Peter Orlovsky, In Memoriam
June 2, 2010 10:36 AM Subscribe
Impossible Happiness, an elegy for Peter Orlovsky, 76, a writer best known as a longtime muse, inspiration and companion of Beat poet Allen Ginsberg, [he] died May 30 of lung cancer at a respite care center in Williston, Vt.. Naropa co-founder poet, Anne Waldman on Peter's death.
4 poems l "It's never too late to do nothin' at all" l Ida Spaulding reads Peter's "Writing Poems is a Saintly Thing".
I'm heartbroken. Amen:
"Goodbye little Peter, gentle Peter. Never will I forget how sweet you were."
posted by nevercalm at 11:08 AM on June 2, 2010
"Goodbye little Peter, gentle Peter. Never will I forget how sweet you were."
posted by nevercalm at 11:08 AM on June 2, 2010
I lived down the street from them, on 10th between C and D, and they always seemed so happy together. They were really generous in numerous ways. This is all taking me back to my youth, thank you for posting this.
posted by mareli at 11:08 AM on June 2, 2010
posted by mareli at 11:08 AM on June 2, 2010
Thank you for posting a link to my elegy for Peter, nickyskye. He was so sweet to me when I was a kid-poet at Naropa, as I talk about in the piece. Peter and Allen were also the first long-term gay male couple I'd ever heard of, a hugely important role model for me -- and now my partner Keith and I are happily married. Allen scandalized academia by listing Peter as his "spouse" in Who's Who in the '60; it's nice to think that gay kids growing up now can have some hope of being legally married someday. And the fact that Peter wasn't even strictly gay makes their love and commitment even more special and precious, pointing to a love beyond category.
Peter was one of a kind. I miss both Peter and Allen every day.
posted by digaman at 11:10 AM on June 2, 2010 [7 favorites]
Peter was one of a kind. I miss both Peter and Allen every day.
posted by digaman at 11:10 AM on June 2, 2010 [7 favorites]
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posted by Lutoslawski at 11:13 AM on June 2, 2010
posted by Lutoslawski at 11:13 AM on June 2, 2010
FRIST POEM
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
then I do?"
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.
Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
posted by nevercalm at 11:26 AM on June 2, 2010 [2 favorites]
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
then I do?"
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.
Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
posted by nevercalm at 11:26 AM on June 2, 2010 [2 favorites]
"My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning of life."
posted by digaman at 11:29 AM on June 2, 2010
posted by digaman at 11:29 AM on June 2, 2010
I'm reading Morgans newer bio on Ginsberg. For all the grief, they loved another.
so i reprint my old poem
'Hank Impersonates President Bush'
Bar an I...
gonna go to Naropa
do that
Jack KerOack
stream of consciousness thing.
posted by clavdivs at 11:32 AM on June 2, 2010
so i reprint my old poem
'Hank Impersonates President Bush'
Bar an I...
gonna go to Naropa
do that
Jack KerOack
stream of consciousness thing.
posted by clavdivs at 11:32 AM on June 2, 2010
mareli: I lived down the street from them, on 10th between C and D.
When was this? I lived in their building, 408 E 10th, sometime around 1967 or 68. (It was the 60s--who could be sure of the year?) Peter's brother Julius, who was schizophrenic, as staying with them and went missing around then as well. Peter was on a lot of speed and would rant in the halls. Julius would never say anything (except ask if you had a cigarette.) They were quite a contrasting pair. Allen spent most of the year in San Francisco, as I remember.
I now live three blocks south of there.
posted by Obscure Reference at 12:04 PM on June 2, 2010
When was this? I lived in their building, 408 E 10th, sometime around 1967 or 68. (It was the 60s--who could be sure of the year?) Peter's brother Julius, who was schizophrenic, as staying with them and went missing around then as well. Peter was on a lot of speed and would rant in the halls. Julius would never say anything (except ask if you had a cigarette.) They were quite a contrasting pair. Allen spent most of the year in San Francisco, as I remember.
I now live three blocks south of there.
posted by Obscure Reference at 12:04 PM on June 2, 2010
.
posted by longsleeves at 12:23 PM on June 2, 2010
posted by longsleeves at 12:23 PM on June 2, 2010
"At that instant we looked into each other's eyes and there was a kind of celestial cold fire that crept over us and blazed up and illuminated the entire cafeteria and made it an eternal place."
.
