Peter Valente
I Surrender to the Seraphim: On Neeli Cherkovski's The Crow and I
Neeli Cherkovski is a master of his craft and this new volume of poetry, The Crow and I, is further evidence of his unconventional wisdom and the depth of his lyrical sense. These poems are concerned with two of our most fundamental themes: Eros and Thanatos. The love poems are complex and emotionally charged, as they recount a lifetime of loving and loss. Other poems deal with the issues that come up when you grow older and face the inevitability of death, but Cherkovski does not practice a quiet resignation, rather, I can imagine him raging against the dying of the light. Cherkovski is not concerned with the afterlife nor with the biblical God, but with this idea of Oblivion, the total annihilation of the world. That is more frightening than any idea of heaven or hell. But at 70 years old, and whatever the future may hold, Cherkovski is ready to meet it head on. He’s at the height of his powers, and more prolific than ever; almost daily he posts astonishing new poems on Facebook. He is honest with himself and the poems are never merely flaunting technique, like so much contemporary “experimental” poetry. His is a poetry that believes in the power of the lyrical self: “the idea is to fabricate nothing / to sing as men have always sung. His poetry is the real thing.
In The Crow and I there are a number of striking love poems and here he is the equal of John Wieners. For example, there is the very moving poem to his longtime friend, the poet Harold Norse, “Hydra Waterfront” where he writes,
I miss you more than I miss
you, I guess it is a feeling without
measure, you were the man
who showed me at least one way
out of the solitude and back to the self
Indeed, if one were to speak of Cherkovski’s poetics, one would have to mention his belief in an authentic self, apart from social convention and repression. In a poem, not included here he writes, “Legislate no morality dear animal-body”. His friendship with Norse was important in this respect since he showed the young Cherkovski that gay sex could be experienced without shame but rather with joy and ecstasy. That permission was what the young Cherkovski needed to strip away the false trappings of identity and embrace his sexual body.
In “I’ll undress him…” Cherkovski writes,
..I only wish
to undress him with a smile and
a tear, to say “How lovely
your shoulders, so slim your arms…
And concludes that “it is good to play around / desire’s realm”. In “Save Me from the People”, Cherkovski writes, “I talk to the tall young men in well-laundered Levis …do they know how I undress them, calmly unbuttoning / a shirt, slowly kissing curly black hair of the groin….let me be a fantasy”. Indeed, erotic fantasy can yield a moment of intense pleasure but there is always the wish to be desired in return.
In “Eros, Flowers” Cherkovski recounts his love for a young, talented, poet, Eric Walker. In this poem he is more candid:
…yes I turned you over
to one side and felt you
deep in my mouth, then a stream
of come all over my heart
the veins of your eyes
came rushing along the side
of my room, four walls rocking
into the night, my bed soaked
with your courage, flowers struggling
toward emancipation…
Later on in the poem Cherkovski tells of the fate that befell this young, talented poet: he falls for a girl who “couldn’t have” him, was given drugs, thrown in jail, and committed suicide while incarcerated. He was only 29 years old. It is a sad fact that many gay men commit suicide because of rejection from their parents or friends, or attempt to enter into heterosexual relationships that end up failing, or are medicated for depression etc. They are the casualties of an intolerant and ignorant society. This reader is also reminded of the lives that were lost in the struggle for gay rights and how much more needs to be done “in the struggle for emancipation”.
