Thank You Very Much, Mr. Ginsberg.
(See Also: Thank You Very Much, Mr. Ferlinghetti)
Yesterday was the birthday of Allen Ginsberg who, if he were still alive, would have turned 85. Opinions about Ginsberg, both the man and his poetry, vary widely. Mine is quite high, although I do recognize and accept others. But I have to say this much, with sincere gratitude: if it weren’t for Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, and a few other poets I discovered while still in high school (all those many years ago), I would not be still writing poetry today.
Like most young people, I sat through classes where I was exposed to my share of two roads, diverging in a yellow wood, hosts of golden daffodils beside a lake, and midnight rides warning me of impending danger. I sat and read, sat and listened. I liked it all well enough, but I yawned.
It wasn’t until Danny Riley, a student teacher, dumped a bunch of thin volumes on our desks (mine caught Ferlinghetti’s A Coney Island Of The Mind and Ginsberg’s HOWL) that I gave more than a passing thought to what writing poetry might really be about; that it might be something worth doing.
Every Saturday, Call Me Cate invites you to show your face at: Show My Face.