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Joseph Stroud: KUSP 88.9, the supported radio for the Monterey Bay in Salinas Valley. Please stay tuned for the Poetry Show. Very special show for today, we will be celebrating the birthday of our co-host, Morton Marcus. He's been on the planet for 50

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years now today. So stay tuned and we'll begin with some poems in about two minutes. Good afternoon and welcome to the Poetry Show on KUSP. As we mentioned at the beginning of the show, this is the birthday

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party for our co-host, Morton Marcus. He's 50 years old. And with us in the studio today are some of the leading lights in the literary scene in Santa Cruz and old friends of Mort's. And what we're going to be doing today is reading favorite poems

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of Mort, maybe asking him a few impossible questions. So those of you who are out in the audience today, if you want to phone in a question or a request for Mort to read a poem, feel free to do so, and I'm sure we can get Mort to read it. To

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begin the the show I think I will read a little prose piece that Mort wrote, titled THOUGHTS AT FIFTY This is a man who has been around for half a century now.

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This is what he has to say: As a boy, I thought the world was composed of two kinds of people, the practical people and the dreamers. Most people, not only adults told me to be practical and realistic. That

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meant, don't tamper with the accepted order of things, don't question, see things as we do. They were good people, but they liked to wait in lines and to b told what to do. And they pu their own concerns before anyon else's. In their expedient wa

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of looking at things, they woun up on the side of profit material gain, and control o nature. The dreamers, guided b compassion and identification with others, were always seeing igger things. Order that was ore inclusive, less selfish and

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ess self-centered. Order that as inherent in the rhythm of Those are the words of Morton Marcus on turning 50 years old. easons and stars, and was eflected in the internal rhythm f our bodies, with which the reamers, poets, artists,

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hatever you want to call them, ere intuitively attuned. As far etched and nonsensical as it ay seem, I've come to believe hat the poets remind us of the iological and spiritual goal of volution, which is imprinted on ur chromosomes, and is, in

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ssence, a harmony, a oneness of ll things, a democracy of eing. We're all men, our rothers and sisters meant to hare equally in the treasures f existence. I've also come to elieve that the practices of he practical people first blur,

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hen corrupt our understanding f the goal, which is the nconscious dream of the human ace, and that the history of ne civilization after another s of the gradual corruption and ventual betrayal of this dream. ut the dream remains glittering

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ike star specks in ourselves. It is the alternative to the many kinds of death we suffer each day. The goal, and the dream of it, is the subject of my poetry. The application of the goal in the minds and hearts of my readers is my duty as a poet.

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Mort, I'm an old friend, and I'd like to wish you a very happy 50th birthday. Morton Marcus: Thank you, Joe. [Laughter] Joseph Stroud: Can you, can you give us a poem that will support

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what you've just said at the age of 50 in prose? Morton Marcus: I knew he was gonna do something like this, but what I like to do is to read a poem that I wrote on, for my 31st birthday. And as Joe knows, was gonna stick me with- I've

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written one for my 50th which we'll probably end the show with, or wherever he wants me to read it. And I'm reading this for the people here in the audience, and it's something that has made my life worthwhile and has guided it, and that is

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the wonders that I've seen through the imagination of my brother artists, no matter what they are. And at 31, I realized I had outlived a whole lot of people, or was about to outlive a whole lot of people and this is the poem that I wrote:

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At 31, I enter Miguel Hernandez's last year, having outlived Keats by five, Shelley by one, Rimbaud six years ahead, in Africa, watches his right leg swell like a giant asparagus. And Crane, his drowned eyes full of fathers, drags chains o

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seaweed, only two years away. A night, my brothers and sisters almost asleep, I hear you cal from the road, throwing you words like stones at my window And yet, when I come to th sill, you don't ask me t follow, but stand mute, hand

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open, heads up raised in th moonlight as though waiting fo something I'm expected to say Joseph Stroud: Nice poem Mort. Morton Marcus: That's the first one. That's one and a half poems

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now that he likes of mine. Joseph Stroud: Three lines and two poems. Well, we have many many poets here with us today and prose writers, Jim Houston's here. Jim you're an old friend of Mort's. What do you- What

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words of wisdom do you have to say on- on a man turning 50 years old? James Houston: Turning 50? Well, I'm looking around for a T-shirt that I saw once up at Squaw Valley being worn by another

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poet named Richard Shelton. And the inscription across the front was, "pushing fifty is exercise enough." If I can find that, that'll be my birthday present to Mort. Morton Marcus: What are the colors? Do they match my eyes?

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James Houston: It comes in all colors, if you can find the right T-shirt. Gary Young: Would someone care to read a poem? I'll start one- I want to read a prose poem of Mort's from-

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Morton Marcus: That's Gary Young folks, you can't see him, we can see him. That's Gary Young, who is the former host of this show and a wonderful printer and poet. Gary Young: Thanks Mort. "The Armies Encamped in the Fields

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Beyond the Unfinished Avenues," is the book I'm going to be reading from. This is a poem called THE DANCE I said "No!" to my parents and left the house. I said "No!" to

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the boss and kept my moustache. Then I saw her standing at a bus stop. I rushed toward her at the bus stop. I rushed toward her in the park. A wind shoved me forward, then tugged me back. She was thrust toward me, yet withdrawn before we could touch.

