Hans PLOMP

In the spring of 1982, a group of Dutch poets toured the U.S., as a part of the celebration
of 200 years of American independence. The tour included many important cultural centers: St.
Mark's, Nuyorican, Ann Arbor, Boulder, Berkeley, Bolinas, etc. There were several performances
with congenial American poets like Anne Waldman, Diane di Prima, Ira Cohen, Amiri Baraka,
Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg. All this made our journey a magnificent experience.


The cover of the City Lights Books anthology "Nine Dutch Poets" states:  "Like the Provos'
in Amsterdam who came to symbolize protest & peace in the world, these Dutch writers-two of
whom are internationally famous as painters-here carry their own very special poetic messages far
beyond the boundaries of their own tiny Netherlands, to spread that 'peace virus' known as
HOLLANDITIS."


The trip became a revealing adventure:  as a CIA agent tried to persuade the Dutch poets
to forbid the publication of the City Lights anthology because of it's high "hollanditis" content, a
literary battle raged between the 'performers' and the more 'traditional' poets in the group. Ten crazy
poets in one house are like ten spiders in one web.


Hans Plomp was one of the writers on this tour. He kept a diary and published his account
in a book in 1987. The following pages have been translated from the Dutch by the author.


Boulder Revels

BIRDBRAIN RULES THE WORLD

Bewildered, we rub our eyes. Allen Ginsberg's voice resounds through the house,
accompanied by full blast punk rock. We lay scattered over the floors of Allen's and Peter
Orlovsky's Boulder house. The wake up song is a recording of Allen with the GLUONS,
mocking and castigating the stupidity of the "World Managers." The old bard sounds great and
easily holds his ground against the heavy metal. His poetry bombs are aimed at the nuclear arms
factory in the Rocky Mountains, some forty miles from here, at the multi-nationals, the
bankers, the  armed manufacturers, the fanatics. "Birdbrain in Iraq, kills birdbrain in Iran..."

When we come downstairs Allen and Peter have already prepared food for all of us and
a new guest has arrived:  the Japanese poet Nanao Sakaki.

Outside  on the streets some cars are waiting to take us to the Rocky Mountains, where
we can finally experience America's gorgeous nature after a fortnight of theaters, bars and hotel
rooms. I get into a car next to Nanao. He's not only a poet and a philosopher, but also an
environmental activist and under-ground gentleman.

As  a boringly neat gardenscape slides by outside the car window, Nanao starts to sing
softly. I bring out my Jew's harp to accompany him. The atmosphere inside our vehicle
becomes enchanted. In the distance we make out majestic mountains, but unfortunately we'll
never get there. At the last bar before Nature begins, we stop and wait for the other cars to
arrive. By the time they're all there, some of the poets are already drunk. They object to a stroll
on a presumably tortuous mountain path. In order not to put at risk the flower of 
contem-porary Dutch poetry, we all decide to stay there and drink some more before the next party,
planned for the afternoon.

It's a reception where our company of poets from the Netherlands will be introduced
to the controversial spiritual leader of the Naropa Institute, Allen's guru Chogyam Trungpa. He
is the author of the much admired treatise "Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism," but also
the subject of "The Great Naropa War," in which book he is accused of sexual harassment.
Trungpa himself claims he's a "mindless vehicle," an instrument of crazy wisdom, whose spirit
dwells beyond good and evil.

The garden fete is held in the mansion of one of Trungpa's followers. When we enter,
we notice the devout vibes among the other guests. They remind me of a bunch of
churchgoers, waiting to shake hands with the preacher after the service. In a far corner of the 
garden, a small group of dissidents is making music, gently mocking the somewhat tense and
pious ambiance.

With a sense of relief, I join this group of gibers with my tiny but penetrating mouth
harp. Suddenly there is a hush. The rinpoche is carried in by a couple of robust bodyguards.
Years ago he got paralyzed after a car accident, so he walks with great difficulty. His body is
misshapen, but on top of that is a genuine smiling Buddha head. They put him in a high seat
and his guards remain standing behind him. Ginsberg introduces us to Trungpa one by one.
Two of the Dutch writers refuse to shake hands with the Tibetan, as they consider the guru
a dangerous fraud.

When my turn comes, we exchange a few superficial remarks about India, where
I've spent the past winters. He has a high, almost whistling voice and I must bend my knee
to come close enough to his face to hear him. I think he whistles into my ear "we will not
sink," which I happily agree with. But it's quite possible he said, "we will not think," or
even "stink."

