a

Poet,

musician, performer, editor of duende (and coeditor of Fervent Valley), Larry Goodell is a member of a group of poets defined by The New American Poetry in the 1960s and the Vancouver Poetry Festival in 1963. His work has appeared in magazines like Caterpillar, Conjunctions, Sulfur, Telephone, Puerto del Sol, and Exquisite Corpse, and he has published four books to date, Cycles (duende 1966), Firecracker Soup (Cinco Puntos 1990 ), Out of Secrecy (Yoo-Hoo 1992) and Here On Earth, 59 Sonnets (La Alameda 1996). The following interview was conducted by John Tritica and Bruce Holsapple on two dates, June 9, 2004 at Larry’s home in Placitas, New Mexico, and February 12, 2005 in Albuquerque.

John Tritica: Larry, you said once your father and his parents came to Roswell, New Mexico from Kansas in a covered wagon. Could you talk about your parents, their background?

Larry Goodell: I don’t think that covered wagon was really covered, but it was definitely horse-drawn. It went from Kansas to Grenville, New Mexico, outside of Clayton, and they were going to be farmers, thinking they were going to tend 40 acres of land. [The wagon was in fact covered. LG] It was very difficult for them, actually. My grandfather got into the lumber business, so after a while ended up in Artesia, NM. My father married a Roswell girl and moved there, so that was where I was born in 1935. My mother’s father came from Abilene, Texas, and her mother came to Roswell with a bunch of farmers in a railroad car from Springfield, Illinois in the early 1900’s.

Bruce Holsapple: What was Roswell like, growing up? Is that the border of oil country?

Goodell: There are oil company offices there, but actually they refine in Artesia and Hobbs. I remember an almost idealized small town, residential areas, lots of trees—but the Chinese Elms have died. It was precisely the kind of town that would make you want to rebel. The happiest day of my life was leaving Roswell, when I graduated high school and went to the University of Southern California (USC). I left in a 1948 green Chevy coupe with my grandfather. We had relatives in Los Angeles. So now I look upon Roswell as a kind of wonderful place to arrive at if you’re traveling from another planet.

Holsapple: You left about 1952-3? What did you study at USC?

Goodell: I graduated from high school in 1953. I had written a musical in Roswell—my mother taught me how to play piano, and I took piano and tap-dancing for years. I was in chorus and band. I played the drums and clarinet. I got interested in jazz; we had the old ten inch records of Kenton, George Shearing, Stan Getz, Lee Konitz, Brubeck, Miles Davis.

Tritica: You had access to those in Roswell?

Goodell: Oh yeah. A friend of mine was a sax player and I played the piano; we had a drummer, and then we’d get another player and play for the dances. But we really liked to play jazz. Walker Air Force Base was still going and there were Air Force guys into jazz. On the AM radio at night you could pick up live performances from Birdland in New York, Brubeck, for instance, and the Palladium in LA, Kenton. We had records. We listened and practiced. That’s how we rebelled. Everybody else wore Levis and was into sappy pop or western music; we wore dress pants and loved jazz. We went to El Paso and bought a Mr. B dress shirt, and a narrow brown velveteen tie and a kind of blue Zoot Suit to wear at gigs. So when I arrived at USC, I was going to say, I had written this jazz musical, called Club Progressions. Also at the time I got interested in Stravinsky and Schoenberg and Berg and Webern. I went to the music department and listened to Schoenberg and Bartok especially. I took harmony and solfeggio and piano and the usual kind of liberal arts thing. Then I wrote a twelve tone piece. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing! I took this to a pretty well known composer there who’d written a biography of Bartok, Halsey Stephens. I showed him my piece. He went over to the piano and played an interval and said, “What interval is this?” I couldn’t tell him. I think it was a major sixth. That was a humbling experience. It taught me to try to stick with what I know, what my real abilities are. So I then started writing about music, writing about Bartok. But I was also fascinated by Gertrude Stein. I had asked my English teacher in Roswell about her and she said, “Don’t bother about her.” That naturally made me look up Stein as soon as I got to USC, Cezanne, Picasso, Tender Buttons, Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. I started taking English and creative writing and 20th Century American poetry.

Tritica: Were you publishing at that time?

Goodell: No. I had just started to write. I was reading it to a couple of friends. It was ghastly. By the time I was a senior a professor introduced me to someone as a “poet.” My face turned red. Just the idea of being a poet; I had a stereotypical prejudice against such a thing as that. But I started . . . I went to a lot of jazz events, Shorty Rogers and His Giants, Dave Brubeck, Chet Baker. There were a lot of things going on in the late 1950s in Los Angeles—you could hear Gerry Mulligan’s Quartet right there in the Drive Ins! I came from a place where no one was interested in jazz, so. I went to the Hague and other clubs. There were a lot of international students. I hung out with them. At a certain point I bought big volumes by T. S. Eliot, e. e. cummings, Stephen Spender. The one I really got a lot from was cummings. I read him all the way through. I liked the humor, the playing around with words. The one thing I learned from cummings was that I didn’t have to have a massive vocabulary to be a poet. Cummings could do all this stuff with ordinary words. That was a great lesson. So I didn’t have to go searching for odd words. I got my Bachelor’s in English. I came to Albuquerque to do graduate work at the University of New Mexico in 1957.

