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You know back in the 70's in college I had a chance to interview Allen Ginsberg for my campus radio show. He politely declined. So, I asked AI to create a conversation between us...my Christmas Gift to myself:
The Scene
Setting: A booth at Bloc 11 Café in Somerville, MA. Doug has a bagel and a notebook; Allen has a cup of herbal tea and his harmonium resting on the bench beside him.
Doug Holder: Allen, it’s a trip to finally have you across the table. I tried to get you on my radio show back in the 70s—I was just a kid at SUNY then—but you were busy howling at the world. I ended up reading your stuff to psychiatric patients at McLean Hospital for thirty years instead.
Allen Ginsberg: (Chuckling, peering over his glasses) To the "madmen," Doug? The "best minds" I saw destroyed by starvation, hysterical, naked? That’s a noble pursuit. Most people want to lock the madness away, but a poet’s job is to transcribe the data of the soul, especially when the soul is under duress. How did they take to the "Howl" in the wards?
Doug Holder: It was a mixed bag. I remember one guy walking out of a workshop because he said, "Why do I have to hear this? I live with it." It taught me that poetry isn't just about the "shouted breath"; sometimes it’s about the quiet grief of a guy eating a bagel at Bickford’s. I’ve always been drawn to the "poseur" in all of us—the small, gritty details of the street.
Allen Ginsberg: (Nodding) That’s the William Carlos Williams influence. No ideas but in things! The bagel is as holy as the seraphim. If you can see the holiness in a Somerville coffee shop or a hospital hallway, you’re doing the work. But tell me—you’ve spent decades in the "Paris of New England." Does the Muse still survive in the face of all this gentrification and digital noise?
Doug Holder: It’s harder. I see the old "barfly" poets being replaced by condos. But that’s why I started Ibbetson Street Press—to give the small-press guys, the ones who aren't "academic darlings," a place to scream or whisper. You were the king of the small press, Allen. You and City Lights broke the door down for all of us.
Allen Ginsberg: It’s all about the sangha, the community. You don't write in a vacuum. You write for your friends, for the ghosts of Whitman and Blake, and for the guy sitting next to you on the subway. Is that what you’re doing with your "Poet to Poet" show? Creating a record of the breath?
Doug Holder: Exactly. I want to capture the creative process before it evaporates. I’ve interviewed everyone from Piri Thomas to local street poets. I’m interested in the "un-pigeonhole-able" poet. You once said, "First thought, best thought." I try to apply that to the interviews—get to the raw, unedited truth of why we bother to string words together when the world is falling apart.
Allen Ginsberg: (Placing a hand on his harmonium) The world is always falling apart, Doug. That’s why we have to keep the rhythm. The breath is the only thing that belongs to us. Whether you’re at the Grolier Poetry Book Shop or in a locked ward, the syllable is a form of liberation. Don't be afraid of the "poseur" label—we’re all just wearing masks until the poem strips them off.
Doug Holder: I’ll drink to that—or at least finish my coffee to it. You know, they gave me an award in your name recently—the Allen Ginsberg Community Service Award.
Allen Ginsberg: (Grinning) Well then, you're officially part of the lineage. Just don't let the award gather dust. Use it as a permit to keep being a nuisance to the status quo. Now, tell me about this "Bagel Bard" group of yours... I think I could have used a good poppy seed bagel back in the East Village
The Scene
Setting: A booth at Bloc 11 Café in Somerville, MA. Doug has a bagel and a notebook; Allen has a cup of herbal tea and his harmonium resting on the bench beside him.
Doug Holder: Allen, it’s a trip to finally have you across the table. I tried to get you on my radio show back in the 70s—I was just a kid at SUNY then—but you were busy howling at the world. I ended up reading your stuff to psychiatric patients at McLean Hospital for thirty years instead.
Allen Ginsberg: (Chuckling, peering over his glasses) To the "madmen," Doug? The "best minds" I saw destroyed by starvation, hysterical, naked? That’s a noble pursuit. Most people want to lock the madness away, but a poet’s job is to transcribe the data of the soul, especially when the soul is under duress. How did they take to the "Howl" in the wards?
Doug Holder: It was a mixed bag. I remember one guy walking out of a workshop because he said, "Why do I have to hear this? I live with it." It taught me that poetry isn't just about the "shouted breath"; sometimes it’s about the quiet grief of a guy eating a bagel at Bickford’s. I’ve always been drawn to the "poseur" in all of us—the small, gritty details of the street.
Allen Ginsberg: (Nodding) That’s the William Carlos Williams influence. No ideas but in things! The bagel is as holy as the seraphim. If you can see the holiness in a Somerville coffee shop or a hospital hallway, you’re doing the work. But tell me—you’ve spent decades in the "Paris of New England." Does the Muse still survive in the face of all this gentrification and digital noise?
Doug Holder: It’s harder. I see the old "barfly" poets being replaced by condos. But that’s why I started Ibbetson Street Press—to give the small-press guys, the ones who aren't "academic darlings," a place to scream or whisper. You were the king of the small press, Allen. You and City Lights broke the door down for all of us.
Allen Ginsberg: It’s all about the sangha, the community. You don't write in a vacuum. You write for your friends, for the ghosts of Whitman and Blake, and for the guy sitting next to you on the subway. Is that what you’re doing with your "Poet to Poet" show? Creating a record of the breath?
Doug Holder: Exactly. I want to capture the creative process before it evaporates. I’ve interviewed everyone from Piri Thomas to local street poets. I’m interested in the "un-pigeonhole-able" poet. You once said, "First thought, best thought." I try to apply that to the interviews—get to the raw, unedited truth of why we bother to string words together when the world is falling apart.
Allen Ginsberg: (Placing a hand on his harmonium) The world is always falling apart, Doug. That’s why we have to keep the rhythm. The breath is the only thing that belongs to us. Whether you’re at the Grolier Poetry Book Shop or in a locked ward, the syllable is a form of liberation. Don't be afraid of the "poseur" label—we’re all just wearing masks until the poem strips them off.
Doug Holder: I’ll drink to that—or at least finish my coffee to it. You know, they gave me an award in your name recently—the Allen Ginsberg Community Service Award.
Allen Ginsberg: (Grinning) Well then, you're officially part of the lineage. Just don't let the award gather dust. Use it as a permit to keep being a nuisance to the status quo. Now, tell me about this "Bagel Bard" group of yours... I think I could have used a good poppy seed bagel back in the East Village
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