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My arms streamed outward, her black hair whirled. It was a frantic dance. Finally, she clung to me. I clung to her. Around us the air collapsed, then reassembled, and we woke in a room formed by our bodies. A wind surrounded the room. Now

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each night we clutch and cling all night in this room, and as the vibrations resonant- resonate from us, other rooms surround this one, until a house surrounds us. And, needless to say, a wind surrounds the house. Above our room, my parents

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sitting in a trunk paddle back and forth across the attic floor. "Don't worry, Mother," my father calls, "the outrigger is the safest canoe there is." They are conditioning themselves for the vacation they've saved for all their lives. We hear them

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scraping across the ceiling, chanting, "No-no! No-no!" or crooning versions of South Seas love songs that were popular when they were young. Sometimes they rock the trunk from side to side while practicing what I guess must be a variation of the

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hula. Below, we buck and cling, although at times, as a novelty, we adjust our rhythms to the scraping sounds above. Children are shouting in a farther room. Beyond the windows, voices call, cars rumble and roar. Around them all, a wind drones.

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"Darling, a neighborhood is growing up around us," my clinging woman sighs. I don't reply. But, damn it, I'm beginning to suspect it's more than that. Joseph Stroud: That was a prose poem, wasn't that Gary?

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Gary Young: Yes. Hmm. Joseph Stroud: Mort, what- what first got you interested doing prose poems? I know that's a form that a lot of young poets are using these days, how did you- how did you come by that?

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Morton Marcus: Well, it was the bridge into narrative actually, and it was the bridge into what got me writing novels. And I just found that I could tell dreams and I could actually tell narrative if I was using a form that had been accepted. And it

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was probably just habit or what I learned that did that. I also attempted to get much more intense rhythms and usually the same kind of tone, which was very ironic. And our friend, Mr. Young did that very well.

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Joseph Stroud: Yeah, very nice. Do you have any poems from that book that you'd like to to read, Mort? Morton Marcus: Well, now that you mentioned it, there are lots of poems from this book that I like. Here's one for Joe Stroud.

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And this was written when Joe was about to depart from the United States for the first time, and it's called "Tourists." And he was going to Mexico this time, though this is not necessarily Mexico.

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TOURISTS In this land, everything is poor. The people have pressured their backs into the postures of humility, and climb from crevices to beg for food. We offered them coins, which they

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immediately ate, unaware of their teeth breaking. We offered them our scarves and hats, finally our key chains, staring as they devoured each one. Finally, we broke off slabs of rock, which some of them ate, while others began nibbling our

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pant legs or running their wet tongues along the sleeves of our jackets. We fed them our words, whole sentences, paragraphs, but still they kept eating. And when we turned, we found they had devoured our car, which lay on its side like the skeleton of a

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cow. It was after they ate our clothes, that the slimmer of us were able to escape. We ran naked among them and began wrenching up roots and desperately chewing. Later, we remembered our passports had been in our pockets, and the

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guards at the border have refused us permission to pass. Now we squat at the edge of the snow, waiting for tourists. But when they arrive, they only throw coins. We want to tell them who we are, and when no one is looking, attempt to grab

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their hands, which they hurriedly withdraw. We are hungry, but have not lost hope. Although each of us has admitted that he can detect the odor of tourists for hours before they arrive.

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Joseph Stroud: One of the things that's always impressed me about Mort's work is its ability to create its own worlds. The remarkable imagination at work in- from one book to the next, and how, if one didn't look at the cover of the book and see

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that was written by Morton Marcus, there's a totally different voice from one book to the next. We just read a kind of a prose visionary voice that- that Mort writes in. And I'd like to read a poem of Mort's that I like that switches gears

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entirely. This is from a book called "The Santa Cruz Mountain Poems," and it is a narrative of sorts, it's a description poem. It's a very quiet poem, its called THE VISITANT

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A flake of tobacco– as I brush it from my desk, six bicycling legs emerge from its sides. I flip it upright. Braced on its front feet, powerful thighed, head raised, it squats as if immobilized. Even the feelers are still, a mud-colored beetle,

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as motionless as a scarab. For two minutes we stare at each other, then it wheels around a 90 degree turn, having seen enough. But doesn't move, now facing the lamp, still braced on its front feet. Me, the insect of white onyx, Aztec squatting

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on his haunches, the mahogany Chinese bearer, staring at one another, each from his own world. Prances to the yellow packet of pipe cleaners, feelers twirling, places its left front foot on the cardboard opening, sees stacked ends of cramped

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white cleaners, and halts again. I scrape the book of matches from the desk, relight my pipe, puff smoke, belch, toss the burnt match into the ashtray with a click, and lean back in my chair. He doesn't move. I open a book and read a Quechua

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poem that is more than 1,000 years old. But the insect's presence raises my eyes. Every object, even the blue glass ashtray, seems to be waiting, as if his decision will determine how this hut will enter the next moment. Staring at him, his

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posture of brown patience, my eyes blur. When they focus, he's gone, only flakes of tobacco remain on the desk. The head lifts from my shoulders, the ashtray seems to float. The Aztec, The Chinese bearer, the lamp, the book, the file of

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letters with torn envelopes, hover above their appointed places. When I rise, I am a column of upswept smoke. A clatter in the lampshade. The beetle drops to the desk and resumes its poise. Staring at the heavy lamp base, I laugh,

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bless him, tap out my pipe and go, but leave the heat on in the hut all day. James Houston: Can I say something about "Santa Cruz Mountain Poems?"