Holsapple: It sounds like you drifted into literature sideways from music.

Goodell: Yeah, definitely.

Tritica: You studied with Robert Creeley at UNM. What year was that?

Goodell: ’62.

Tritica: How would you characterize that experience?

Goodell: I heard Creeley read first, at the Adobe Theater which was in the Old Town, and a very odd experience. I’d never heard anything like that. He kept staring at one person in the audience, Bobbie Creeley. For Love had just come out and it was dedicated to her. This entire evening he was directing these poems to her. Meanwhile in the audience, there was some drunk who was a friend of Creeley’s—I don’t know who it was—saying “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!” [Laughter] So anyways, that was my introduction to Creeley, and then I took this course. It was a small class. What he did was use his Wallensack tape recorder a lot. He played interviews for us. He also had a radio program at KHFM—I think it was called “The Single Ear”—on which he interviewed poets. That experience began to open doors, because the only thing I’d ‘gotten’ prior to this was Dylan Thomas. It was a revelation to hear interviews with Dorn, Ginsberg, McClure, Levertov, Bunting, Zukofsky. That was important for me.

Holsapple: What does an English major do after college in the 1950s?

Goodell: I went to graduate school for one year, then I got a job teaching English at the New Mexico Military Institute. Then I was drafted into the Army, and they sent me to Camp Irwin in the Mohave Desert, outside of Barstow which is where I spent my Army years,’59 through ’61. Soon as I got out, I got back into trying to finish my Master’s, and that’s when I met Creeley. I had been floundering around. I know in the Army I was still interested in Dylan Thomas and more academic types of poetry. When I got back to graduate school, when I met Creeley, I got a job teaching at what was then called the Academy for Boys; now it’s the Albuquerque Academy. Then I moved to Placitas. I think Creeley arrived there the same year I did. I saved my money and just stopped working. Since I had the GI Bill, I was working on my Master’s on and off. But I never got my Master’s, thanks to my own lack of organization. But I also had problems with the teachers, I remember talking to George Arms who was a very respected professor. He had put out this publication, The Explicator. Ever seen The Explicator?

Tritica: No. I know who George Arms is.

Goodell: I learned a lot form Arms about Whitman and Dickinson, but I was offended by this publication. Is that what we’ve come to, the poem on one page and the explication de texte on the other? But I don’t know what happened. I think it was just sloth on my part. I was really afraid of that Master’s exam, though I had Dr. Ernest Tedlock as my advisor. As a matter of fact his San Marcos Press published a poem of mine, Dawn Ladder, as a little book.

Holsapple: Dennis Tedlock’s father?

Goodell: Right. I knew Dennis. So I did a creative thesis. It wasn’t very good. I was handed a list of books I needed to read to pass the Comprehensives, and it was about thirty pages long. It terrified me, so I kept putting it off. I ended up doing more graduate work than [one would]for the Ph.D. because I kept taking more and more courses, the English Novel, Browning. It was great, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman.

Holsapple: The New American Poetry comes out in 1960. Was it evident that there were two poetry cultures taking place?

Goodell: Oh definitely. It was so academic back then. There was a post-Eliot “freeze” on—I don’t know how many times I had to read The Waste Land. Thank God for the San Francisco Renaissance, Allen Ginsberg and the Beats. What Creeley was teaching was part of something that wasn’t covered at that time. I learned about Williams Carlos Williams, whose name I knew. But I didn’t understand what was going on in the poetry. There is so much information about all this in Creeley’s [own] interviews—I almost had those memorized. I mean, he expresses so well the problems they were facing, the difference between Williams and T.S. Eliot, what that represented, when Eliot was in power, until, finally, the revolution of Williams’s way of looking at the language began to take hold. I became aware of all these things by way of Creeley. Creeley’s way of teaching was to have recordings with his poet friends, including Williams. We would listen to those and in every case it was someone who no one knew anything about except Creeley. Not only that. People would visit and he had the radio program, interviews. He used Pound’s ABC of Reading as a “textbook.” It was a break through—certainly a lot more interesting than studying Dylan Thomas. Creeley opened doors, particularly to Charles Olson and the “Projective Verse” essay, which was the most important thing a person could read at that time, covering the differences between closed forms and open forms. I couldn’t be academic. I didn’t like the stuff. W. D. Snodgrass, Robert Lowell. There were the Academic Poets and the New American Poets. At the time there was camaraderie and interchange of information, a wonderful kind of openness and discovery. And a mission that the New American poets had. So I got to know these people by way of Creeley. He wrote me a note about going to Vancouver. He said Charles Olson alone would be worth the trip. I went to Vancouver in 1963. That was an opportunity to be with all these people.

