*

Gary Margolis is the author of four poetry books, Raking the Winter Leaves: New and Selected Poems (Bauhan Publishing, 2013); Fire in the Orchard (Autumn House Press, 2002), which was nominated for the 2002 Pulitzer Prize for poetry; Falling Awake (University of Georgia Press, 1986); and The Day We Still Stand Here (University of Georgia Press, 1983). A Robert Frost Fellow at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and a recipient of a Vermont Council on the Arts award, Margolis has published his poems in Poetry, American Scholar, Poetry Northwest, and other literary magazines.

Easter’s Ginsberg and Corso

Gary Margolis

“I moved ahead, eager to rejoin old company . . .

I went to the movie of my life,” —Ginsberg

I’m reminded this day before Christ

rose, Gregory Corso invited my friend,

Peter, and me, to drive him to Ginsberg’s

and Orlovsky’s farm, down state,

for Allen’s birthday. Peter lived in a commune

with Gregory in Buffalo.

Where that poet was loving his Methadone

and heroin. Two lines in his high

poem. The one he promised he’d write

on the drive down. If only we could

see our way past what we’d find.

Men sitting around a dining room

table, waiting for Gregory to arrive,

rise with them. Once Allen began playing

his harmonium, breathing life with his feet

into its canvas lungs. Raising his voice,

no one would call singing, really.

If you weren’t stoned on love,

men’s love. Peter and I—am I remembering

right—espoused in the abstract. Seeking

advice, in those days, from the I Ching,

those pictographs of sticks and stones,

their random messaging. Should we stay,

should we go? Wondering if we could stand

listening to our backseat poet, droning

for hours on the Thruway. Driving

our crystal Christ, wearing a shawl

and his court jester shoes, their tips curled.

Gregory said Allen would have him

take off at the door. Said Peter and I could leave

our clothes on, when the dancing began.

When, he wanted us to know,

there’d be more than one Christ

rising, coming down. Even if we left

the car running all weekend, by the private

gate. If we’d be there to drive him home.

— Gary Margolis

*The poem will also appear in Margolis’ book Museum of Islands: New and Selected Poems (Baughan Publishing) spring of 2020.

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