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Joseph Stroud: Sure, Jim. Feel free. James Houston: That the poem you just read comes from that collection and I'd also like to read a poem from that same collection because I think this is still a very important book

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for me. You know, Mort just read a poem that, the final line is, "the odor of tourists," which- which speaks to one of the thing- that's one of the things that's going on around here in this part of the world, increasingly. But, but there's

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something else that runs deeper than that, which is for me, the- the I think there's a spirit to this region, Santa Cruz County, Monterey Bay region, whatever you want to call it, that runs much deeper than in whatever the tourism and visitors and

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Metropolitan overlay have been able to- have been able to do to this place. And "Santa Cruz Mountain Poems," in my view is the first book in modern times that really speaks to the spirit of this region, and Mort in that book is trying to pay tribute to

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something that he felt very, very profoundly. And he was the first writer that I know of, who really did something that specific about this part of the world. And those poems, I think they're important as poems. I think they're important as

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literary history, because they came out in 1972, which is now 14 years ago, which is just a few years after this region began to be discovered; intellectually and culturally and- and as a live region where something exciting and, I think,

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original was- was beginning to happen and Mort's poems speak to that and they still speak to that. And it's an important book for me. I know it was an important book for- for Mort because it also spoke to something really significant in

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your own experience, which is, which is that transition not only from east to west, but from urban to not rural, but a discovery of landscape, you know, and landscape as a liberating force in your own life, and releasing a kind of

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imagery and a kind of energy that, that had been locked up and discovering, more than the West, discovering things that reside in the landscape of the West, that gave you a new way of seeing and thinking about yourself. That's what I see in

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this book. And in this one poem, I was just looking at it today. Where is it? About going into the rock: I WENT INTO A STONE I've always loved that poem. So with your permission, Joe.

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Joseph Stroud: Fine. [Laughter] James Houston: I went into a stone. Inside its silence there was the static knitting it together. A silver lake lay clenched beyond the trees, but every bush was a closed gate,

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and iron branches barred my way. Finally, I crawled into a thicket of noise, became part of a vast forest where everything buzzes and hums beneath a tight sky. My shape was the silence I could not reach. The noise defined me and I knew my place.

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When I emerged into the light, all the hairs on my body were fibers of sound, scraping sparks against the air. Thus I was loosed into my flesh. White birds flew from my mouth, insects crawled from my nails, and the great beasts rose from

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my footsteps. Entering the stone that's the kind of thing that so many poets have been able to do- speak to. Jeffers does that kind of thing, Bill Everson does that kind of thing, Gary Snyder does that

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kind of thing. There's something about the landscape of the West that allows us to the- to enter the stone and come out renewed. Joseph Stroud: Right. In fact, even, you know, Mort that Bill- that James Dick has got a book called "Into the Stone." His

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first book was titled that. I received[?] a phone call from Al Young an old friend of Mort's, wonderful writer who has a happy birthday congratulations to offer and he also would like to hear Mort read a poem, "Father and Son." Do you happen to have

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that with you Mort? Morton Marcus: By chance Joseph Stroud: By chance? [crosstalk] Morton Marcus: I just happen to have it. While- while we're-

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while I'm looking for it, though, let me say that, what Jim says about the book is highly flattering, but besides what praise there is in that I am- what he says is absolutely right. I really did discover- not- not- the fact that the

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poems are good- but I really did discover the land and nature here in Santa Cruz. And the reason that I did that was that Jim Houston said come down and live in Santa Cruz. So the reason that I'm down here is his- is totally his fault. And

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all those people who I owe money to and who don't like me, you can take it up with him. James Houston: Well, we all feel you're a credit to the neighborhood, Mort.

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Morton Marcus: Thank you very much, Jim. I do know that Jim is also a realtor which a lot of people don't know. Joseph Stroud: Mort just bought a new house. That's true. That's true, my first house. Anyway here is

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"Father and Son" for Al Young, and then I- if anyone else has "The Santa Cruz Mountain Poems," to read, this is a totally different voice now and the music you heard beginning this program, which is from Eastern Europe, is where my roots are.

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And this is where I'm coming from. But to end, to say this about that, which Nixon always used to say, the book now ends with a poem that's in my last book that has been revised. And it is a book that takes place in- it is a poem that takes

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place in Santa Cruz. That whole movement from Russia, to New York now ends in Santa Cruz and begins again. And so that goes along with what you were saying. It doesn't, and Jim and I have talked about this, it's not like a lot of writers who come and

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live in the West and keep writing about the East Coast. You know, you've got to acknowledge and come to grips with where you exist. This is what Williams told us all. And Jim, I know has has definitely felt that way. I know Joe

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definitely feels that way. So it seemed fitting to me to bring in the poem, which really kicked off the book, though it's not part of it. And that's my "Immigrant" book, with the poem that really ends and begins again here in Santa Cruz and

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here in California. Anyway, here is the roots I come from, for Al Young, Morton Marcus: FATHER AND SON And this is all my grandfather.

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His body as long, his face as l ng and thin, overhung eyebrows a d smoke-black eyes, and darken d hollows beneath cheekbones a d chin. His teeth are white a d fanged, and even when he is s venty-one, they are all his. When he smiles, those teeth sl

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de into view, and the boy will cringe; the old man has a wolf in him. The old man's eldest s n looks much the same; beard too heavy, mouth too gr m. There is something definitely foreign in each of them. Ang red, they'll growl and sn

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p, pinch the offender's arm or ears and fling him toward another room with a boot in the uttocks or a final slap. That s for family, inside the ouse, for the bickerers and b rgainers on the street there re the dense- smoke-dense eye

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and the toothy grin. And should those outsiders cheat or curse there's the knife in the boot, r the knobby knuckles hurtling oward their chins. To others t e world is dog-eat-dog, but th old man and his eldest son are olves, and they'll hear none o

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that. Besides, they're takin care; the family and all its eirlooms are in their charg ; broaches and tarnished spoons a pearl necklace from a great-a nt's will, several silver plates and cups. They are ne ther kind nor heroic men, th

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y mean to survive. That's hat the old man's parents taught to him, and he teaches it to h s sons and daughters with such ferocity they cannot look him i the eye. Love is not the po nt. It never was. Joy and ecstas are bearded men in black, wh

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caper through the streets lik laundry flapping on a line. Po er, control, that's what he's a ter. The saliva sluices throug his teeth, his eyes flash. Wh n he dreams of God, he tells hi eldest son, he envisions a hand that holds the world like a rock

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about to be thrown at a nois in the dark. A portion of ston covered by this hand is shad wy; night. The portion that isn't, all that bird song and light- "Vel," the Joseph Stroud: That was Morton Marcus reading a poem of his.