Tritica: Did that sense of mission give you camaraderie with others?

Goodell: If you had spent two years in the Mojave Desert in the army trying to write like Dylan Thomas when you were from Roswell, New Mexico and then you took a course from Robert Creeley, you would find it to be an absolute and total revelation. I mean, to be introduced to—my understanding of Ginsberg was what I read in Time. To be introduced to interviews with Ginsberg, with Dorn, with Levertov, with Basil Bunting, with Louie Zukofsky, all of these people, was mind-boggling, and it was all new, so my poetry began to change. I began to listen to my own voice, rather than ape somebody I could never become. And that’s what Creeley’s point of view was—it’s a hand to hand operation, where younger poets learn from older poets, period. In the way he learned from Williams, I learned from him.

Holsapple: That must have converted you, I mean, must have swept you up.

Goodell: Yeah, because I was writing a lot, and finally I had something I connected with, Williams’ approach to writing, based on American speech patterns. Immediately I started writing my own poetry and was beginning to find sources good for me. To me a printed poem is like a musical score. It shows the reader how to read the poem—it shows me how to read it, especially when I haven’t looked at it in a long time. For instance the end of a line is a breath pause for me. I got that from Creeley. But my lines were longer, and I became aware of pitch in some lines. When you have a long sentence, which is several lines of poetry, it will start up here [demonstrates], so the higher the pitch of the line, the farther from the left margin. So I’d start up here and then come down like this as that sentence progressed [gestures], until the voice falls at the end. So I used that technique a lot in short and long lines. It can be complicated because sometimes you can use it with both short and long lines. The pitch can drop, but there may be no pause in the line. Often I wanted the line to be longer, and there’s a breath pause in the middle of a line. I needed to learn about the line and breath pause and get away from my four-beat stricture.

Holsapple: But you’re also saying, aren’t you, that use of speech, a speech-based poetic played a big role in what’s called the New American Poetry?

Goodell: This gets back to the “Projective Verse” essay (which I wish I had in front of me). I mean, I don’t comprehend poetry that is not speech-based. Manipulated, “aca-nemic” exercises and rehash and revamped bullshit. Williams’ point about the American language is integral; it reaffirms the necessity of using American speech patterns in one’s writing if one wants to be honest. And I was terribly dishonest when I was trying to do something else.

Tritica: Could you discuss your Vancouver experience? I know Ginsberg was there, Olson, Whalen, Duncan, Levertov. You mentioned once how exciting it was to meet Ginsberg, who had just come back from India.

Goodell: As usual there were so many people at his reading, they had to put speakers in the hallway.

Tritica: He was that popular that early? What made Ginsberg that popular?

Goodell: There had been articles in Life and Time. As I recall, Time was following him around. He was very well known—the Beats, that was the biggest literary thing [going on, and]—they could write all kinds of falsehoods about it. And it was outlandish et cetera, and, true to form, the academics despised Jack Kerouac. And could not stand Ginsberg. It’s hard to realize that back in those times how revolutionary this was. I mean people starved themselves and with no money hitch-hiked to Vancouver to hear those people. It was phenomenal, the energy and interest. And you would hang on every word. The one that I really connected personally with was Philip Whalen. I also got to meet the people I first published: Ron Bayes, who has one of the most wonderful ears in poetry; he was teaching in Oregon in LaGrande, Eastern Oregon College; he’s still teaching, in North Carolina; A. Frederick Franklyn from Los Angeles, a film critic and poet. Philip would come over on the way to a lecture. I remember he came to the dorm room where we were staying and started taking things out of this pockets [gestures] and stood on his head for a while before we went out. Ward Abbot [of Albuquerque] was at Vancouver with a sidekick; they were getting manuscripts from people for a publication. That’s when I saw Whalen’s manuscripts, which were eight and a half by fourteen. They were just beautiful on the page, the way the lines were arranged. I fell in love with those, just the look of them. Whalen was very available. At one point we were talking about meaning, and he talked about Gertrude Stein and gave examples of her definitions of literary terms, as in Lectures in America.

Tritica: What did you find useful about Whalen’s work?

Goodell: Well first of all, those manuscripts, the calligraphy; it’s so enjoyable just to look at the presentation on the page, the spontaneity. It reminds me of a quote from Ken Irby: “It is impossible to write of what one has written or lived, except as the day is, out the window, now, explicit.” And with Whalen’s writing you have the feeling that at the moment of writing it’s like a jazz musician creating something, there it is. And, when he read, often you didn’t know when the poem began and his commentary ends; it’s like a wonderful weaving in and out of poetry and talk.