Another complicated affair is suggested in the poem, “Pandemonium”. Neeli writes, “right here the trouble began, you are in bed / beside me and I’m trying to forget and forgive / nothing, let me go far enough away…” Love and especially sexual tension can breed fear or lead to resentment. Nevertheless, desire will not back down and the hope for love persists, gnawing at the throat. He writes, “I wish you were here in my arms / one night, only one night, as the innocents / and the whores, the murderers and the betrayed come round the corner and march / across the piazza..” But then there’s the one who got away: “the day I met you / is the day I adored you and / held you in my arms and lost you / out of foolishness..” He recounts his first meeting with this young poet:
it’s the day I find you reading Rimbaud
at a table in Café Malvina, Franco
tops- off my cappuccino
with a sprinkle of cocoa, I
owe so much to the gods, thinking
back, we sleep arm in arm
the one true god a dream
But what is perfection? Who needs it. The one perfect lover, the “handsome soulmate” seems eternally out of reach. Movies and magazines present an ideal image impossible to attain. But one can dream! And after all, look how far we willing to go, the dangers we face, for the sake of meeting our true love; it can’t be helped when one is overcome by desire. Cherkovski writes,
…I’d as soon follow you
to the highest rock or
take the train
to where Icarus
fell out of the sky
And yet, “where has the young / genius gone? / what became of my handsome / soul mate?” Perhaps it’s true in the end that only fools rush in; at least most of the time.
There is also a different kind of love that Cherkovski shows to the dying poet, Eugene Ruggles, a friend, in the poem, Prayer 3: “I speak for this lonesome man / who dies bitter / in his hotel room….he wants me to care / because he cannot.” Here is a kind of love toward someone who is entirely, and not necessarily by his own choice, dependent on him. It is a dependency born of need not desire, circumstance not pleasure.
In these series of poems, Cherkovski shows us the many ways love enters our lives. In the absence of physical consummation there is always the reprieve of erotic fantasy, rejection does not stop the lover from wishing his love to be returned, there is the tragic element that suddenly intrudes upon a love affair, and finally, there is love that is based on dependency. But “all is fine, grace inspires / my garden is clean and orderly / a miniature paradise // 29 years with the same man / loving his mind, counting his steps / at night on the steep stairs…” And when times get tough, Cherkovski’s advice is to just sit back and let your mind wander, listen to the music of the spheres! It’s a way of keeping anger at bay.
The other major theme in The Crow and I concerns aging and death. But you’ll find no quiet resignation here:
so time is a jackass after all
and men go down
everyone of them finally
swilling beer
drinking cognac
I guess the world is not
a playful place
Erotic memories come rushing into Cherkovski’s mind, prompted by the poem. He remembers the “World War veterans” teaching his classes, reading “William Cullen Bryant” and then the erotic experience of showering together with his classmates, their “naked asses” perfectly in place. Here is the memory of the ideal youth so favored by the ancient Greeks. But he is older now, a “senior”. And yet with age comes experience; he’s “been around awhile” and it’s “okay to faceforward”. New books are on the horizon, he’ll give readings in “Innsbruck”, sleep at his “friend’s house in Tuscany” and enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning as he watches the sun rise over “Carrara’s marble hills.” Life goes on. These lines are from a poem called, “Thoughts at 67”. The first poem in the book is called “Nearing 69”. There he writes
69 chances
to be a wise old man
like Zarathustra
and after 69
a deluge of sea water
over my chest
a sprinkle of stars
a hummingbird hovers
Not wisdom as such, but rather a lyrical moment where nature actually seems to delight in the poet’s body; this experience is for Cherkovski a source of knowledge. It is an erotic moment of flight and song; the hummingbird hovers above him as a sign.
There is also humor in these poems about aging. With age comes the inevitable correctives in the form of a pill that a doctor proscribes for one reason or another, whether for pain or depression or simply fear of “old age, sickness, disability.” So Cherkovski writes “In Praise of my Happy Pill”: “I’m on a new mind-blowing medicine / 50 milligrams a day / covering my body in a certain subtle beauty”. The “pill made things easier / for those I know and for the man / I live with, I still wonder about mortality / but in a new and more enjoyable way.” But of course, “things will never be perfect”.