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This is the Poetry Show on KUSP. Usually about halfway through the program, we take a short musical break and we come back with some announcements. And we have many people here today to help- help us celebrate Mort' birthday and we'll be hearin

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from them in the second half o the show. Mort, you want to sa a few words about the musi we're gonna listen to at thi point? Morton Marcus: Well, I've selected non-music from my

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background and what we'll be hearing right now is very Russian, very melancholy Russian balalaika music and that goes along with the crazy wild ranting dance of the first thing we heard and this is the other side; there is joy and there is

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sorrow. And that is what I've tried to encompass in my work, and my life has just been that way without my trying to make it that way. Joseph Stroud: I hope this is- this is not the balalaika, I

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don't think we've got on here, this is- Morton Marcus: Oh, is that's not the balalaika? Okay, Joseph Stroud: No. This is a this is Klezmorim. Morton Marcus: Oh, okay. Where- what happened to the balalaika?

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Joseph Stroud: That's on the other- Morton Marcus: Okay, well, we're gonna hear more of East European music, then. Which is gonna be nice and wild. Joseph Stroud: Well that melancholy music you hear in the

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background is a selection that Morton made for today's program, celebrating his 50th birthday. I've a few announcements to make before we get on with the program. Some Celebration of the Muse Readings will be coming up soon on September 16, Sherri

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Paris, Carol Staudacher, Jo Walz and Anita Wilkins will present their work. This will be at Louden Nelson Center, begins at 7:30pm, and this would be a slight donation which will benefit Matrix, the women's news magazine. So that is September

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16, Sherri Paris, Carol Staudacher, Jo Walz and Anita Wilkins, should be really a fine reading. In Celebration of the Muse, they kick off reading for the fall series. Tonight at Sweet William's, one of the people who was here with us in

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today's show, Gary Young will be reading, along with Wilma Marcus and Robert Malpede. That is at the Sweet William's, 538 Seabright Avenue in Santa Cruz, the readings begin at 7:30 and they go until about 9:30, after which there is an open mic, and

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people in the audience may get up and read some of their own work. So please try to make that reading tonight. Gary Young, Wilma Marcus, who I think is distantly related to Mort, or used to be?

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Morton Marcus: Yes, Wilma is my ex-wife, she's- I just put that in here- she's really a very, very talented person who many people have seen both as actress and as director. But if you've never heard her read her poetry, I think that it'd be a real

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treat because she really is a wonderfully creative person and Joseph Stroud: Tonight at Sweet William's- Coming up as part of the San Jose Poetry Center, this Friday night at 8pm, St. Paul's Methodist Church, 10th and San Salvador in San Jose, will be

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the poet Margaret Randall. She's a poet, a journalist, political activist whose books, photos and poetry are known to thousands in the United States and in Latin America. So please try to make that reading this Friday night. And those of you who can't-

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her poetry is excellent. can't make it, as you know that KUSP Poetry Show records those readings and we'll be listening to Margaret later in the in the fall. I should also mention that the Porter Gulch Review, which

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is a literary magazine, put out by Cabrillo College featuring fiction and nonfiction and poetry and plays of- of writers in the Monterey Bay Area, has a manuscript deadline of September 21. So all of you out there who are writers, who are poets,

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prose writers, short story writers, please send them their work. They're looking for anyone and everyone. Send your work to the editor, Porter Gulch Review, Cabrillo College, Apto, California. Porter Gulch Review, Cabrillo College, Aptos,

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California, comes out twice a year, and it's distributed throughout the Monterey Bay Area and it's free. It's a very wonderful magazine, and please send them some of your work. Well, here we are, again celebrating Mort's 50th birthday

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and Claire Braz-Valentine is here. Claire, what would you like to do? Claire Braz-Valentine: Well, I'd like, first of all, to wish you a very happy birthday Mort. I'm really happy to be here. And

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there's so many of your poems that I love, but what I'm goin WHY I LIVE IN SANTA CRUZ to do today is read somethin out of the piece that you wrot for Taste magazine. That kind o ties in with what you and Ji

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were saying about living i Santa Cruz. And the reason I' reading this is that I firml believe that it's very difficul for a poet to write anythin that is not poetry, and I lo e this piece and I walked arou d the house reading th

00:34:27.120 - 00:34:44.420

s particular part aloud. So when I knew I was coming today, I kn w what I was going to read. o this is, what I think is a po m in the middle of your artic e call In time, I came to know the history of the county, knew

00:34:44.420 - 00:34:57.020

where I placed my shoe, where bare Ohlone feet, and after t I love that. Thank you for writing it, Mort. em the sandals of the F anciscan friars and the boots o the Spaniards and the Yankee s ttlers had stepped before. M

00:34:57.800 - 00:35:17.270

re than that, the county b came, for me, a cross section o American life, where the g eat dramas of our age were b ing enacted in miniature. The t nsion that charged the c mmunity with vitality, and k pt it in excited balance that