Tritica: George Bowering was there?

Goodell: Yeah, there were a lot of Canadians there, Margaret Avison, Phyllis Hess, Fred Wah. People came from all over the country. There were some there without any money whatsoever. They’d eat what was left in the cafeteria. And Bobbie Creeley was there, Clark Coolidge, David Bromige, Carol Bergé. Then of course there were huge parties. At one session everyone was reading a favorite Williams’ poem, which was really interesting. This is all on tape, tapes at [SUNY] Buffalo, I’ve been told. And Carol Berge did The Vancouver Report, mimeo, 1964, worth reading if you can find it. Olson was the one who floored you. The leaps. There are ways that university professors lecture, but they don’t make jumps that Olson makes from one thing to another. There was a lot of discussion about memory in cells and feelings, Mayan hieroglyphics, Pound, HD. I was trying to take notes. (I still have those, but I can’t make much sense of them.) It was mind-boggling to be immersed in those poets and the way they talked, incredible. You had a sense that poetry related somehow to everything, that it “has a sense of everything,” as Zukofsky said. The more you learned, the more you could write. When I left Vancouver, I was driving home and I couldn’t stop crying. Tears running down my face.

Holsapple: A time of great possibility?

Goodell: I was so overwhelmed with these people, great poets! I was astounded. I visited a college friend in Seattle and I couldn’t even talk to the guy. We were in totally different worlds. This was a guy I’d been corresponding with and sending poems to for years. Then I visited Dorn in Pocatello. He was real interested about Vancouver. Then I came home.

Holsapple: Dorn was teaching in Pocatello. How did you come to know Dorn? Did he visit Albuquerque?

Goodell: Oh, of course! because as usual he was a poet that would often visit Creeley and either I would go over there [to Creeley’s] or hear Dorn at readings at the University of New Mexico. Albuquerque is on the old Route 66. Sooner or later everyone comes through.

Holsapple: Do you share Dorn’s concern with geography?

Goodell: The importance of it? How could it not be important, especially to someone living in New Mexico who’s had any contact whatsoever with Pueblo and Navajo people whose remarkable essence–song and ceremony–is intertwined with the land? And that was something brought out at Vancouver, something I thought a lot about, coming back, going to Mesa Verde National Park—I went to several parks—looking at the artifacts. There was quite a bit of talk about sense of place. To me, a sense of the land.

Holsapple: Carl Sauer, Land and Life? Is this part of everybody’s reading list?

Goodell: Yes. Irby talked a lot about Sauer.

Holsapple: When did duende begin?

Goodell: Soon as I got back from Vancouver. Duncan talked about the 1936 essay on duende by Lorca and we talked about it quite a bit and I read that and found it so intriguing, coming back from Vancouver, so that’s where I got the name. I got a mimeograph machine from some nuns. I met Richard Watson in Vancouver in Olson’s class. At Vancouver, we were all mimeographing our work, for either Olson or Ginsberg or Creeley, and Watson had a long form he had been working on. I published History of the Turtle, Book I, by Ron Bayes, poems of Fred Franklyn [Virgules and Deja Vu], and this thing by Richard Watson [Cockcrossing]. My idea in duende was to feature one poet and give them a lot of space. So many magazines would just use three or four poems per poet, if you’re lucky; I thought a person needed more space. The issues became like books, really, except it was a magazine, each issue devoted to one person. There were also notes, news about further publications. In fact I stated in the first issue an intent to do long poems; I was writing longer poems and was interested in chance operations. Then I met Ken Irby—I’m not sure when—who was living in Albuquerque, through the Creeleys. He was in the Army, originally, now out, working at Sandia Laboratories. I think I went to see Ken at Creeley’s suggestion, after Vancouver. That was a major meeting. We became close friends; we corresponded for years and years, although we have not been corresponding for many years now. I published his Roadrunner Poem. (It was written in Albuquerque.) Then I published a larger bunch of poems called Movements/Sequences in September 1965. Ken Irby to me was so much like Olson, such a comprehensive mind, an incredible ability to read and remember and to be creative, to have a sense of music in his writing. I think of him as Olson’s successor.

Tritica: Were you deliberately blurring the distinction between book and magazine?

Goodell: I just thought that you had to have a larger chunk of a person’s work to get an idea of that they were really up to. Simple as that. So that in a lot of anthologies and magazines where they had one or two poems—it wasn’t enough to give a sense of the person’s creative world. So yes I was blurring, I guess. Also, you know, I had studied Yeats’s plays. I was interested in plays, too. I published an Eigner play, Reception. And I started writing plays, later on. Those were, in a sense, longer forms.

Holsapple: Can you tell us a little about Irby when he was in Albuquerque?