Rest with peace, Peter. I hope they let you both in.
posted by anastasiav at 12:39 PM on June 2, 2010
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Rest with peace, Peter. I hope they let you both in.
posted by anastasiav at 12:39 PM on June 2, 2010
Excellent post, nicky, leading us to that very nice tribute from digaman. This particularly is a terrific image: Often, a reading by Allen at some illustrious academic institution would feature Peter unselfconsciously yodeling away with a banjo about the joys of shoveling shit on their farm.
I learned quite a lot about Peter O., who I’ve always thought of as a sort of male Alice B. Toklas, but really knew little about. I'm astounded to find out that he was in Williston, right down the road from where I've been living this year, which I think of as a place containing little except gigantic shopping malls.
posted by LeLiLo at 12:52 PM on June 2, 2010
I learned quite a lot about Peter O., who I’ve always thought of as a sort of male Alice B. Toklas, but really knew little about. I'm astounded to find out that he was in Williston, right down the road from where I've been living this year, which I think of as a place containing little except gigantic shopping malls.
posted by LeLiLo at 12:52 PM on June 2, 2010
LeLiLo, I think Peter only came to Williston to enter the hospice there last week. He's been in St. Johnsbury for several years.
posted by digaman at 3:19 PM on June 2, 2010
posted by digaman at 3:19 PM on June 2, 2010
“At that instant we looked into each other’s eyes,” Allen wrote, “and there was a kind of celestial cold fire that crept over us and blazed up and illuminated the entire cafeteria and made it an eternal place.”
I'll have one of those, to go.
posted by Twang at 5:53 PM on June 2, 2010 [1 favorite]
I'll have one of those, to go.
posted by Twang at 5:53 PM on June 2, 2010 [1 favorite]
My condolences to those who knew and loved Peter (looks at digaman).
I just alerted my father-in-law who worked at Naropa and lived at Karme Choling in Barnet, VT. He is in Mexico now and I don't know if he learned of this from me or some other method.
posted by terrapin at 4:59 AM on June 3, 2010
I just alerted my father-in-law who worked at Naropa and lived at Karme Choling in Barnet, VT. He is in Mexico now and I don't know if he learned of this from me or some other method.
posted by terrapin at 4:59 AM on June 3, 2010
The NY Times obit:
"...though he published only a few slim volumes, his voice was singular, and his early work was admired by the likes of William Carlos Williams and Gregory Corso. It had an outsider-ish originality (the spelling and phrasing were eccentric), a blunt, innocent earthiness, especially about bodily functions, and a Whitmanesque exuberance that communicated glee in the process of making poetry itself."
posted by digaman at 5:15 AM on June 3, 2010
"...though he published only a few slim volumes, his voice was singular, and his early work was admired by the likes of William Carlos Williams and Gregory Corso. It had an outsider-ish originality (the spelling and phrasing were eccentric), a blunt, innocent earthiness, especially about bodily functions, and a Whitmanesque exuberance that communicated glee in the process of making poetry itself."
posted by digaman at 5:15 AM on June 3, 2010
The San Francisco Chronicle obit:
""Allen was the brains, and Peter was the heart," said Nicosia. " You couldn't be around him without feeling this love radiating from his eyes."
posted by digaman at 5:21 AM on June 3, 2010
""Allen was the brains, and Peter was the heart," said Nicosia. " You couldn't be around him without feeling this love radiating from his eyes."
posted by digaman at 5:21 AM on June 3, 2010
that depiction of his deathbed is awesome. it sounds pretty much like the best possible way to go surrounded by love and your work and people singing to you... even though im sure it was hard and painful just the same as every other death.
anyway, going to start misspelling stuff in my own poems now: "On Purpose"
posted by Potomac Avenue at 9:04 AM on June 3, 2010 [1 favorite]
anyway, going to start misspelling stuff in my own poems now: "On Purpose"
posted by Potomac Avenue at 9:04 AM on June 3, 2010 [1 favorite]
digaman: my father-in-law. I don't know what he did but he taught early on apparently.
posted by terrapin at 2:24 PM on June 3, 2010
posted by terrapin at 2:24 PM on June 3, 2010
digaman, I just re-read your elegy for maybe the fifth time. It's a great piece of writing, really.
posted by nevercalm at 5:21 PM on June 5, 2010
posted by nevercalm at 5:21 PM on June 5, 2010
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posted by hippybear at 10:54 AM on June 2, 2010