00:35:17.270 - 00:35:38.390

ad to do with the different val es of the rural population liv ng on Empire Grade, in the San Lorenzo Valley, an in Watsonville, with the Ital an, Yugoslav, Mexican, Japan se, Chinese, Filipino, and Vietn mese fishermen, farmers and

00:35:38.390 - 00:35:55.400

farm workers spread throughou the county, with the tea hers working at the Univer ity, Cabrillo and the hig and primary schools, wit the artisans, carpenters, su fers and senior citizens, as we l as with the doctors, lawyers

00:35:55.400 - 00:36:14.420

and salesmen, who lived out heir days and nights here, a l of them intermingling, lo ing, arguing, murde ing, demonstrating, strikin and generally pursuing visio s of the best of all possible w rlds in some of the most conserv

00:36:14.600 - 00:36:32.030

tive and liberal life tyle experiments undertaken i the history of man and woman ind. And all of this was happ ning here in Santa Cruz, on the edge of the continent, wher the United States, wit its barnacles and small shi

00:36:32.270 - 00:36:50.750

ings, plunged into the f Joseph Stroud: You had a long piece not too long ago, and then there was a special newspaper that came out about Monterey Bay about the fisherman and- do you remember that poem you had in

00:36:50.750 - 00:37:02.190

there, that long piece? Morton Marcus: Yes, that's- it begins right here. And that is the poem that is in "Big Winds, Glass Morning, Shadows Cast by Stars." That's the poem I was talking about before, that I

00:37:02.190 - 00:37:14.970

have revised, shortened and hopefully made a little better and that will now end the "Immigrants" book. Joseph Stroud: Also with us today is Robert Sward, well known poet, local writer. Bob?

00:37:15.330 - 00:37:27.750

Morton Marcus: He's also a diet soda taster for the Taste magazine Robert Sward: The piece Claire read, of course comes from Taste magazine and I do that role of Mr.- Mr. Taste Test- so this is

00:37:27.750 - 00:37:41.120

Mr. Taste Test on Morton Marcus. I've reviewed birthday parties as well. [Laughter] Joseph Stroud: Is this a four star? Four star review? Robert Sward: I'll let you know after the program. I came back

00:37:41.120 - 00:38:00.020

to the States about 18 months ago after living in Toronto for a number of years, and Mort and I met again soon after I returned. This is a journal entry that I made about that time, Journal, March 30, 1985. Mort and I exchanged books, I

00:38:00.020 - 00:38:16.670

gave him "Half a Life's History: Poems, New and Selected, 1957-1983," and he gave me, "Big Winds, Glass Mornings, Shadows Cast by Stars, Poems 1972-1980." In one of his poems Mort touches on the relationship between studying history and becoming

00:38:16.670 - 00:38:31.820

history. Given our mutual alma mater, the University of Iowa Writers Workshop, and our generally warm associations with that place, which we attended in the late 50s, and 60s, and now exchanging books, his history for my history, my story for his

00:38:31.820 - 00:38:46.010

story, and remembering that the word, "story" once met "history." The exchange is indeed the mutual exchange of histories, of visions, of knowledge and truths of pain. And Mort's "Big Winds," happens to be the only poetry book I've

00:38:46.010 - 00:38:59.870

ever read in its entirety at a bank, the Wells Fargo Bank in Watsonville. I do more readings while waiting in line at that bank than I do in the Watsonville Public Library, which is across the street. And I've kept up my account there

00:38:59.870 - 00:39:14.600

because I've gotten to like reading poetry books in the lines at banks. Into Mort's case, I had read 75 pages waiting in line. When it was my turn, I gave the manager a check for $3,000 in Canadian money. When he disappeared for 45

00:39:14.600 - 00:39:28.520

minutes, it was wonderful. While he was gone I continued reading and rereading and marveled, for example, of what Mort says about rocks in his poem "Rocks are not Sad," where he writes, "Rocks are not sad because of what they remember," And that rocks

00:39:28.520 - 00:39:43.880

"remember the language of planets, and that gold flutters inside them," he tells us how rocks are married to time and that they lean their heart affection against it and time leans back. And in a title poem, he writes, "Glass mornings,

00:39:43.910 - 00:40:04.640

shadows cast by stars, I have always wanted that exact place, that moment where a day touches night, and cold touches warm, where waking is fastened to our sleep, our dreaming fuses with our daily sight, and our living merges with our death." And when

00:40:04.640 - 00:40:20.870

the bank manager returned and my $3,000 Canadian had been converted into something like 1900 American, I found myself reflecting on Mort's poetry, memorable lines like, "the great wind shakes the oak tree by the throat, weeds gossip and sing,

00:40:21.170 - 00:40:40.730

solitary, or among enemies, friends, placing one foot after another in no apparent direction among tenements and sewage plants, or in this field, where my shirt is running away with me. I know my life is an endless linking, that each moment in the

00:40:40.730 - 00:41:00.420

dazzling edge, the hidden seam, where all things great and small touch and join and dance." Joseph Stroud: It's a wonderful journal entry. It's almost like a prose poem in it's- in its own right. Well, Mort, you didn't

00:41:00.420 - 00:41:13.770

know that you wrote poems to stand in line with. Morton Marcus: Well, I would like to be known as a poet to stand in line with. I think that's really important. I said about Robert Peterson, who couldn't make it today because

00:41:13.770 - 00:41:27.180

he's out of the country, in a review that I did of his work once I said, the biggest compliment I can pay him is that I would want to be his companion, and that's what his poems wanted me to be. In other words, it's someone you can live

00:41:27.180 - 00:41:41.400

with from day to day. And thank you very much, Robert. I- you seem to think that I had seen that entry before, I have never seen it before, it's beautiful. Wonderful, and what a lesson. We're probably gonna xerox it up and give it to our students to

00:41:41.400 - 00:41:49.140

show them how you should do a journal. Really just wonderful. Robert Sward: Thanks Mort. Joseph Stroud: There's another local poet in the audience with us today. Tim Sheehan, Tim?