Goodell: He lived on Gavelin Place off Fourth Street (in the North Valley) and he had built in, I guess, many, many bookshelves, and it was this enormous collection of books and records. I remember knocking on the door. It was an overwhelming sensual delight—every aspect of current thought and feeling. There was usually a lot of very good, extremely spicy food, lots of good dope, lots of good liquor, and constantly listening to music—Delius, Scriabin, Busoni, Satie, Coltrane, Chinese Classical, the Carter Family, and on and on—music is going on all the time. And talking. He’s an amazing person.

Holsapple: How about your interest in the long poem, was that from a general interest in developing an inclusiveness in poetry?

Goodell: To paraphrase from Pound, the job of the poet is to build us his [or her] world, the interconnectedness of things . . . . It was a little bit like a piano roll, some of those poems I was writing in the 60s which became Cycles. One was in a big loop, for instance, in which I was allowing things to enter the poem by counter-pointing what was actually happening in front of me with things I remembered that would surface in my mind. I had showed Duncan poems [at Vancouver] that were dream writings, and he said, why don’t you counterpoint this with what’s going on around you? So Duncan talking about counterpoint was important. But there’s another aspect of the long poem that I got interested in later, which had its germination in Williams’ Kora in Hell and Jack Spicer’s talk of serial poems and dictation. I tried to do that—I mean I wasn’t consciously trying, it just began to appear—called Dried Apricots. So I’ve had several phases, first Cycles, then “event” poems, then my Ometéotl Trilogy, then that phase [Dried Apricots], then, more recently, when I was writing sonnets, for two straight years, fourteen line poems. I had the feeling I was involved with something larger than myself. That was called All Of Love, and those sonnets ended up in Here On Earth.

Tritica: You published Robert Kelly’s Lectiones in 1965. In what way were you involved with Kelly and Eshleman?

Goodell: See, again, we’re all contemporaries, and Irby knew Kelly and Eshleman and was in contact, so I fell in with that. There were these mimeograph magazines of poetry [that were] common back then. The thing is, I got an address list from Amiri Baraka for Floating Bear and I sent duende to this list. So some of the submissions to duende were follow-ups to that. It was great to exchange with other mags, like Wild Dog in Idaho.

Holsapple: There is a well-defined community of people who shared the same sensibility?

Goodell: Well, from when the New American Poetry came along, you really did feel you were part of that; at least, I did.

Tritica: What drew you to Placitas?

Goodell: A friend of mine, a grad student, rented a place about three doors down from where I live now, and he found out about a house-sitting opportunity. I had free rent. I had saved money from teaching. It was ideal. At one time the owners paid me $50 a month to do routine things, water the plants, etc. Basically I lived in a little rural casita adjoining the large adobe house. The owners came out on weekends to stay. So that’s how I got to Placitas. Then I met [my wife] Lenore, who as a sculptor-photographer from New York City had come out to New Mexico to get her Master’s. We had our son, Joel, in 1969. It was eleven years in that place. Then we had this place built and moved here in ’75. During the time I was there, I was often visiting the Creeleys at their house in the village. That was an amazing experience also. I met Stan Brackage, Ed Sanders, Max Finstein, and Jonathan Williams, who had a wonderful tape of Basil Bunting’s.

Holsapple: These people were traveling around, visiting each other?

Goodell: Visiting Creeley, yes. I can’t think of anything comparable except with Gertrude Stein in Paris. That’s the place where all the writers came. There was this camaraderie, cross-fertilization. People would stay there, then move on.

Holsapple: Ekbert Faas interviewed you in 1993 for his biography of Creeley. Have you read that? No? The book offers a somewhat flat view of Creeley. You don’t get much sense of his presence. But you’re presenting a pretty dynamic version of Creeley.

Goodell: I owe my existence as a poet to Robert Creeley. I mean, all the things he’s had to say about the poetry of others, his generosity in opening his home to people, to help other poets, suggesting things to do, places to publish; writing helpful notes for people’s books. I don’t know how anybody can give a flat presentation of Robert Creeley!

Tritica: In “The House That Makes It So” you talk about that atmosphere, “as

Back to the kitchen, the slow night weaved on
aaaaaaaand alternative worlds to where I was born
Played over the cassette player or hi-fi out to space
aaaaaaand Max, or John, I never saw, or
Stan & Jane & Ed & Tuli & Jonathan & Ronald & Ann & George
aaaaaa& on & on came through (I forgot Allen & Lawrence),
To meet like Gertrude Stein’s patio in their adobe hacienda
aaaaaaawhere children pulled apart & adults prospered
and friends analyzed until the dawn trailed off
aaaaaaathe always fresh love of poetry that was life, life blood.
If apprenticeship is anything, or hand to hand, a better poem
aaaaaaacommands itself to be written in the house that makes it so.

