My first encounter with concrete and minimalist poetry came as an art exhibit in the late ‘60s. Maybe I already knew of otherwise traditional verse presented typographically to represent a visual image on a page – a vase or bird, perchance – but this time, the words themselves took on an independent visual wonder. Think of Robert Indiana’s famous LOVE as a cube of giant building blocks.

The writer I most appreciate in this field is Aram Saroyan, the son of a famed Depression-era novelist. Aram came to fame at age 20 with a one-word poem:

lighght

which became a source for right-wing scandal when it won a $750 award from the National Endowment of the Arts. As conservatives charged, it wasn’t spelled right and it wasn’t a real poem anyway. Things got ugly.

Others, me included, find it a vibrating both in the thought and the image. If that silent “gh” adds something to the sense of the word, either as illumination or as featherweight or even carefree, why shouldn’t two intensify the sensation?

It revives that wonder and puzzlement we’ve all felt, but many writers, I think, more keenly, when we first encounter many quirks of the English language but then later glaze past.

In this vein, Saroyan also has a playful

aaple

as another entry.

His small collection, Pages, has traveled from one side of the continent to another with me. A downside of these works is that they don’t work at an open mic or featured reading. They really do belong to the page.

For my own ventures along these lines, check out Sun Spots and Drumming at my Thistle Finch blog as well as the weekly Kinisi entries here at the Red Barn.

Perhaps best known as a cofounder of the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church in Manhattan as well as the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics each summer at the Tibetan Buddhist Naropa Institute in Boulder Colorado, Waldman has worked with many of the famed Beat poets a generation older in a life of experimental writing and social activism.

In preparing this post, I was surprised to find she’s only a few years old than me. She’s often seemed to be that much further ahead in the history of contemporary literature.

She first impressed me with a few poems in Disembodied Poetics, an annual review she co-edited. I liked the way the disparate elements danced, something in common with much of what I’ve written. Later, in her collected works, I was taken with the ways she employed repetition, something I had avoided as, well, redundant. My Preludes & Fugues, especially, are beholden to her on that front.

Short fiction is something of stepchild when it comes to literary respect in America. Novels get the serious attention, and the bigger royalties, yet as I discovered once I opened a collection by Andre Dubus, “Finding a Girl in America,” a short story can deliver much more than a rambling bigger tale. I quickly devoured two more of his compilations.

I came across his work too late for it to influence the early versions of my novels, but I deeply appreciated his craftsmanship and freshness. Though I’m far from the no bullshit, Cajun/Irish Catholic in a wheelchair in a dilapidated New England mill town character he was, the directness of his writing and his first-hand knowledge of blue-collar life in the Merrimack Valley resonated with me. I lived upstream of Dubus for 13 years and then just to the north, and there’s nothing fictional in his stories, from my perspective.

Before I had read any of his tales, bits of quirky encounters others had with the author, including the sharpness of his teaching had floated my way. Especially telling were the free weekly sessions in his home after an errant car had left him, in his words, a cripple sound much livelier than anything he had probably been doing at the now defunct Bradford College across the street from a friend of mine.

After I started blogging, one follower, an English professor, commented that he liked how much my posts reminded him of Dubus. I won’t go that far but did feel honored, all the same.

I do need to add his son, Andre Dubus III, to my TBR pile.

You’ve no doubt heard more than one person boast that their life could be a book, perhaps even adding that it would make a fortune and lead to fame. Perhaps you even shuddered because this was somebody who doesn’t read books, somebody essentially uninterested that way. As a fellow writer once quipped, he could simply look at a page and tell immediately if the creator was a reader.

The fact is that good writers are also devoted readers. We are inspired by good models, informed by their content, and strengthened by their style and structure. They give us standards to measure up to, excellence to aspire toward, and frontiers to explore. They caution us against getting lazy or complacent.

As my diamond jubilee winds down, I find myself reflecting on novelists and poets and a few others who have accompanied me at some crucial stretch in my writing and editing practice. I’ve come up with a list of 50 plus one.

It’s a quirky list, with an emphasis on those who have been influences at one point or another. Sometimes just one book is enough to leave an impact. I’m not calling these “favorites” – much of my pleasure reading isn’t necessarily that original or elicit that spontaneous “Oh, wow!” reaction. Think of what I’m presenting as godfathers and godmothers of a work. These have served as touchstones or charm stones, elders, wilderness guides, guardian angels. They weren’t there to be imitated or copied but to provoke, definitely, and sometimes comfort.

Over the coming year, I’ll present one a week. They’ll run alphabetically – by first name, just to shake up expectations.

Feel free to name your own personal top writers in the comments as we go. If you’re a reader, one name will lead to another.

Onward!