By Lenore Kandel
Jack Kerouac immortalized her in his novel Big Sur. A scholar of Zen, she frolicked with Gary Snyder and Allen Ginsberg and used to be a speaker at San Francisco's Human Be-In. yet Lenore Kandel used to be no muse or hanger-on; she was once a super lyric poet, frequently unabashedly erotic, and that's the place her legacy lies.
Collected Poems of Lenore Kandel contains eighty examples of her artwork, from the "holy erotica" of her early years to later, extra contemplative works. a few of the poems have by no means been released, others in simple terms in infrequent ephemeral guides. a few are explicit, celebrating carnal love as a part of the divine. Others are funny and canopy extra quotidian topics. A routine topic is the "divine animal" duality. the gathering comprises poems written from the early fifties up until eventually Kandel's death.
The paradox of Lenore Kandel is that regardless of her prodigious expertise, she used to be one of many least learn and severely liked of recent poets. Kandel came across her voice at a time whilst the Beat period used to be giving technique to the countercultural age, and notwithstanding she straddled either eras, it intended that she additionally fell in the course of the cracks when it comes to acceptance. Now for the 1st time the entire variety of her paintings seems in a single volume.
From the Hardcover edition.
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Additional resources for Collected Poems of Lenore Kandel
There wasn’t much. I’ve retired a horse with a busted leg, pushed in the pin— 22 pigskin Fumble, and it’s half-wit barn-hands trying to tackle the pig—it slips out from the belly, can’t be handled without ﬁnesse. The baby glossed and not breathing until ankled upside down and slapped on the ass. A sour-milk stink like outdated candy from the chocolate shop I worked at that went to fatten hogs in Illinois. They’d shove IVs full of corn syrup, Coke—glucose high and I swear that’s what got those athletes fainting on the ﬁeld.
It spooked us anyway, the Polish have a way of doing that—speaking in hushed tones in public, as if someone might hear you blaspheming and someone always did. For years my grandmother crossed herself twice a day and spoke about money as though it were a cardinal sin. She tried to converse with us in Polish— dobrze, meaning good, meaning it is all I can retain. What’s good for, if it can’t enter your day like someone you haven’t seen for ages, maybe outside a Polish bakery, where the happily plump owner mothers you with poppy seed?
I’d drive on gravel roads away from the river. Barns crooked, splintering. The corn stunted and slow to leaf. An expanse of ﬁelds, a slanted mailbox, makeshift fence. The gypsum mines were lit up at night, the air ﬂour-white. Workers underground in machines big enough to take down a house. An endless circuit of tunnels, alarms connected to the ventilation system, and planned escape routes. I mapped the region, knew the slight rises and sudden drops that even ﬂatness could afford. I knew all the ways to leave—the bridge rusting in its piles.
Collected Poems of Lenore Kandel by Lenore Kandel