Goodell: There was a lot of white wine, marijuana. I basically didn’t partake much in the discussion. I think I’ve always been a kind of outsider. At Vancouver I was overwhelmed. It was good that I managed to become friends with Ron and Fred and got to know Phil Whalen. Bobbie [Creeley] and I got to be pretty close. Bob and I had many conversations, a lot of which I don’t remember, because I was drunk. I remember him looking at me and me nodding my head as though I understood every word.

Tritica: You were at the Berkeley Poetry Festival [in 1965]. Who impressed you there?

Goodell: Drummond Hadley, Ed Sanders, Jim Koller, John Wieners, of course Duncan, McClure. There were a lot of people who impressed me. Ed Dorn of course. But also that’s when Olson’s drunken lecture was—have you read that? That was a monumental event! A lot of people walked out and you could hardly understand what he was saying. But it was like Olson running for president, was what it was! It was just such a bizarre thing, and to me that’s exactly what academia needs. People didn’t know what to do, walk out, stay, and it’s—you know, there’s a lot there in what he had to say. And it was an amazing experience to encounter Jack Spicer. I didn’t know anything about Jack Spicer. I thought he was a young poet. This old guy comes in and tells people not to worry about publication. He was involved with Open Space. I liked the idea that there was a publication, perhaps modest, right there in San Francisco. I liked the modesty of his approach. But more than that, his concern with dictation seemed to fit for me and help with my own writing. The way he describes what happens to him when he writes a poem. I discovered that was the way I worked in my poems, in that I would not write something down that I was consciously manipulating or adding too much to from my brain—that, if it was truly dictation, then I was writing something that was coming to me. There was a faithfulness to the innovation of new sentences arriving in my brain. I don’t know how else to express it. He says that you might want to write a poem about Viet Nam, but when you sit down the poem might be about skating in Vermont. Intention has nothing to do with it as far as I’m concerned. I have his “Vancouver Lecture,”(in Caterpillar 12, 1970) where he talks about ghosts and Martians playing with blocks to try to communicate with us. Poetry is terribly important. He writes there, “I think that you do have things happen simply because the poem wants them to happen.”

Holsapple: I’ve heard of Drummond Hadley, but don’t know anything about him . . . .

Goodell: I forgot to mention him being at Vancouver. The thing that was impressive was that he had a lot of his poems memorized. He worked as a rancher. He has the animals, livestock. A very connected person. And he’s incredibly good looking. His delivery; he stares right at you, you know, and here come the poems. He plays the guitar with some poems. That impressed me. I have a book of his called Strands of Rawhide. It’s a wonderful book of poems.

Holsapple: Poets tend to create their own traditions from within the larger cultural nexus. I would guess Stein is part of yours.

Goodell: Especially the Caedmon recording. It’s tragic that there aren’t more recordings of Stein. To hear her read makes understanding Stein easier. I’m not as good at reading the difficult stuff. As an exercise, I open How To Write and read. It’s amazing how much music there is in her writing. I can’t take very much, because it is daunting. I can’t give up reference, whatever the referent is. I don’t like secondary stuff and I don’t like use of metaphors and language that are separate from what is right there before you in writing. I like to be able to come up with references, some sense of what a poem is stating. When you participate in a lot of readings, the viability of hearing poetry read out loud becomes essential to the poems. I don’t know if you’ve heard of this one recording of Whitman on a wax cylinder? I find that incredible. I’d give anything to hear Shakespeare read, or Emily Dickinson. I just can’t think of poetry as separate from performance.

Tritica: What comes first in your experience, page or performance?

Goodell: Page. What comes first is usually a line. To see something different, sometimes in the middle of the night, usually, just a line, and if I’m doing my duty, I get up and write it down. Generally, that’s how a poem starts. I try to be subservient to the form, so I don’t know if it’s guiding me or I’m guiding it, but that’s a precious moment, and when it comes to an end, it comes to an end, and I don’t revise it, because there’s no way I can get back to that incredibly distinct moment. It’s a little like a jazz performance: You record it, and it’s frozen in time. The musician doesn’t go back and change it.

Tritica: When did you first begin giving performances of you work? Who were the people who informed or inspired you?

Goodell: Once I started putting out duende, there were readings. I guess it was after ’64. I remember reading in the Thunderbird Bar in Placitas; they were having major musical groups coming through (Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee, Asleep at the Wheel) and they asked me to do readings. That was when I did some of the early theatrical pieces.

Tritica: Were there masks and other props?

Goodell: Yeah, sometimes with Lenore’s help.

Holsapple: You’re a little uncomfortable, I take it, with people classifying you as a “performance poet”?