00:41:50.760 - 00:42:03.550

Tim Sheehan: Happy Birthday, Mort. One of the things I love about Mort's poetry is when he writes about the elements and this is one: THE DISCOVERY OF FIRE.

00:42:05.640 - 00:42:27.540

Tonight, bird feathers blaze in the sky. Trees of fire, branches of flame, red teeth of wolves spraying out sparks, villages burn like bushes. Red wings struggle to rise from the roofs, flames belly-dance in windows, like windows abandoning their

00:42:27.540 - 00:42:45.750

husband's names. Dreams ignite in the children's sleep. Weeping girls carry flames in their hands and bring them as offerings to their neighbors huts. Mothers with flame filled mouths, babies swaddled in fire, spears of fire through an old

00:42:45.750 - 00:43:07.320

man's skull. Fire, fire, flowers of fire, thorns of fire. In the first light before dawn hollow footprints smoke in the earth. Joseph Stroud: Wow. What book is that from? Mort is that your first book?

00:43:07.500 - 00:43:18.350

Tim Sheehan: Its "Origins." Morton Marcus: That's- that's from "Origins." That's, that's the first book, though it's really the second book. The first book was, "Where the Oceans Cover Us," a book that

00:43:18.350 - 00:43:34.550

has been seen by very few people, because it sold out within five months and the publisher, bless him, who said that he was going to reprint it, never did and so it died. And I know that you, Joe, think that it contains some of my best

00:43:34.550 - 00:43:51.590

poems but "Origins" came first. It was a group of poems that was written most of- that one I just mentioned, was not- was written before. "Origins" was mostly written at one shot and George Hitchcock heard about it and called me up and said, "I'd like

00:43:51.590 - 00:44:02.540

to see that manuscript," and it took him less than a week to say, "I want it." Joseph Stroud: Mort, what was the source of inspiration for that book? You say that it almost wrote itself in one shot.

00:44:02.570 - 00:44:14.280

Was- did it come from any event or a moment in your life that- Morton Marcus: You know, it didn't. I know that other artists have had these experiences. I'm not- I'm no comparing myself to them, I jus know that they have them, lik

00:44:14.280 - 00:44:26.370

Mozart had them, and differen people where- I'm sure people i this room have had them. It i one of the most excitin moments, I think, for an artists to suddenly just begi to spout uncontrollably. Thes are a collection actuall

00:44:26.370 - 00:44:41.880

finally edited by Georg Hitchcock. I'm down to 35 poems but they are over 125 poems. An I mean, I just- I'd walk in a door and I'd write a poem. I d walk into the next room and I d write another poem. It was ju t uncontrollable. I thought t

00:44:41.880 - 00:44:52.770

e rest of my life was going to e that way. And I- I mean, I w s so high, I wasn't touching t e ground. And I wish to eve y creative and non-creative hum n being, it was one of the gre t moments of my life and it w s inspired, as far as I know,

00:44:52.770 - 00:45:07.810

y absolutely nothing, unless t was a change of my metabolis Joseph Stroud: That could be inspiration. I was thinking maybe in terms of someone like Vasko Popa, whom I know has had influence which- which made me to question. What about

00:45:07.810 - 00:45:19.450

influence on your work, Mort? Who, who in the past, or what writers have exerted a- an influence in your vision or your- your craft as a poet? Morton Marcus: Yeah, that's, that's a great question and yes,

00:45:19.810 - 00:45:34.990

at about that time, I had discovered Vasko Popa through a Yugoslavian critic and translator, who was over in California, that time, by the name of Alexander Neugebauer[?], and I'm sure that was definitely part of what's happening. What I

00:45:34.990 - 00:45:49.060

was consciously trying to do was clear out my poetry and make much shorter lines. The book does not have any punctuation in it and that forced me to write very, very simply and clearly, with with very short lines. I'd written a very dense type of

00:45:49.060 - 00:46:07.420

syntactical, heavy Hungarian goulash kind of poetry before then. I've had a lot of influences. I've been influenced by the Chinese, I love Su Dongpo. I love the Poles, who I was to discover also while I was doing "Origin" and the other

00:46:07.420 - 00:46:26.770

East European writers, post-World War European writers, but the influences are so many and so varied. Robert Sward, before I ever, ever met him Uncle- "Uncle Dog," at nine, which I probably got the title wrong, right? When he called me

00:46:26.770 - 00:46:42.520

up here, I was really excited because there had been many poems of his that I had read, before I'd ever met him, 20-25 years before I'd ever met him, and that's the kind of thing that really has been so important to me. So the

00:46:42.520 - 00:46:56.680

influences are many and varied, they can be a poet's images, they can be the body of his work, they can be one poem, they can be a tone that I hear, or just a whole worldview. So there are just many, many different people and many things have

00:46:56.680 - 00:47:11.240

influenced me from different cultures. Joseph Stroud: We still have a 10 minutes or so, does anyone among us have a poem they would like to read? Robert Sward: Just a remark, I was at Mort's wedding recently,

00:47:11.630 - 00:47:24.650

and while there, sitting in the back, I overheard two people talking and- a man and a woman. And the man with a note of respectful surprise, said, "Look at Mort, look how he carries himself. He could be about to deliver a speech at the United

00:47:24.650 - 00:47:37.250

Nations." There's something about making- and the woman- there was a woman he was speaking with, remarked, "Well, there's something about making a commitment to someone that ennoble's a person." And it struck me that Mort is a man who

00:47:37.250 - 00:47:48.860

does make commitments. He makes commitment to the people that he loves and to his friends and to poetry and that commitment, that commitment to love and to poetry is part of what I think ennobles Mort.