Then, with old age, comes the time to take stock of one’s achievements, to look back on what one has done, to search, as Cherkovski’s puts it, “in the mud and dust” of the past. He writes,
ruthless I am when digging
into my papers
looking for a sign of genius
or relief from the plan I have
to lie down in a soft bed
head resting on pillows
The poet is restless, taking stock, searching for answers, resisting the lure to forget everything and go to sleep. It is important to remember these “magazines / filled with what had been / glamorous news, here’s a pile / of photographs, everyone is / dead, pots and pans, old trombones / useless piano scores / empty promises”. They are “notes from a dead city….filled with imagination” But there is no turning back. The scene has changed. That now mythical San Francisco, once a “city of poets”, is just a memory. A new breed has taken over. They attend the symphony gala,
as the vulnerable sink, as many go hungry
in a grid of wealth, in a town of banks
and commerce
These lines are from a poem called, “Eviction: One More Beautiful Day”. The rich turn their eyes away from the poor, who are the most vulnerable in this country of vast wealth. It’s as if they don’t exist. The plain fact is that countless people are getting evicted from their apartments because they can’t pay the high prices that landlords are demanding. Small businesses are also being swallowed by big businesses. How many empty stores line the main streets of U.S. cities?
Another poem that critiques contemporary society, which like the previous poem shows Cherkovski’s connection to Pasolini, is “False Blood.” It is a subtle critique of the typical modern couple: “She earned her MFA in Post-Traumatic Studies / and settled in San Francisco taking a job / as a classical pianist”; her boyfriend is “six feet five inches tall and gets on / the Google bus early in the morning after shaving / and admiring his naked torso”, goes to the gym to work out in the evening, then to the wine shop; “he thinks his boss is a dick, he watches a guy stand up in / the aisle and rub the crack of his ass” There is the suggestion here of repressed tendencies on his part and boredom on hers. But they are, “mostly white / under twenty-nine, well educated” etc. What is the truth behind well-educated, white, professionals who perform the same actions every day without fail, maintaining a veneer of respectability; what hides in their closets? Because,
elsewhere in the world the cleansing continues, the
trafficking of everything goes on…
empty your arms, throw the trash
into the proper bin
brush your brain, crush the clock
It’s as if there is a great cleansing of anyone who is different, as if those in power want everyone to look the same, think the same thoughts, and practice the same morality. Cherkovski advises a liberation from this form of life that stifles the spirit of most Americans: sort out your baggage, start thinking about what matters, forget about the passage of time, live in the moment.
In the poem, “At the Caffe Trieste”, Cherkovski muses on the old days when there was energy and excitement at the famous Café, where the poets hung out, an energy that today simply doesn’t exist. He likens these poets who genuinely took risks to Mozart and Bach, “all those long hours / composing music for an ungrateful mob
that’s how it is, I awaken in a fever
every night fearful of losing it
and falling with no help in sight…
it’s all I’ve got now, this Golden Age
The original Caffè Trieste was located in San Francisco's North Beach and became popular among the neighborhood’s primarily Italian residents. It was opened in 1956 by Giovanni Giotta, who emigrated to the United States from the small fishing town of Rovigno D'Istria, Italy, presently a part of Croatia. It is a mythical place where many poets once gathered and talked and drank and hatched out plans for living and writing. It was the place where “Beat movement” writers gathered, such as Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Bob Kaufman, Gregory Corso, Michael McClure, and Neeli himself, who arrived in San Francisco in late 1974, renewing his friendship with Jack Hirschman, the former Poet Laureate of San Francisco. At the time he was a poet immersed in the work of Bukowski but his work has moved on from that early preoccupation. Cherkovski has developed into a lyrical poet whose work is very different from Bukowski’s. The Caffé Trieste still exists and is still a gathering place for poets but lacks the intensity that filled the air at the original location. Cherkovski, speaking about the magic of that fabled place, says:
you’ll find it
when you want it, maybe
and maybe not, in a proper
season, in this new age
of splendor on a crowded
planet,
The magic is present, always was, you just have to know how to look for it. Maybe you’ll find it, maybe you won’t.
