"Who the Hell is Li-Young Lee?" - John Findura

So the first thing my wife Lauren asked me when I told her I’d be blogging on this site was “You’re not going to write about the time I fell asleep on that guy’s shoulder, are you?” And I told her that no, of course I wasn’t. But then I decided it was a pretty funny story, so now I’m going to write about the time she fell asleep on that guys shoulder.

First of all you have to understand the history between my wife, myself, and poetry. And remember, that this was in the 90s. We met at a diner (me and my wife, not me and poetry, although there could be an argument made for that as well) and I pretty much decided that first night that I was going to marry her. She booked bands for the University that she was going to (and the one that I went to, then left, then went back to) and hung out with Bob Dylan and Henry Rollins. I was unemployed, broke, and told her she should book my band (which I did not have) and that we were really good (which we ended up almost being once I put a band together) and that she should give me her phone number (which she didn’t). After months of pestering, she finally gave in to my sparkling personality and rugged good-looks.

One night I was talking about poetry (which I was known to do) and how when I was 18 and my friends were sneaking into bars to drink, I was sneaking into a bar to hear poetry night readers and open mics. Unbelievable, but true. So Lauren says “You should come to my Art History class. You’d really like the professor – he’s published a bunch of books and always talks about poetry.” Hmm, interesting, I thought. “What’s his name?” I asked. “David Shapiro,” she said. “Holy shit!” I said.

Of course I was aware of the works of David Shapiro, and I was totally going to sneak into his Art History class. So I did. I sat in the back of the classroom as he was talking about Delacroix’s use of red in a painting I was unfamiliar with. If you’ve never had the chance to hear David Shapiro talk about anything, I highly suggest that you do. It’s an experience. So, he starts asking questions of the class and no one was really answering. Then he started calling on people. And then he called on me. “I’m not, technically, actually in this class,” I said. “Well that doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion on Delacroix,” he answered.

After class Lauren introduced us and he invited us back to his office and gave me copies of books and then signed them for me, looked around for more stuff to give to me, then handed me a pile of literary journals. He asked for some of my poems and then started giving me a list of what I needed to read: “Everything Pound mentions in ABC of Reading, and everything he doesn’t, Ashbery, O’Hara, Trakl, Hölderlin, Li Po…” and the list went on. Lauren thought David Shapiro was a great guy and happily followed me to his readings, because the guy certainly entertains an audience.

So Lauren and I started on a poetical journey together. I went back to school, she graduated, and we went to poetry readings. It wasn’t her thing, but she went along with me on it. Then I read about a big poetry festival in Woodstock. It must have been the summer of 2002, I think. The list of readers included Billy Collins, Sharon Olds, Li-Young Lee, Michael McClure and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I was, and still am, a huge fan on Beat poetry, and I was not missing out on McClure and Ferlinghetti. So off we went.

We found a nice little hotel right outside of town and headed out to the readings. First up was Michael McClure, reading in what looked like a tiny, old wooden church. It was awesome. He was dressed all in black and generally looked like a total bad-ass Beat poet. I loved it. The next day we saw Sharon Olds (“That was kind of…graphic,” Lauren noted) and I believe Billy Collins. Lauren became a big Billy Collins fan that day because he was funny and is a really good reader. The big plus, however, was after the reading when we got to meet him. He signed a book for us and asked for our names – “Lauren and John,” I said. “Lauren? Hmm, you look more exotic than that. I would’ve pegged you for a Natasha,” Billy Collins said. “And you’re with this guy?” he added. Oh, Lauren thought this was great. It got even better when we met him again a year later and he remarked “Still with him? Wow.”

But I was waiting for Ferlinghetti. This was going to be great. The main hall filled quickly and Ed Sanders gave the introduction. Then he appeared on the stage. Wearing a blindfold and carrying a walking stick. “Oh Muses,” he said in a shaky voice, “sing through me! I am but your blind Tiresias!” “Excellent!” I thought. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Lauren.

He eventually took off the blindfold and read a really nice selection of poems. Maybe 20 minutes in, though, I noticed Lauren’s head start to nod forward. I nudged her. Her eyes opened back up and she said “Is this still going on?” “Yes. This guy’s a legend!” “Hmm,” she said, and her eyes closed again. But this time her head ended up on my shoulder. Trying my best to absorb all the Ferlinghetti-goodness, I lifted my arm and tried to get her head off of me. And her head did lift off me, and roll to the other side. Onto the shoulder of Li-Young Lee, who happened to be sitting on the other side of her. I hadn’t even noticed him!

Now let me stop at this point to clarify a few things. My wife is going to say that her head never touched Li-Young Lee’s shoulder. I, however, maintain that IT WAS CLOSE ENOUGH and may have brushed his tresses.

I shook her, her head swiveled back up, and Li-Young Lee looked over at us and smiled. I smiled back and mouthed “I like your work.” He smiled and nodded like you do when a stranger mouths something to you and you have no idea what he said. I was mortified. Lauren didn’t care. “Who the hell is Li-Young Lee?” she said. “He’s a very popular poet,” I said. “I don’t think this is really going to affect his opinion of you,” she said. She was probably right, yet to this day, Li-Young Lee had never spoken to me.

Again, let me clarify that while that last sentence is technically correct, I have never been in the same location with Li-Young Lee again, let alone his presence, and he didn’t know who I was then, and I highly doubt he knows who I am now.

“How can you fall asleep during this?” I asked. “How can you stay awake during this?” she said, “He’s been talking FOREVER.” Perhaps on this point she was right. He was certainly taking full use of the hour allotted to him. But I enjoyed it and Lawrence Ferlinghetti enjoyed meeting the youngest, by far, female in the audience afterward. “Mr. Ferlinghetti, I really love what you do,” I said. “Yes,” he said, weakly shaking my hand and then turning to Lauren. “And how are you?” he asked. “Oh, I’m good. That was a great reading,” she said. “Yes, thank you so much. Can I sign a book for you?” He was not interested in the speech I had prepared. He wanted to sign a book for her. She didn’t have one. He took mine. “And your name, dear?”

And that’s pretty much how it’s been since: me dragging her to poetry readings, and her dragging me to New Kids on the Block reunion shows.

 

Comments

[Sandra Beasley]

I loved this post. As an undergraduate at my very first poetry reading at University of Virginia (the featured poet shall remain nameless), I struggled valiantly to stay awake, having pulled an all-nighter to finish a paper the night before. I tried breathing deeply, to oxygenate. I tried sitting on my hands. I tried reciting the alphabet backwards in my head. Still, the poet droned on. The last thing I remember before falling sound asleep was trying to focus on the very pretty and elaborately painted fingernails of the woman seated next to me. Who turned out to be Rita Dove.

Cheers,
Sandra

[Eric Bourland]

Great story.

"Oh Muses," he said in a shaky voice, "sing through me! I am but your blind Tiresias!"

hee!