Jack Hirschman – Clara Hsu

Joycean Night

Two events were happening simultaneously on opposite sides of town, both celebrating the birthday of James Joyce. I had to choose between going to Jack Hirschman’s Readers Cafe at Fort Mason, or join a group plow-through of Finnegans Wake at a friend’s home. I went to Fort Mason, where Hirschman featured Jack and Adelle Foley paying tribute to “Germ’s Choice”.

Joyce’s river in Finnegans Wake morphed into two magma lavas. They flowed side by side in discordant tempos and when they pinged, syllables bounced off in all directions, stinging the listeners, confusing their ears, jamming their computation demanding total surrender to the voices, words, chorus (of two, if you are counting bodies). Then all of a sudden, when their multi-rhythms began to take over the room, they stopped.

The lavas mutated back into the river, Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved along the

Photo by Rhy Tranter.

My Liang Mountain

One of my favorite classical Chinese novels is Tales of the Water Margin. It describes the release of 108 spirits that had been trapped by an enormous tortoise. The spirits took human forms and became outlaws. They gathered in the Liang Mountain and fought government corruption and injustice.

After wandering for over forty years, I walked into the Sacred Grounds Cafe one afternoon in 2001 and knew that I had arrived at my Liang Mountain. The outlaws were people from all walks of life but their spirits were unmistakable. They recognized me as I recognized them and we banded together ever since.

There are a few Liang Mountains in San Francisco. North Beach’s Cafe Trieste is presided over by Jack Hirschman, our former Poet Laureate. You don’t need a pass traveling from mountain to mountain but you may feel a little bit alienated without seeing a familiar face and the outlaws tend to huddle in groups. I was walking towards Trieste one day and saw such a group sitting in front of the cafe. Before I opened the door I heard my name. It was not a call out to me, but someone had written a poem with me in mind and was about to share it with the others. I turned around and saw Peter Sherburn-Zimmer’s angelic face, equally surprised to find me standing there. After he read he handed me the poem and I felt doubly initiated.

After the Beat, What Generation?

carlos2 — Carlos Ramirez. Click image to see Carlos perform.

For one thing, we don’t smoke anymore. And instead of hard drugs, we take psychotic medications and depressant. Alcohol, yes, but most of us has wised up. Even coffee is replaced by tea. Jack Hirschman and David Meltzer are still holding up the Beat, but then what? Poets are still poor, poetry reading is still free, thank God, at least in San Francisco.

The Beat Generation rose from the river of ever rushing poetic fervor. I don’t know who’ll be the next to go viral. The cosmos still holds the upper hand in this matter. But the gems are gleaming in cafes and salons, worthy of a much wider audience. Last night at the Red Poppy Art House in the Mission, Carlos Ramirez and Greg Pond traded Langston Hughes in songs and verse with an attendance of twelve. There was no photographer, no recorder. The magic of Hughes’ poems sung with child-like joy by a nimble seventy-something year old Carlos of great white beard ceased to exist after the reading, except for those who were there.