Today's the 100th birthday of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. His new book, Little Boy, comes out today. There will be celebrations in San Francisco, where Ferlinghetti is an icon. He still lives in North Beach (the Italian neighborhood). I wish I was there to wish him well.
Ferlinghetti is my favorite living writer and poet. He was the elder brother (and publisher) of the beat poets: Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, McClure, di Prima, and so on. In my mind, he stands with Gary Snyder, who is also still kicking, as two different voices from about the same place buzzing in my ear. I used to hear them read when I lived in San Francisco, before Italy, before I started attempting poetry.
So, today, everyone, read a poem by the birthday boy. Read it aloud. Savour it like a long life.
Here's one:
They Were Putting Up The Statue ...
They were putting up the statue
of Saint Francis
in front of the church
of Saint Francis
in the city of San Francisco
in a little side street
just off the Avenue
where no birds sang
and the sun was coming up on time
in its usual fashion
and just beginning to shine
on the statue of Saint Francis
where no birds sang
And a lot of old Italians
were standing all around
in the little side street
just off the Avenue
watching the wily workers
who were hoisting up the statue
with a chain and a crane
and other implements
And a lot of young reporters
in button-down clothes
were taking down the words
of one young priest
who was propping up the statue
with all his arguments
And all the while
while no birds sang
any Saint Francis Passion
and while the lookers kept looking
up at Saint Francis
with his arms outstretched
to the birds which weren’t there
a very tall very purely naked
young virgin
with very long and very straight
straw hair
and wearing only a very small
bird’s nest
in a very existential place
kept passing thru the crowd
all the while
and up and down the steps
in front of Saint Francis
her eyes downcast all the while
and singing to herself
