Issue #2
Winter
- 2008
ISSN 1525-2140
The View from Down Here
by RD Armstrong
Last year saw the death of my good friend and fellow poet, Philomene
Long, Venice beat poet (dubbed the Queen of Bohemia by her peers) and widow of
the late John Thomas. I had the opportunity to publish both in my Little Red
Book series. Philomene and I were planning on putting out a new collection
of her poems to be published in time for trip to Ireland in the Fall of last
year. We had spoken about it just weeks before she went to be with her
beloved husband John Thomas. Philomene passed away just three days after her
sixty-seventh birthday. Her passing came as a shock to her friends and
family, as she didn't appear to be sick in any way. Personally, I believe
that Philomene died of longing, longing for John, whom she loved very much (even
in death).
She wanted to be with him so badly that I think her heart just gave out.
A number of her friends gathered at Beyond Baroque in September for a
memorial service, but I couldn't bring myself to attend. I knew that
I had neither the words nor the stability to go to such an event. Instead I
planted a garden in her honor, thinking that her reverence for life would be
honored by growing, living things. Then, at the end of November, another
memorial was planned. Initially, Fred Dewey contacted me to get copies of
Philomene's two Little Red Books, Cold Eye Burning at 3 AM and The
Queen of Bohemia for the event. I was only too happy to oblige.
Later, he invited me to read, as well. I was, of course, honored to be a
part of the event.
I first met Philomene and John in 1994 at a tribute I had put together for
the late Charles Bukowski, at a little coffeehouse in San Pedro, called Sacred
Grounds, where I worked as a night manager. Someone had recommended them
to me, along with other L. A. luminaries such as S. A. Griffin, Scott Wannberg
and Viggo Morttenson (who was relatively unknown as an actor). Being as I
was a newcomer to the poetry scene (such as it was in those days), I'd never
heard of any of these folks. Even though they didn't know me from Adam,
they came down to San Pedro to share their thoughts and poetry on that night.
It was one helluva night (and I have the video to prove it)!
I didn't really connect with John or Philomene that night and it took me more
than a few years to get them to take me seriously. I saw them read at
various venues around Los Angeles and I really liked their unique poetry styles.
Eventually, around 1999, John took a shine to me and through him I became
friends with Philomene. In 2000, John allowed me to publish, what turned
out to be his last poetry collection, Feeding the Animal. It was
this same year that Philomene sent me what would become her two books as well.
Now you might think it odd of me to say John allowed me to publish him, but you have
to understand that over the years both John and Philomene (in fact most of the Venice Beats)
had been ripped off by other publishers. They were understandably wary
about who they let publish their work. Not too many years before, their book
Bukowski in the Bathtub had been sidelined from publication with a major
press, but was later picked up by a much smaller one with a much smaller budget.
These guys were like Joseph and Mary, wandering the countryside looking for
someone to do them right. I wanted to be the one to do that.
So, in 2001 (the last year I did that) I named John Thomas, Lummox of the
year. Along with a spiffy shirt that bore his likeness and such, John got
almost the entire first run of his LRB. I figured it was the least I could
do. Little did I know that John would be dead in a year. But during those
last two years he and Philomene took me under
their venerable wings, offering advice on poems I was working on (John even
asked my advice once!) or some hassle I was involved in. After all, they
were both veterans of the L. A. poetry scene and knew all about what kind of
shenanigans the creative ego could get into. I was grateful to have their
counsel.
After John's untimely death (which really knocked me for a loop), Philomene
and I corresponded fairly regularly. She was busy with her many projects
one of which was teaching creative writing at UCLA Extension and our paths
didn't cross very much. I know that she was working on her memoirs and was
also editing a book of beat portraits that John had written. Hopefully her
daughter can bring these to light soon. We were going to publish a third
title for her, but that didn't happen.
I last saw Philomene, near the end of June at Beyond Baroque, where I
had a reading with Luis Campos and Jack Bowman. I didn't expect her to
come since we both had pretty much burned out on poetry readings (she once
confessed to me that she had nearly run over some patrons at a reading because
it was so bad and she wanted to get as far away as possible, as quickly as
possible). But I was pleasantly surprised to see her in the audience.
I would have liked to have hung out but I was pretty wiped out by the end.
We spoke on the phone a few times and traded emails and there was no hint that
anything was amiss. But it didn't really matter that we weren't talking
every week or even every month...We had a bond and that bond did not rely on
words to keep it healthy or strong. I don't know how else to explain it.
To read more about Philomene go
here.
1940 - 2007 (photo by Allen Ginsberg)
The Garden I planted in her honor.
Long Live the Queen
"Who can break the snares of the
world
And sit with me
Among the white clouds?"
– Philomene Long/Queen of
Bohemia
There are not many,
Philomene;
Muse of Strength,
Queen of
Impoverished Splendor,
Rich in Word,
Garbed in Sunset
And serenaded by
seagulls.
There are not many,
Philomene,
Who can find the
Buddha
In a line of a
poem,
The dying throes of
a cockroach,
Or a shard of
terracotta.
There are not many,
Philomene,
Who will match your
vision
Or your sibylline
voice
As it resonates
through the Ages
In each and every
poet's ear.
There are not many,
Philomene,
Who greet
black-skirted Death,
With a smile as you
rise to
Take the hand of
your Caliph
And dance through
the open door.
© 2007
Marie Lecrivain
The Ghosts of Venice
listen across the breeze
along the boardwalk
for the voices
hand in hand again
the Queen of Bohemia
reunited with her king
whispering words
in the wind
listen
LISten
LISTEN
nobody
ever
leaves
venice
they said
listen
they
are there
26/08/07
Adrian
Manning
Two from Philomene Long
CRUSHED PIGEON WITH THE SECRET
Crushed pigeon
On the pavement
No head
No breast
A mere gray smudge
With only one wing erect
Moving gently in the
Afternoon breeze
All life and death
Fluttered
In that wing
Gray feathers splayed
It flew
Higher, wider
A wing that seemed to me
Broad enough to cover
All Jerusalem
I sing to it Isaiah’s lamentation
“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem,”
“How often would I have gathered
Thy children together even as a hen
Gathered her chicks under her wing
And you would not...
As one whose mother comforts,
So will I comfort you”
Gray cement. Gray pigeon
Life and death at once
The wing a tongue
About to call, to utter
Bringing to this page
The great secret
The word, the world itself
At this very moment
A door slammed behind me in the room
Slammed shut - the door to the poem.
The wing had
Had been writing itself
Opening the word
But only once
Only once
Could not hear it again
Gone
Left with no more
Than what was already known
An impeccable symmetry - life, death
No word
Only that image--
Smashed gray carcass
On a gray road
Above it that gray wing
Swaying in the breeze
But no crushing wheel
No closing door
Can take away
This winged Secret—
Imperishable
Fluttering
Unutterable
Perfect
From Cold
Eye Burning at 3 AM LRB 35
I AM NO LONGER
AFRAID
I am no longer
afraid
Of this poem
From which
I will never
return
I call myself
Only the words
follow me
With each breath
I do not
disappoint them
Although they
Brought me here
Their voices die
One by one
Other ruminations
No longer my own
Their thunders
Are
Pleasant enough
As
Strapped
To my pen
I slip
Further
From The Queen of Bohemia
LRB 34
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