The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan

Near the top of the list of books everyone should own, especially if they’re a fucking poet, is:

The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan

edited by Alice Notley with Anselm Berrigan and Edmund Berrigan

This beautiful 749 page monster contains Berrigan’s published and unpublished poetry written between 1962 and his death on July 4^th, 1983 (including his rediculously influencial masterpiece known as The Sonnets).

I'm not going to ramble on at this point about how much I love this glorious bastard, or how much I respect what he managed to accomplish with the unique way he experimented with language, or the almost super hero-like powers he wielded when it came to playing with words. Instead, I'm going to paste a quote from Alice Notley's introduction, type out a couple of Berrigan's poems, and encourage you once again, if you haven't done so already, to pick up a copy of this book.

Since his death day is fast approaching, the Poetry/Open Mic on Wed July 1st at the Burnt Toast (brought to you by Illliterate Magazine and Baobob Tree Press and co-hosted by yours truely) (show starts at 8:30) (in Boulder, on The Hill) will be dedicated to the works of Ted Berrigan. If you have a favorite poem of his you'd like to read, or feel like hanging out and listening to various poets read their favorite Berrigan poems, swing by. Tyler Burba, fresh off the plane from NYC, will also be featured.

until next time,

iloveyou,

rob 

We have, traditionally, the senses, but words are our sensors. We use them to feel our way across and through, up and down. Ted understood this as well as any poet I can think of. So much of his poetry is about the pleasure of movement across the page. He is saying, “This is what we do. This is living, taking its walk.” It is a very gentle message, that of the walk through time, laid alongside the messsage that all time is simultaneious. But also,

      No-mind

                                          No messages

             (Inside)

  Thanskgiving                   1969

                                                               (“IN MY ROOM”)

                                                               --from Alice Notley’s introduction

Ten Things I Do Every Day

wake up

smoke pot

see the cat

love my wife

think of Frank

eat lunch

make noises

sing songs

go out

dig the streets

go home for dinner

read the Post

make pee-pee

two kids

grin

read books

see my friends

get pissed-off

have a Pepsi

disappear

                 --Ted Berrigan



LXXX

How strange to be gone in a minute

Bearden is dead       Gallup is dead       Margie is dead

Patsy awakens in heat and ready to squabble

Dear Chris, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.

I rage in a blue shirt, at a brown desk, in

A bright room, sustained by the darkness outside and

A cas-off emotion. A hard core is “formed”

That the angels have supereminent wisdom is shown

“He Shot Me” was once my favorite poem

Speckled marble makes my eyes ache as I rest on

The only major statement in New York city       Louis Sullivan

is dead       whose grief I would most assuage

“He Shot Me” is still my favorite poem, and

“I Don’t See Any Anchor Tied To Your Ass”

                       --Ted Berrigan