wine-diluted blood?
Should I dredge old sadness from my chest?
Not again,
All those ancient balls of fire, hotly swallowed, let them lie.
Let me spit breath mists of introspection, bits of me,
So that when I am gone, I shall be in the air.

7
Someone whom I am is no one.
Something I have done is nothing.
Someplace I have been is nowhere.
I am not me.
What of the answers
I must find questions for?
All these strange streets
I must find cities for,
Thank God for beatniks.

8
All night the stink of rotting people,
Fumes rising from pyres of live men,
Fill my nose with gassy disgust,
Drown my exposed eyes in tears.

9
Traveling God salesmen, bursting my ear drum
With the dullest part of a good sexy book,
Impatient for Monday and adding machines.

10
Yellow-eyed dogs whistling in evening.

11
The baby came to jail today.

12
One more day to hell, filled with floating glands.

13
The jail, a huge hollow metal cube
Hanging from the moon by a silver chain.
Someday Johnny Appleseed is going to chop it down.

14
Three long strings of light
Braided into a ray.

15
I am apprehensive about my future;
My past has turned its back on me.

16
Shadows I see, forming on the wall,
Pictures of desires protected from my own eyes.

17
After spending all night constructing a dream,
Morning came and blinded me with light.
Now I seek among mountains of crushed eggshells
For the God damned dream I never wanted.

18
Sitting here writing things on paper,
Instead of sticking the pencil into the air.

19
The Battle of Monumental Failures raging,
Both hoping for a good clean loss.

20
Now I see the night, silently overwhelming day.

21
Caught in imaginary webs of conscience,
I weep over my acts, yet believe.

22
Cities should be built on one side of the street.

23
People who can't cast shadows
Never die of freckles.

24
The end always comes last.

25
We sat at a corner table,
Devouring each other word by word,
Until nothing was left, repulsive skeletons.

26
I sit here writing, not daring to stop,
For fear of seeing what's outside my head.

27
There, Jesus, didn't hurt a bit, did it?

28
I am afraid to follow my flesh over those narrow
Wide hard soft female beds, but I do.

29
Link by link, we forged the chain.
Then, discovering the end around our necks,
We bugged out.

30
I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread,
But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

31
From how many years away does a baby come?

32
Universality, duality, totality . . . .one.

33
The defective on the floor, mumbling,
Was once a man who shouted across tables.

34
Come, help flatten a raindrop.

Written in San Francisco City Prison
Cell 3, 1959

Bob Kaufman, "Jail Poems" from Collected Poems of Bob Kaufman. Copyright © 2019 by Bob Kaufman. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Source: Collected Poems of Bob Kaufman (City Lights Books, 2019)

[Oscar · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jazz poetry at its finest and I can feel where some other Beats licked their riffs off of.

In the "Poems" section, the music is all in the lines and the language so Kaufman doesn't have to throw his lines all over the page to affect musicality, he just lets them roll on their own beat and effect their own drones and tones.

"Second April" switches off into stanza sections set in newspaper style justified blocks of prose-imagery that chronicles the speaker's stint in rehab. The account is chilling but never falls into self-pity (from the speaker or from the reader) thanks to its anchored speech.

"Abomunist Manfifesto" is a straight trip. Invented and re-imagined history with the just-concocted language directly aimed at the current political system is the height of poetic satire that modern experimental/performance/academic/slam poets are still aspiring to reach.

This feels like the kind of poetry collection I am going to have to revisit more than once.

[E H · Rating 3 out of 5]

I'm normally not crazy about the Beats, but this guy puts the "beat" in Beat poetry for sure. His language is beautiful and musical, he's accessible, and I laughed out loud at least twice. I actually enjoyed most of the poems, but had a hard time getting into the "Second April" and "Abomunist Manifesto" sections, hence only three stars. But I'll definitely be seeking out more of his work.

[Heath · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bob Kaufman was the prototypical beatnik. A former merchant marine, Kaufman befriended beat lions such as Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsburg -- and, while he didn't produce as much published poetry as either -- lived a life perhaps more beat. These poems were written when he wasn't immersed in either of his two vows of silence, and they're largely appreciative odes to bebop jazz and related topics. From LA to North Beach, with stops in New York, Kaufman's a poet worth perusing. "Life is a saxophone played by death," he wrote. The Abomunist Manifesto, perhaps my favorite series of poems in this volumem, seems highly inspired by surrealism.