In the background I hear the Dutch writer Remco Campert cry out:  "It's a shame
Plomp, you are kneeling for the mafia!"

"The bomb will not explode," the alien head whistles reassuringly. After the
 audience is over, Allen, Karel Appel, Simon Vinkenoog and Trungpa make a collective
 painting on a large sheet. It will be the decoration for the Jack Kerouac conference planned
 for next summer, on the occasion of 25 years "On The Road."

Ginsberg plays a key role in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics,
which Lawrence Ferlinghetti scornfully refers to as "an institute for Buddhist Roman
Catholics." "They are doing nothing for poetry," he says, "...'cause poetry can't be taught."
This may be true, but I think the school is doing a lot for the Embodied Poets, creating
teaching jobs for them and various other poetic activities, such as our grand reception.

As the masters are daubing, sounds of dissent come from a group of guests who
acclaim Campert's attack on the "spiritual mafia." Ed Dorn and Michael Brownstein, both
teachers at the School of Disembodied Poets, disagree with the Buddhist influence and jeer
at the devotees:  "Come on people, try to be spontaneous!" "I think those bodyguards are
carrying guns under their armpits!" Campert shouts. He can be malicious when he's drunk
and now he takes an impish pleasure in shocking the hosts. It actually rouses up the party,
which looks more and more like an odd meeting of angelic noodles and prankish demons.
Oddest of all is rinpoche Chogyam Trungpa, seated in his chair looking innocent as an
inflatable Buddha doll, even though he's a heavy boozer and loves to pinch the ladies' asses.

On the way home Allen says the bodyguards don't carry guns, but they are trained
in tai-chi and art of flower arrangement. "They are experts," he says, "but their jobs are
very complicated. Trungpa is gravely, maybe fatally ill, he's an alcoholic megalomaniac and
he can't keep his hands off the girls. Some time ago we invited a Tibetan lama to check out
Trungpa and give us his opinion about the state he is in. The lama concluded that wisdom
might still reside in him, but that his body is sick and polluted. Indeed, we sometimes see
a glimpse of his enlightened being, but mostly he's a pain in the ass. His guards are very
tense, because he's so unpredictable and does weird things. A few months ago, he suddenly
threw himself backward down the stairs, to test if the guards were alert. They were not and
Trungpa had a heavy concussion. We try to restrict his obsessions as much as possible, but
it's a heavy task. After all, what do you do when the king has gone mad? You shield him
off from the outside world, praying for a rapid and worthy demise."

It's good to hear Allen talk so openly about this. He says he doesn't feel insulted by
Campert's remarks about the mafia. "There are more poets at Naropa who feel that way
and I think it's all right. Crazy wisdom wants no followers."

After the poetry reading that night there's a party at Allen's. Bacchantic intoxication
takes possession of the revelers, enhanced by a bag of prime quality pot from the stock of
the Grateful Dead. Our cynical Rotterdam speed-poet Jules Deelder has put himself in
charge of the record player, guarding it like a hellhound. All he wants to hear is Charlie
Parker, leaving us no choice but to enjoy his taste. So everybody gives in to a kind of
succulent sensuality. Orlovsky introduces me to a young woman, who according to him
has been violently raped and has never trusted a man since. "You are gentle enough to make
her trust you," Peter assures me. "It would be such a waste to let a man like you sleep alone
in this house. I love that line in your poetry 'even monsters cannot hate, when they're
hugging with a mate'. If you want you can tuck in between me and Allen."

I prefer the traumatized lady.

"Come, there's no more to be said, the third world war is fought in bed," I tell her.
 Soon we curl up in each other's arms and fall into a deep sleep. When I wake up she is
 gone, but the party is still in full swing.

An hour later Simon and I are in the studio of a local radio station, reading our
poems in the jaded tones of true bohemian carousers. Peter Orlovsky is reciting his Clean
Asshole verse in the background..."Booze, booze, booze,

		                   dope, dope, dope,

                                                   sacraments of the toping tope."

To which I add:                             "It's mystery

                                                   is called Poetry."

Simon says:                                "The voice of the people. Poetry.

                                                   The poet takes you a long way."

Tom BRADLEY

"There can be little doubt that, when he said this, Oppy had entered into a supradimensional
state of consciousness, and he was referring specifically to my essay, written thirty-three years
after his death. So, if you please, insert this deep quotation at the top of my thing when you
publish it in the next milk: 

In some sort of crude sense which no vulgarity, 
no humor, no overstatement can quite extinguish, 
the physicists have known sin; and this is a 
knowledge which they cannot lose." 
--J. Robert Oppenheimer 

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