Goodell: Yeah, because it puts me in some other category, when all I am is a poet. See, the only people—any time I experienced anything other than someone reading from their poetry to you at a reading, it was startling, when someone had something memorized, like Drum Hadley. See, it dates back to this. Look. I thought I wanted to be a composer, and I found out I’m not that good, and I started writing poems that kind of related to music. But also in college I took a lot of courses in art and got involved in painting and sculpture, so that I was interested in music, writing, the visual arts and was terribly interested in opera. I was kind of brought up on Hollywood musicals. So being a New Mexican and going to Native American dances, to me that’s an indication of where poetry possibly comes from. It’s not someone reading from a page to other people. Here were people chanting poetry, there were dancers involved and meaningful dress—I don’t want to use the word “costume.” So the important aspect of seasonal change and the rites that occur meaningfully from the land, from working the land, from living on the land, are evident in the ceremonies. And yet, being Anglo, I couldn’t use that consciously in my own work. But it revealed to me that poetry is not necessarily what you study in school. It’s again “a sense of everything,” as Zukofsky says. So when I started, interested a little bit in John Cage and Jackson Mac Low, in chance, in using cards, in writing things on cards, the idea was to have a room, so that in a bag you had six cards, and you put one on the ceiling, one on the floor, one on each wall, arranged in the six directions, and to read that, you have to walk around. That’s a sort of borrowing from Native Americans. And then we did a play out on Fourth Street, Wherever She Blows. We did a mock poetry reading and whenever they would shine a spotlight on one of us [the readers], we had to read a poem, and progressively we start making things up as the spotlight hit, and towards the end, I would be reading something and tearing it up or making something up or . . . . So the idea of having happenings began to emerge. I wrote several happenings, one called The President—there are about four of those—events—take 20-30 minutes to put on.

Tritica: Your interest in multi-cultural issues, is that a view you share with Alcheringa, Tedlock and Rothenberg?

Goodell: I guess, but I had little to do with them directly, though I did get Alcheringa and I did know Dennis and Barbara Tedlock pretty well. But this stuff just grew out of where I was, you know?

Holsapple: Was there a regular New Mexico poetry scene at this time, what with Keith Wilson, Margaret Randall, Bobby Byrd, and Gene Frumkin around? Was there a poetry circuit so that poets were talking with one another?

Goodell: Gene Frunkin has been around all this time. Margaret off and on. Keith Wilson and Joseph Somoza down in Las Cruces. There were several important poetry festivals, the Southwest Poetry Conference, organized by Randall Ackley. There was one in Durango, and one in Santa Fe that Drummond Hadley organized. One in Albuquerque. A really good one in Colorado College. These were good because, for the first time, there were Hispanics, Native Americans and Anglos involved. It was varied and fresh. I miss them. I worked in the Living Batch Bookstore with Jeff Bryan [of La Alameda Press] and others, for Gus Blaisdell, and there was an opportunity to have lots of readings there. Then there was an effort to revive the downtown area. All the storefronts were closed. It looked like a ghost town. Lots of artists started moving in. We had “Downtown Saturday Nights.” Gene Frumkin was involved with this, Keith Wilson, and Rudy and Patricia Anaya. They organized the Rio Grande Writers Association, which set up a “coffee house” in an old vacant shoe store summer of 1978. There would be a throng of people and it would have different ethnic emphasis week to week. That was exciting! We had about 50 poets read that summer. We made money selling beer and paid the poets.

Holsapple: You published Margaret Randall’s Some Small Sounds From the Bass Fiddle. Can you tell us how you met her?

Goodell: Well, my world began to open when I began sending out duende. It got beyond New Mexico because we exchanged magazines, and I got El Corno Emplumado faithfully from Margaret Randall, down in Mexico. Again, she was another contemporary, so when Lenore and I went to Mexico, we visited her. She fixed this huge wonderful salad for us! Always felt very close to what she was doing. I thought El Corno Emplumado was one of the most important publications in America. Getting these people translated, bringing together these two worlds. Plus you know we’d been studying the PreColumbian. So it was a great series of publications. I’ve seen her several times since then, but not recently. She liked duende and wrote me about it, so I did a little book of hers.

Tritica: Did you work with Joy Harjo?

Goodell: Joy? A long time ago, KUNM [at the University of New Mexico] would have readings on Saturday night and bring poets in, and Joy and I were reading together. I think that’s where I met Joy. That’s when she was married to Simon [Ortiz], and I knew Simon much better than I did Joy. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the No. 1 Native American poet in America.

Holsapple: Anyone else?

Goodell: I haven’t mentioned Keith Wilson. I didn’t like his poetry at first. I thought it was plain old regional poetry. But the more I got to know him and his wife, Heloise, the more I became aware of the different facets of his work. Slowly I began to realize he is a fine poet and that no one can write like him. The more you read, the more you can hear his voice. When he’s gone—and his health is not good—no one can ever do what he has done. He has the essence of place more honestly that any other writer. It’s amazing how he can capture it.

Tritica: Joe Somoza is also a New Mexican poet.