[Brendan]

Rating: 3 1/2

Introduction by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. A lot of references to jazz and the Beats. Some good material, but also some slides into gibberish and excessive weirdness.

Favorites:
"Hart....Crane"
"Song of the Broken Giraffe"
"The Eyes Too"
"Still Further Notes Dis- and Re- Garding Abomunism" - Jesus Christ

Mulberry-eyed girls in black stockings,
Smelling vaguely of mint jelly and last night's bongo
drummer
- "Bagel Shop Jazz"

I love him because his eyes leak.
- "Ginsberg"

Angry motives scrambling for seating space,
Shaking their fist at the moon.
- "Boms"

[J.C. · Rating 4 out of 5]

What a trip. Abomunist manifesto and following poems funnier than expected. I love how imaginative his poems are, and how tight- all of them come and go, never feeling drawn out or fading away. Read it aloud and you can hear the music to the words. A great collection of poetry, well worth the experience.

[Curt Hopkins Hopkins · Rating 5 out of 5]

Reading Kaufman was like reading the Beat poets for the first time again, but his was a voice that continued to sound, that was a bit distant from the party aspect of the movement. Why he isn't as well known as Corso at least is beyond me.

[Chloe · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of my favorite pieces from the Beat Era. I have spent hours with these poems; I can appreciate the allusions and how much engagement this text requires. History seems to happen in a cycle, where many of the questions Kaufman raises are still applicable today.

[Sarah Alcantara · Rating 3 out of 5]

I really love the language in his poems; some verses are so descriptive that my mind swims in his imagery while I’m reading. My favorite one is the first poem and the one for his wife.

I didn’t really care for the two small parts at the end, hence the 3 stars. But his poetry is amazing!

[Todd Kalinski · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bob Kaufman can write. Poetry. The 'Second April' chapter of verse you can play drums to...A quick read, a well worthy read.

[pat · Rating 4 out of 5]

Julien : I got a... I got a... I got a poem. Wanna hear?

Pearl : Yeah.

Julien : Okay. Okay, I'll read a poem.

Father : Okay.

Julien : Midnight chaos, eternity chaos, morning chaos, eternity chaos, noon chaos, eternity chaos, evening chaos, midnight chaos, eternity chaos, morning chaos, eternity chaos, noon chaos, evening chaos, eternity chaos, midnight chaos, eternity chaos, morning chaos, eternity chaos, noon chaos, eternity chaos, evening chaos, eternity chaos, midnight chaos, eternity chaos, noon chaos, morning chaos, evening chaos, eternity chaos, midnight chaos, eternity chaos...

Father : [while he keeps rabbling] It's not right. Julien... cut it out.

Julien : Morning chaos, eternity chaos...

Father : You repeat "chaos, chaos, chaos"! It don't even... It doesn't even rhyme.

Julien : It rhymes with chaos.

Julien : Chaos...

Father : Come on. Come on, stop that. That's not a poem.

Julien : Midnight...

Father : Come on, what is that? It doesn't even... It doesn't even rhyme, you repeat "chaos, chaos, chaos" and it doesn't even rhyme.

Julien : Chaos!

Father : How about that...

Julien : Midnight...

Father : Julien...

Julien : Midnight...

Father : Julien, you shouldn't...

Julien : Midni...

Father : No, shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up, I... I don't like it because it's so artsy-fartsy. You see, I like the real stuff. I like something like... the end of Dirty Harry. I saw this Dirty Harry and it... it's really... OH!

Julien : "Oh" what?

Father : There is this TREMENDOUS shoot-out. You should really listen. Just listen. Listen. Just LISTEN. There was this shoot-out... Dirty Harry has this bad guy cornered, I mean, he was a... real, real bad guy. And there's this tremendous shoot-out that, that... really exchanged lots of fire there... shooting bullets at each other and they keep missing. At the end, the bad guy drops his gun and it's just, down there on the... on the bottom. And Harry hovers over him and now Harry, I mean, he's really full of contempt... Harry standing there, he's totally full of contempt, and he... says to him... "There are many other bullets, do you still think there is a bullet left in your gun?" And he says to him "You know. Now you gotta ask yourself a question... Do I feel lucky?" At that moment, the bad guy lounges for his gun, raises it and it just says "click"!

