Poetry in the name of Allen Cohen

Last night a group of 20 or so folks gathered at a coffee shop on College Avenue in Berkeley to read poetry, brought together around the idea of a memorial for Allen Cohen.

The gathering was brought together through email groups and word of mouth. It was recorded for streaming on the internet by a couple using a simple DV camera on a tripod.

The group of poets who gathered included people who had edited books of poetry with Allen ( such as Clive ) , people who had worked with Allen on documentaries, Berkeley poets who knew Allen, and some who were caregivers. Most were over 50, but there were a few young folks there. Aging hippies would be an apt description of many in the group.

Held in a back room of the Coffee shop, the lighting was harsh, the surface finishes hard, the room tone sharp, but a gentle air, mutual respect, and shared love for the words written and spoken lifted the ambiance, creating a protected zone for the memorial.

Each poet or writer had about 6 minutes, and Jessie moved it right along. Stories of Kerouac and Keasey, the Oracle paper, communes, poetry performed with Jazz, the trajectory of a life.

Nicole read an autobiographical piece that she found in Allen's papers after he died. It told the story of how the son of a garmet worker followed his passions, for better or worse, how he started a unique publication, how involved he was with children. His marriage to Ann, their years of seperation, and their sweet reunion.

Not discussed is how the scourge of Hepatitis "C" spread amongst some of the "in crowd", beat poets, and hippies spread through drug use, etc., much the same as HIV spreads today. Allen suffered from HepC, later from cancer. I don't know how he contracted the disease.

I passed through San Francisco and Berkeley back during the late 60's and 70's, and I remember the way that so many people wanted to explore the new realms, emboldened by the discovery that most of what we had been taught by authorities about drugs was bogus propaganda. So some ignored it all, to their peril. One of the things that our generation must do is tell the truth about drugs in the culture so that young people can be safe. So much harm comes from practices that are colloquial folk ways of using sacrament herbs and recreational drugs made necessary by the lack of sanitary and safe alternatives.

So much pressure to be "hip", and the rituals of acceptance to some cliques seemed to involve sharing something marking outlaw status, it's no wonder that many of our best and brightest get caught in the current. It's tragic to loose our friend, though thank goodness he was with us around 65 years. Being with him near the end, one has the sense that toward the latter part of his life he gave us something unavailable earlier, something valuable, something loving and perishable.

Collateral damage is how I view Allen's premature death, a side effect of a demented drug policy that has been a source of government power for 8 decades, so I don't expect it to change any time soon. If drugs weren't inherently criminal, the harm to society could be minimized in ways that aren't even discussed in national American political debate.

Recent epidemiological studies establish that the simple practice of needle exchange so that folks who insist on injecting drugs don't become vectors of disease would reduce the incidence of AIDS and Hepatitis "C". This is only one of many subtle side effects of our current policy that must change as we find a peace from the drug wars. I'm not advocating any encouragement of injection drug use, to the contrary I think that more education is needed and that a shift in policy can actually reduce the harm that drugs do to our society without seeing drug use become rampant.

Allen lived a life with a spiritual component, philosophical insight, and a quest for a new society where respect and love would create a richness sadly lacking today. His vision comes through in the poetry, consistently throughout his life.

I remember hearing him read a poem at a reunion gathering where we camped in the woods near Mendocino California back in 1985 about the nuclear survivors, the threat that still haunts us all these years later. Here is his poem,Hiroshima –40^thAnniversary.

During that gathering on the land we heard both a domestic spat with the petty ego conflicts that later divided Ann and Allen's lives, and his passionate poetic response to the escalating cold war and the horror of a nuclear aftermath. How wonderful that Reagan and Gorbachov ( and so many others) brought that evil dance to a close.

Maybe 18 years later, at another reunion summer camp in the Redwoods, he read another poem "35th Reunion at Table Mountain , sitting in our circle, sitting out in the interior of the circle, as to absorb healing energy, to be a bit more prominent. His poetry both honors a special time with a special tribe of people, it evokes for me the poignant essence of our spiritual predicament.

It took me a long time to appreciate this being, I quarreled with him sometimes, and didn’t particularly cater to his ways, but I’m thankful that I’ve had the chance to make the acquaintance of so many dear people, people who cared for this person or were touched by his art.

His last few months we learn were a time when he touched many lives, as I hear testimony at these memorials. While I think that memorials for Allen Cohen have become a bit of a cottage industry, I think he would have loved to see it, so much of his work being read, discussed and even published.

Just a short time before he died, Anne remarried him. The wedding was a living memorial where he received the love and lifted us all higher. I was privileged to make a video of the ceremony and reception so I saw closely during the editing this loose community came together, shared and loved.

Added in post:  A memorial was held at Golden Gate Park, on "hippy hill" to clelebrate his life and his work.  A video from that gathering is on You Tube Allan Cohen: A celebration".