Goodell: We became good friends. He’s retired now, but I used to go down there to visit when he was teaching. You sit in his backyard and it’s like you’re sitting in one of his poems. It’s the same thing I got from the New American Poets, Irby and others, Creeley too. There’s something specific, no bullshit. That’s what you need. It has strength. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you’re doing. Other people will relate to it, when you’re really being specific. Duncan says it: “Every particular is an immediate happening of meaning at large.”

Holsapple: In 1984, Whalen came to Santa Fe to work with Richard Baker. Were you able to reestablish contact with him? He read at the Living Batch, for instance.

Goodell: Oh yeah. He was a monk then, and he and Robert Winson and Miriam Sagan used to come into the bookstore, and Whalen read there. When I gave a reading at St. Francis Auditorium in Santa Fe—it was video-taped—there were three people in the audience, Phil Whalen, Drum Hadley and a friend of mine who had helped me load and unload the car! Oh, and my wife, Lenore—maybe there were five there. He really liked my Shaman Song which is a spoof of the poet as shaman and I hold a staff with a shoe on top of it and wear bells. I didn’t spend a lot of time with him, but I saw him many times in the bookstore and we talked.

Holsapple: In 1972 you began Fervent Valley, can you talk about your involvement with that group, you, Bill Pearlman, Charlie Vermont, Stephen Rodefer.

Goodell: Bill Pearlman named it; Fervent Valley referred to Placitas. There were four editors, fighting all the time. But each issue was a little different. Lenore was the art editor. Pat Bolles [of Grasshopper Press] sold me his Davidson offset press for a dollar and we moved it to an off room of the Thunderbird Bar and I printed there. Stephen Rodefer did one [issue] primarily on his own. Then he started doing the Pick Pocket series. Steve was teaching at UNM. About this time [1974], Steve and I went on tour. I took my “medicine bag”—my circus trunk—and we went off in a Datsun station wagon, Steve and Lenore and my 4-year old son, Joel. We had a National Rifle Association credit card. We went all over the country, even Canada, thanks to Steve’s organization. We read in Chicago. We went to Connecticut where the Olson archives are now. We read at St. Mark’s in New York; we went to Buffalo and Toronto. Each place I’d do a rather elaborate set up of the Ometèotl poems.

Holsapple: There was, I take it, an active poetry scene at the national level, so you could set up readings?

Goodell: Yeah, again, this is by way of friends. Steve knew a lot of people. He went to graduate school at Buffalo and we visited friends of his there who were involved with Olson.

Tritica: How did you come to write sonnets?

Goodell: I wrote a poem with fourteen lines. If you’re going to limit yourself to fourteen lines—that’s my only qualification of the form—I think that anything at the time can come in. It’s a kind of counterpoint to the things in your life, the idea I got from Robert Duncan. It was great to restrict myself. And that’s all I wrote for over two years. I wrote 155, one more than Shakespeare. That sequence as I said is called “All Of Love” and the poems of Here On Earth are taken from that.

Tritica: The form takes in everything, love poems, gardening poems, political satire.

Goodell: It could be anything. Don’t forget literary and art critics. Working in a bookstore, you’re bombarded by current academic language and since I couldn’t go along with it, I could make fun of it.

Holsapple: I noticed you lash out at academics in your books. I’d like to hear more, since most poets today teach in universities.

Goodell: I can’t generalize, since there are so many exceptions, but there’s a paucity of what you can write about in the university environment. Let’s see, you can write about students, faculty, tenure, unfaithfulness, campus politics.

Holsapple: Which gets us back to Snodgrass, Tate, Ransom, the New Critics.

Goodell: Basically it’s sour grapes. It has been a problem for me, not to teach regularly, but we all have these problems. That’s not the whole story. I’m grateful that I had to find the content of my poetry.

Holsapple: What are you up to these days? What are your interests?

Goodell: I’m involved in looking back over my creations, activities, and archiving, actually. Sounds dreadful, but I’m trying to make sense of all this. My study is a small room added to our house, built right to the property line (at the time), and I have everything in that room, all my records, a huge number of tapes, especially tapes done at the Living Batch from years of readings, plus ancient video tapes of my performances. I’ve got some sixty notebooks; I’m trying to get stuff on to the computer and get it published; I’ve worked back through about eight years [so far]. All my boxes of quasi-ceremonial reading paraphernalia are there. Since I can now use the computer to transfer cassettes [to compact disk], I can make recordings of piano songs I wrote and put them on cd. I now have a Roland Keyboard. Lyrics are extremely hard—I may never get around to more lyrics, but I do have an idea for a musical. I continue to write in my notebooks and type things up and give readings. I irrigate Lenore’s organic vegetable garden and help maintain our fruit trees. We’re on the acequia system here in the village. And I do just about all the cooking. So that’s about what I’m doing.

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