Then there is the central poem from which the title of the book was taken, “When the Crow and I are Alone”, an important poem on the idea of redemption. The crow has many associations in Greek and Roman mythology as well as in the Islamic world. During the Middle Ages the crow was thought to live an abnormally long life. The crows were also thought to be monogamous throughout their long lives. They were also harbingers of the future and it was thought that the sight of one signified the potential for rainfall or the threat of ambush. Crows have also demonstrated the ability to distinguish individual humans by recognizing facial features. But they frequently cause damage to crops and property, spread trash, and transfer disease. The crow is dual, it is a destroyer and yet it was also thought to be a beneficial omen. Both love and old age can also function in a dual manner; Love can cause elation or despair, old age can be a “golden” period or a time of crippling regret. In the poem, Cherkovski concludes that the crow is: “…beautiful / and primitive / just as we are, primal / and dangerous, heading forever toward disaster.” Life can be treacherous no matter who we are or what we do. But Cherkovski reminds us that, “people must understand / what is important in life / friendship is important / I offer mine / a man a bird / feathers and ceremonial song.” And there is a profound connection between the speaker and the crow:
when the crow and I are alone
life is much easier
I scream the crow caws
I rage and the crow ruffles his feathers…
In an interview with Michael Limnios, Cherkovski responds in part to the question, “What experiences in your life make you a good writer and poet?” that “I want to fly like the birds, to soar as they do, to look down on ridges and plains as they can.” But man is not a bird and so he can only, “sit in an airplane seat, pace the aisles, and peer at clouds or land or ocean from the porthole in an emergency door. Restlessness makes me a poet.” But the gift of the lyrical poet is song and there is an elevated feeling that comes when the poet is in the grip of the poem; so in this respect a poet can soar, even with his feet placed firmly on the ground. Cherkovski continues the poem,
we sit together
we talk of redemption..
here in the frost it is possible to believe
that one may die a better way
Before continuing, it is worth repeating the last lines of the following poem by Kenneth Patchen:
I am turning the lights out now.
A red wind crawls in over the water.
Before I come again, in my own honor,
Men will have gone down like pricked guts;
Murder will walk the world.
All the nice kids will be puked clean.
Who will listen? who will care?
Don’t fight their war!
Tell them to go to hell!
This isn’t a poem. This is a sob and a death rattle.
Who will listen? who will care?
A black wind blows in over the graves.
I will not believe it –
But it is true.
It is true.
Cherkovski addresses Miriam Patchen, Kenneth’s wife, and the line in italics below is a quote from a section of the poem quoted above. Cherkovski concludes, “When the Crow and I are Alone” in the following way, as if in response to the sad truth that Patchen speaks about in the poem above:
the harbinger flies into the room
I shut the window
dear Miriam there is a reason
I have held it
the planet is alive
“I say the drums are going like mad”
when the crow and I are alone
There are forces of nature stronger than the “monolithic technology” that threatens to overtake the entire earth. Still, it’s not a pretty picture. But Cherkovski emphasizes in “I didn’t do it” that he is not guilty, he’s not responsible for all this corporate greed; he didn’t evict anyone, or start a war, or humiliate someone on the Internet. Instead, he writes:
I’m happy
just to be
a calm and
cultivated
soul pacing
the sanctuary
my place of refuge
And in the end, after the day is over, we’re only left with ourselves, anyway, with our own thoughts, our own body, our own baggage, so why not just accept yourself, and say “Yeah, that’s me” in the mirror and be proud, enjoy the sight of your naked body, don’t be pompous or vain. That’s Cherkovski’s advice and he’s been around long enough to know the truth about this society: “you’ll love me / and then loathe me” and he is shrewd enough to dish it right back: “but I’ll do the same / for you”.
The Crow and I is a masterful collection by a poet who knows the score. Cherkovski was close with many of the so–called “Beat Movement” writers and continues today to write poetry that is tough, lyrical and very wise in an unconventional way. In this volume he tackles the fundamental issues surrounding love and the fact of growing older, while “counting the steps to paradise.” No wonder he writes, “I surrender to the seraphim”, those angelic beings associated with ardor and light. His poems are truly illuminations.