Over the past thirty years, Ron Padgett has created a unique body of poetry, prose poems, translations, and essays. By the late 1960s, Padgett had begun to assimilate strategies from a combination of earlier French and American poets - in particular, the manic prose poems of Max Jacob, the Cubist precision of Pierre Reverdy, the cafe conversation lines of Guillaume Apollinaire, as well as the feisty, urban immediacy of Frank O'Hara, and the veering into-themselves-disappearing narratives of Kenneth Koch (with whom Padgett studied at Columbia University). For many years now, along with several other New York City based poets of his generation, Padgett has been referred to as a second-generation New York School poet. While such a labeling was not inappropriate in the 1970s, at this point it is inaccurate. suspect that it is mainly based on Padgett's first book (Great Balls of Fire, 1969; reprinted in 1990), in which the French and O'Hara/Koch influence is the strongest. However, by the late 1970s, in such collections as Toujours l'amour and Triangles in the Afternoon, Padgett became Padgett. With his 1992 translation of Blaise Cendrars' Complete Poems and his own New & Selected Poems, it is clear that he is a major figure in contemporary American letters. Literary influence aside, Padgett's writing is amply grounded in popular culture. No one in American poetry, for example, has made more use of the comic strip and animated cartoon than Padgett. He accounts for the amount of memorabilia in his poetry in the following way: I ascribe it to having grown up in a prospering, consumerist America in the 1940s and 1950s with parents who had just edged upward from poverty into the middle class and who very much enjoyed the entertainments and objects they could thus afford. My mother loved popular music and movies. She and went to hundreds of movies together, movies of all kinds, and she was very nice about taking me to cartoon festivals. Also, both she and my father provided an endless supply of comic books, my favorite reading matter. read very little children's literature as a child. Aside from the fact that my parents were bootleggers, my upbringing was quite 'normal': toys, baseball, movies, cars, with their attendant vocabularies (such as, respectively: Slinky, frozen rope, You're dern tootin', overdrive). Padgett's poetry ripples with immediacy - it is a poetry of primary colors, as it were, calling to mind the thing-grounded work of W. C. Williams. Relative to Williams, Padgett is more garrulous and much more humorous. His lines are peppered with off-stage remarks, exclamations (By gum, Bgawk, Yipes, Yaba-dabba-dooo), and sudden soliloquacious excursions that just as quickly swerve into something else, or go up in smoke: in one poem, George Frederick Handel is set on fire; in another, Papa Bear's coffee cup explodes; in another, Mr. Bushwanger's glasses fall to the floor and burst into flame. This Spike Jones atmosphere is modulated by an austere, existential probing, and a keen sense of the liquid boundary between being and not being at all. Let me ground these initial remarks by quoting and responding to a complete poem. Here is to (from Triangles in the Afternoon, 1979): Ode to Poland It is embarrassingly true that you don't begin to die until you begin to live, embarrassing because it is a truism uttered by big fat idiots. am a thin person, myself, seeing the golden sunlight of sunset radiant against red bricks that appear quite ordinary too, lifting me out of my shoes and into some real or imaginary sense of the Eternal as turn into the New First Avenue Bakery where the girl is saying, At home our manners have to be perfect, have to set the table just so, the light on the buildings set just so and Intellect extending its puny arms toward some greatness of cognition - only to have the proverbial bully of Mystery kick sand in its face. …
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