Pearl : Yeah...

Father : He's only got one bullet left and Harry blast him, he just blast him... into a river, and blast him and knocks off him his feet and blast him away. You see, that's... It's good stuff. I think you'd like that. I don't like the artsy-fartsy thing, I think I... I think I hated his poem.

[VERTIGO dizzy · Rating 3 out of 5]

the funniest book i’ve ever read, hands down, i wish there were more like it. Hollywood and Song of the Broken Giraffe are both great, but are too long for me to copy and paste. The Abomunist Manifesto is fucking stupid af, but in a good way.

🌀🌀🌀

AFRICAN DREAM

In black core of night, it explodes
Silver thunder, rolling back my brain,
Bursting copper screens, memory worlds
Deep in star-fed beds of time,
Seducing my soul to diamond fires of night.
Faint outline, a ship-momentary fright
Lifted on waves of color,
Sunk in pits of light,
Drummed back through time,
Hummed back through mind,
Drumming, cracking the night.
Strange forest songs, skin sounds
Crashing through-no longer strange.
Incestuous yellow flowers tearing
Magic from the earth.
Moon-dipped rituals, led
By a scarlet god,
Caressed by ebony maidens
With daylight eyes,
Purple garments,
Noses that twitch,
Singing young girl songs
Of an ancient love In dark, sunless places
Where memories are sealed,
Burned in eyes of tigers.

Suddenly wise, I fight the dream:
Green screams enfold my night.

🌀🌀🌀

HIGH ON LIFE

Floating on superficially elevated streets
secretly nude,
Subtle forked tongues of sensuous fog
probe and core
Deliciously into my chapped-lipped pores
coolly whistling,
Spiraling in hollowed caves of skin-stretched me,
totally doorless,
Emptied of vital parts, previously evicted finally
by landlord mind
To make nerve-lined living space, needed desperately
by my transient, sightless, sleepless,
Soul.

🌀🌀🌀

ABOMUNIST RATIONAL ANTHEM

(to be sung before and after frinking)

Derrat slegelations, flo goof babereo
Sorash sho dubies, wago, wailo, wailo.

Geed bop nava glid, nava glied, nava
Speerieder, huyedist, hedacaz, ax, O, O.

Deeredition, Boomedition, squom, squom, squom,
Dee beetstrawist, wapago, wapago, loco,
locoro, locoest
Voometeyereepetiop, bop, bop, bop, whipop.

Dearat, shloho, kurritip, plog, mangi, squom pot,
Clopo jago, bree, bree, asloopered, akingo labiop,
Engpop, engpop, boint plolo, plolo, bop bop.

(Music composed by Schroeder.)

[S P · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dolorous Echo
The holey little holes
In my skin,
Millions of little
Secret graves,
Filled with dead
Feelings
That won’t stay
Dead.

The hairy little hairs
On my head,
Millions of little
Secret trees
Filled with dead
Birds,
That won’t stay
Dead

When I die,
I won’t stay
Dead. (30)

Would You Wear My Eyes?
My body is a torn mattress,
Disheveled throbbing place
For the comings and goings
Of loveless transients.
The whole of me
Is an unfurnished room
Filled with dank breath
Escaping in gasps to nowhere.
Before completely objective mirrors
I have shot myself with my eyes,
But death refused my advances.
I have walked on my walks each night
Through strange landscapes in my head.
I have brushed my teeth with orange peel,
Iced with cold blood from the dripping faucets.
My face is covered with maps of dead nations;
My hair is lettered with drying ragweed.
Bitter raisins drip haphazardly from my nostrils
While schools of glowing minnows swim from my mouth.
The nipples of my breast are sun-browned cockleburrs;
Long-forgotten Indian tribes fight battles on my chest
Unaware of the sunken ships rotting in my stomach.
My legs are charred remains of burned cypress tress;
My feet are covered with moss from bayous, flowing across my floor.
I can’t go out anymore.
I shall sit on my ceiling.
Would you wear my eyes? (40)