The Venice Beat Poets
–The Great River Outside the Mainstream–
James Ryan Morris
Winter of 1959
and the boardwalk was bare, riding my bicycle along the
boardwalk from Santa Monica down the coast. I'd stop at the
Carousel, a gay bar on the Venice boardwalk where all the
dudes and dudettes did a line dance...I loved joining in.
One day this guy with the eyes of the ocean was sitting on a
table watching me dance...our eyes met and never moved away,
this poet taking me in as I was digging those eyes. Later we
talked and walked, my bicycle between us, from Venice to
Santa Monica. He just blew in from New York, this man of
many words; I had a suitcase full of poetry I had written
and never showed anyone and I wanted to show him. This was
only the beginning; we were constantly together and finally
he hocked his typewriter and rented the whole basement of
what is now the Morrison, just kitty corner from the Gas
House where I worked as the art director. We lived in the
cellar, Tony Scibella, and Bruce Boyd Jimmy and myself. We
rented four apartments, two were water-logged at high tide;
20 dollars a month, what a deal.
the rhythm
of the beat poetry
wail of a soprano sax
Billie Holliday
was Jimmy's muse—he
wrote for her, he wrote of her, he dried her tears and set
them to paper; the lady, the inhumanity of the men in her
life, man and the system and their wars, the blues . Jimmy
blew bare fist to bone but softly, he cared. Tony was softer
still and Stu bellowed it out. The Venice West, the other
end of the tram ride, had more poetry...fingers snappin'
instead of applause...one hand clapping...so the
establishment wouldn't shut us down... The words a warning—would
they listen?
the first
drumming
echoes across
the sands of time
Jimmy wrote a
story for Hollywood of Billie but they weren't ready for
such stark reality. Instead the story Diana Ross played was
so far from what he knew and saw. He lived in her
neighborhood, he new her blues, he felt her pain, he lived
for Billie Holiday and it was her essence that traveled the
cobblestone breezeway, her song. He wrote the blues, blowing
ever so soft the fragrance of a white gardenia.
We were all
destined to meet, the Lady brought us there, to cry out to
each other, the poets with their ax's honed, their words
like acid rain, their humanity showing...break/straight...ah
yes ringside with the off the wall poets and the lady. Man
and the system and their wars..the blues and reaching for
the stars...touching the face of god...all part of the
movement...these poets of Venice set out to change...
...Jimmy blew
Lawrence Lipton
sold us out
the tourists came
We exploded into the minds of many. They came wanting to see
these bards of protest, huarache's flappin' on the
cobblestone breezeway. Tourists who rode the tram pay a dime
see the freaks. From the Gas House to the Venice West they
rode, we laughed at them and walked, our dimes were for a
cup of coffee and a table to sit and write.
bare self to
bone
in search
of the answers
I've planted a
Koa tree in your honor, oh Venice poets, on the top of the
mountain in Hawaii next to madam Pele
"The Poet
Tree"
where sun and mist live
and the trade winds blow.
I hang poetry on the limbs
and sometimes they blow away
words on the wind.
I always said
the eyes have it, your eyes and the fetch of a wave. You
said, "it’s the legs, baby, riding through my dreams"...what
a winter of love and no one but us on the boardwalk, the
poets waitin' on the pome...a few locals and the surf and
sand...
so many
words
inspired by the lady
dance through the pages of time
the "Lady" walked with us...
held our hands
sang with us.
and then ...
there were those
that would bring us to our knees..
The Killer Summer
drugs and death
but then that's another story
This article
first appeared in the Free Venice Beachhead,
April 2008, 9.
the
beat
the
Venice beat
a booming bellwether
for a generation caught without a compass
on the cutting edge
of uncharted oceans
James Ryan
Morris, US—Four
Poems: She Said, The Hope, Face to Face, The Relief