00:47:49.170 - 00:48:01.710

Joseph Stroud: I agree. I also I'm a little leery or fearful of those little cards you're carrying around. Do you record everything that you- that you hear around people? I better watch what I say around you, Bob.

00:48:01.740 - 00:48:06.240

Robert Sward: Joe, these are my Mr. Taste Test cards. Joseph Stroud: Oh I see. Okay. Robert Sward: The review of the birthday. Joseph Stroud: Okay.

00:48:06.300 - 00:48:14.750

Morton Marcus: I'm in between fresca and diet seven-ups. Gary Young: Right after tacos. It'll be upcoming. Joseph Stroud: Gary, do you have a another poem you'd like to read?

00:48:14.810 - 00:48:32.300

Gary Young: Yeah, I do. One of the things that I've always admired most about Mort's work is that he's not afraid to look at the pain people suffer. And more importantly, he looks at how that pain can transform us and somehow allow us to get

00:48:32.300 - 00:48:42.490

through to the other side stronger, and a little more durable. And this is a poem from "Big Winds, Glass Mornings, Shadows Cast by Stars," and it's called: THERE ARE SOME PEOPLE SO DESTROYED

00:48:44.400 - 00:49:00.330

There are some people so destroyed they do not appear to have bodies, so bent over they seem to be hiding their hearts, the last possession in a repossessed house. Others lose their hair. No, their hair strolls off without them on

00:49:00.330 - 00:49:15.090

tiptoe, so they will not detect its departure, and their teeth go, like a hard blizzard, and their arms, and the feeling in their left sides, until they only inhabit their odors, until they feel themselves falling away moment by moment, like the

00:49:15.090 - 00:49:31.980

letters of a gelatinous alphabet, and all that remains of them, finally, is a drop of honey smeared on a black mirror. Still others, panting, crawl onto the white shore of their lovers' bodies and fall asleep. When they wake, they find the

00:49:31.980 - 00:49:47.910

tide has carried them out to sea and they must swim to shore once more, only to fall asleep, exhausted, before they can reach the forest. The rich man, the poor, the hungry man who has all the hunger he can eat, all the thirst he can drink, the boy

00:49:47.910 - 00:50:04.890

filling the belly of his father, the daughter wearing her mother's body like a new dress. What is it destroys them so? Their fathers? Men with hands so big mountain ranges are shadowed in their creases. Governments? Men with hands even bigger than

00:50:04.890 - 00:50:22.800

that? Or is it the moon tugging the tides in our bloodstreams, the galaxies cartwheeling so far away they appear to be a parade of parasols spinning in a vast circus, where we perform without knowing it. I do not want to be one of these people, and yet at

00:50:22.800 - 00:50:39.570

the sight of them, I want to stab my eyes with lumps of coal. Am I so destroyed that I must talk to myself endlessly, releasing these words like insects to populate my world; words that return to sting me with their question marks? There

00:50:39.570 - 00:50:59.670

are some people so destroyed they are reduced to a hive full of words. I know that. Am I the bent, the bald, the dyspeptic lover? And which are you? And if you dismantle your life, will you find me inside? Will I find you? There are some people so

00:50:59.670 - 00:51:15.090

destroyed they've forgotten how heroic it is to hurl back the ocean of their blankets and climb out of bed. They have forgotten that there are some people so heroic they brush their teeth, stroke the cat, clean the house, say hello to

00:51:15.090 - 00:51:31.390

people on the street, and leave their fingerprints like postage stamps on anyone they touch. There are some people so heroic. These words were written for them. Joseph Stroud: Well read, Gary. And Mort is right now, ladies

00:51:31.390 - 00:51:43.880

and gentlemen, writing a poem, I think. Are you Mort? What are you doing? Morton Marcus: I'm just listening. Yes, that was terrifically, terrifically read. It's really interesting, there

00:51:43.880 - 00:51:58.760

are so many poems that I don't like and so many poems of mine that I do like, and it's interesting to see which poems other people have chosen. There are poems that I like, which are not nearly as ambitious as ones that I've tried, but I like them

00:51:58.760 - 00:52:10.310

because they seem to be, you know, just- they just say things and they use the language the way I can hardly ever use it, which is, you know, just saying things just right. And I think that's what every poet really, really wants to happen. You want

00:52:10.310 - 00:52:22.370

that to happen with an ambitious poem also. It was great hearing that read. Tim, do you have another one? I- because I- you said, I'm putting him on the spot here, he won't say anything, he'll just relax. He's got 105 temperature also.

00:52:22.000 - 00:52:36.790

Joseph Stroud: While he's looking for a poem, I want to ask Mort a question. You know, most poet's favorite poem is a poem they happen to be working on at the time. And- but behind that, we all have at least one or two poems that we- we really

00:52:36.790 - 00:52:57.400

cherish, we go to bed at night holding on to and before the night- before the day is up maybe we can get Mort to, to read one of those poems of his, the one that he really likes and cares about. But before that, Tim, why don't you-

00:53:00.630 - 00:53:14.230

Tim Sheehan: Here's Mort looking at one of the ordinary objects of our lives. It's called: CLOTHES HANGER He is the bird whose wings are always rising, only to be held

00:53:14.230 - 00:53:35.830

down by the gravity of our clothes. When we rip our coats from his shoulders and he is suddenly naked, jangled, spinning in the light, he emits a small song, a chiming cheep, but only when he and another nude bird touch. For us he

00:53:35.830 - 00:54:01.690

dangles all day over a precipice by grasping a plank with his beak. When he has fallen, do you lift him gently? Realize this: his shape is our skeletal design. When we load our jackets on his back, so we can shower, sleep, enter the lives of our

00:54:01.690 - 00:54:17.620

lovers, then we are naked, flapping, ready to fly. James Houston: I like that, can I read something to follow that, Joe? Ties in with some- just a very short one? Joseph Stroud: Sure. Go ahead.

