In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has become widely recognized as master of minimalism and the neo-noir in modern poetry. He has had more than 3,500 poems published in books, magazines and anthologies around the world. A number of his books and poems are taught in college and university courses. Three of his books have been published in translation. His newest volume of poems is PRESENT TENSE.
Photographs, moonbeams and me
by
John Yamrus
I first heard of Charles Jarvis when he wrote to me, asking if he could teach some of my poems in a college course he was teaching on the literary children of The Beats, or something like that. I don’t really remember the name of the course, and it certainly wasn’t called The Children Of The Beats, but it was a class about younger writers who owed a debt to The Beats...whether the debt was in style or attitude or what.. It was maybe ’73 or ’74 or so, and I don’t remember how he had heard of me, because I was really just starting out and only had a couple of books out by then and wasn’t that well known. I’m still not and the mystery persists as to how he heard of me...maybe it was because at that time it was the middle of the mimeo revolution and like anyone with aspirations and access to a spirit duplicator (mine was an old hand crank mess of a machine that I got for a hundred bucks or something) I “published” a little magazine, and even then I was lucky enough to publish some of the newer “names” on the scene like Locklin and Kherdian and Bennett and even a sculptor and writer named Linda King who was a one-time girlfriend of Bukowski, who published her own little magazine called PURR or something like that.
The book had a lot of pictures in it, and I don’t remember any of them except one and that’s one I’d like to forget and it’s the one that maybe gave me the impression of Jarvis as this wanna-be star-fucker hanger-on. In the photo, which I can see right now in my rapidly aging mind, there’s Jarvis, standing next to a seated Kerouac, and he’s got his arm around the shoulder of a shockingly diminished and very obviously drunk (even in the photo) Kerouac. Kerouac is bloated and very dark...probably red in the face...and Jarvis (like I said) had his arm around him and I got the very strong feeling of this being like one of those pictures hunters take with a dead deer or elk or moose.
Jarvis is smiling and I got the very strong feeling of deep, dark sadness coming out of that picture, and right or wrong, it turned me off about Jarvis and even though he later on sent me a copy of a second printing of that book, we lost contact, and I don’t even remember what poems of mine he was teaching, but they were probably not very good...but he was the first one to ever teach my poems in a class and to this day it makes me nervous and wary and more than a little bit suspicious any time some teacher or professor or whatever writes and asks if he or she or it or them could teach my poems and I never wanted to end up like Kerouac, being a trophy on somebody’s wall...drunk and sad and very much alone...even in a crowd.
Maybe at the end of the day I was wrong about Jarvis...but first impressions every now and then do matter...and that was the first impression I had about him, and here it is, now more than 50 years later and I’m now 73 years old and no longer the new kid on the block and Jarvis is dead and Kerouac’s dead and the only memory I have of the connection between the two is a picture in a book that’s right now on a shelf in the other room and one day I might get the urge to pick it up and open it and give it another read...but, just not now. Even now, so many years later, it still feels creepy and messy and wrong.
John Yamrus
September 6, 2024
the place smelled like the blues
it
smelled of
sweat and poverty
and last night’s turnip greens.
but,
it’s where he
did his best writing.
poems
filled with sadness
and
the agony of
a shot glass left empty
in a sink filled with dishes,
tears and more than a little regret.
he loved
spending
time with her...
especially
when she’d decide
to shut up for a minute.
he
didn’t know
what he liked more...
her or the silence.
“you’re lucky”, she said.
he
rolled
on his side
and said half
to the pillow and half to the wall:
“luck’s nothing to be proud of.”
it was
one of those days
when the wind seemed to be talking
and
the sun
hid behind a cloud.
i don’t see
any
more
great poems
happening anywhere.
the last
(great one)
was probably
Bukowski’s Bluebird
and
before that,
several by Ginsberg.
and
when i say great,
i mean life-altering, world-changing,
and
that’s just not
gonna happen anymore,
and
that’s good.
that’s
as it should be.
right now,
the only great
poem left to be written
is
the one about me,
taking my car to the shop
for
a new
set of tires.
poetry is
not
a science...
the
truth is not
a secret for the few...
and
this dog
sleeping in the sun
has it
all figured out.
