I mourn the passing of Leslie Scalapino. Her brilliant work with temporality, narratival structure, gender, sonics, meaning, transcendencies, corporealities, the Mind...I was always amazed by what she was doing. With many, all too many perhaps, of course the work and the person are not equally amazing - but with Leslie this was not the case. She mentored and supported and influenced so many, and was a force of good. No, I did not know her well. She knew me by name, perhaps because every time I could I'd go see her read and I'd bring the same books for her to sign. Her work and kindness gave me reason to believe when there were many poets who would find a way to supply a backhanded compliment. They were not, are not, so actualized. I am not. I'm not so eloquent. It's better just to hear her for yourself. I will say one thing though.
In 1985, I was reading Rilke, Rimbaud, Patti Smith, Jim Morrison and beyond that mostly the beats. I had little idea of what poetry could be but knew what I was writing wasn't anything like what I was reading in high school. I found a copy of That They Were at the Beach in a bookstore and there was something unlike anything else and I connected with it and thought that maybe what I was writing wasn't worthless after all. It was cool too, I recall that after researching it further, that she went to Reed College as I was about to head out there. When I got there, her work appeared in American Poetry Review (I hadn't yet found other outlets) and I'm grateful for that. I carried that around in my backpack everywhere. Like a little blanket. I was 17. All I can say is her work gave me belief in poetry happening while I was alive and life while I've been alive.
I wish I had something grand to say, something beautifully elegant. She gave so much and made so much. It's a sad time, sad, sad time. I cannot estimate the gift of her verse and life.