00:54:17.920 - 00:54:30.700

James Houston: There's another poem from the "Santa Cruz Mountains Poems," that I think of as a- as a zoom lens poem, which is something Mort's extremely good at, take a very small detail, like the coat hanger, or in the case of the

00:54:30.700 - 00:54:45.910

poem I'm going to read, something as humble as a weed, and very quickly give it cosmic significance, you know. This little poem is a little haiku from the "Santa Cruz Mountain Poems," and something as, as ordinary as a weed becomes a

00:54:45.940 - 00:55:00.580

kind of companion on this cosmic journey in three lines, a zoom lens poem called: A WEED The weed puts out its hand, take it, hold fast. We are flying

00:55:00.580 - 00:55:10.870

into a long night. Joseph Stroud: I like that poem very much as well. Morton Marcus: Let me say, though he's not expecting this, it'll probably ruin everything he's doing technologically over

00:55:10.870 - 00:55:24.760

there. One of the strong influences on me in both friendship, but certainly in his very hard criticism, and in the way he has directed me towards finding nature, one of the people, way after we got to Santa Cruz who just really sent

00:55:24.760 - 00:55:37.780

me out into the fields to look at it clearly, and to look at the small objects as they are, not just transformed through my imagination, was Joe Stroud, one of the finest poets I think I have ever read, and whose work I go back to again and again. So I

00:55:37.780 - 00:55:49.450

don't want to sound like a mutual admiration society, but- Joseph Stroud: We really fight a lot actually. Morton Marcus: We really do, like you should have heard us after some of these programs. Anyway, you asked me for one of

00:55:49.450 - 00:55:56.650

my favorite poems, we don't really have time for it, I don't think. It's the one in which I look at all the women I've made love with. Joseph Stroud: Hmm.

00:55:59.380 - 00:56:08.920

Morton Marcus: I can do it if you want. Joseph Stroud: Well, you have a birthday poem. Morton Marcus: I have a birthday poem so we've got to save time for it because Leon is already starting to put grease in the

00:56:08.920 - 00:56:17.170

skillet for the "Jazz Kitche Joseph Stroud: Right, I can smell the cooking. Why don't you do the new poem Mort? The birthday poem? That's okay. Morton Marcus: The birthday poem will- will wrap it up.

00:56:17.230 - 00:56:25.990

Joseph Stroud: Okay. Morton Marcus: Do it well, we have more time than that. The birthday poem won't take very long. Okay.

00:56:26.020 - 00:56:37.550

Joseph Stroud: You have the floor. Morton Marcus: Well, I just lost the place. Um, what I've tried to do in my poems, and this is a poem that would- would be a favorite of mine, would be one that very simply would manage to

00:56:37.550 - 00:56:54.650

in some way talk about what it is like to be human, people mostly. And yet at the same time, it would also be one that would have to do with the whole metaphysical aspect of being alive. And I'm now just shuffling pages [chuckles], and

00:56:54.650 - 00:57:07.340

I found it. And here's a new poem that I've written. It's not the birthday poem, which I'll read after this. It's a very short poem but it gets in all parts of it and it gets in also part of the folk imagery that has become such a- an important

00:57:07.340 - 00:57:22.660

part of my poetry, I think. I think a lot of the wild stuff is really just folklore that I write. This is called: THE STARS The stars are grains of salt thrown over God's shoulder. They

00:57:22.660 - 00:57:48.630

fly from us, and we fly after. But the heart, that dark star, the heart, that heavy planet, is all we can know of heaven. And I'd like to sign off- Joe, I take it Joe's going to say something after this. This is my poem at fifty. I just wrote it

00:57:48.630 - 00:58:03.900

today and it's a hodgepodge of other things. And it may be a comment on what other people have commented today because a lot of what they've said I think hones into this, its called, "A Self Portrait at Fifty." And before I read, I just want to

00:58:03.900 - 00:58:15.340

thank everyone for coming down here and for saying words, nice words, for just being generous enough to share my birthday with me, that was the important thing. SELF PORTRAIT AT FIFTY

00:58:16.470 - 00:58:38.130

You can see no farther than my face, defoliated hairline. Henry the Eighth behind his beard, the jolly leprechaun dressed as a Jewish bear. I'm martyred to my skin, heir to a chilly morning in a foggy field. Rub two words together, that's my warmth. I

00:58:38.130 - 00:58:59.540

weep, I kiss the ground, I jig to my own dirge, cut off the fog around my nose. I wade toward whatever comes carrying words and children in the tall grass of my bones. Joseph Stroud: Happy Birthday Mort, and I hope you have

00:58:59.540 - 00:59:14.990

another fifty years of poetry and friendship. That's the Poetry Show for today. Stay tuned for Leon and "The Jazz Kitchen." And we'll go out with some music that Mort has picked out. Klets- klets-

00:59:16.130 - 00:59:21.770

Morton Marcus: Klezmer, Klezmer music, Eastern European Yiddish musicians. Joseph Stroud: Stay tuned for Leon and "The Jazz Kitchen."