National Poetry Month: Diane Wakoski

Queen of Vitriol 

By Leah Mueller 
QuailBellMagazine.com

I first picked up a copy of Diane Wakoski's Motorcycle Betrayal Poems at a used book store when I was a harried mom in my late 30s.  I felt intrigued by the cover's tag-line: “This book is dedicated to all those men who betrayed me at one time or another, in hopes they will fall off their motorcycles and break their necks.” I opened the pages and began to pore over Wakoski's words...

​Within minutes, I knew that I had stumbled into a motherlode-160 pages of verse which explored the many pitfalls of love in an unflinchingly honest manner. The book cost $2.50, and I purchased it without hesitation.

I read the book in late-night one sitting, while seated cross-legged in the middle of my living room floor.  The book's words were intimate, accessible.  As I read “Love Letter Postmarked Van Beethoven,” I could easily imagine the furious expression on Wakoski's face: “I am too angry to sleep beside you, you big loud symphony who fell asleep drunk….” This thrilled me to no end, since I had experienced similar emotions with various inebriated lovers.
           
I was intrigued by Wakoski, and said as much to my live-in boyfriend, Dave. Dave was a writer, and understood my need to surround myself with the words of kindred spirits. A few days later, he surprised me with two more used Wakoski paperbacks.  I was pleased to discover that, as Wakoski became better-known, she'd achieved enough literary leverage to ditch Simon and Schuster and move on to the considerably more hip Black Sparrow Press. Black Sparrow is best known as Charles Bukowski's publisher. Bukowski was familiar with Wakoski's work, and thought well of it (although he did grumble that she seemed incapable of writing short poems).
           
Buk was incorrect.  Though most of Wakoski's poems are lengthy, she is most effective in poems that make parsimonious use of words, such as her brilliant “Indian Giver”:

“You gave me
this knife
yesterday
 
an act
of friendship
                 because
I gave you
part of my lunch,
so you wouldn't have to eat
in the school cafeteria
and miss the ball game
 
Today you
take it back.
            Indian giver,
I call you,
remembering I made a home run
yesterday at noon
and you
struck out.”
 
Here, finally, was the sort of poetry I loved—straightforward and accessible, with stark, yet beautiful words that expressed deep emotion. I researched Wakoski's life and discovered that she was a native of Whittier, California, born in 1937. She attended college in Berkeley, shortly before the tumult of the sixties. Immediately following her graduation in 1960, she moved to New York City.  She lived in New York for years, and finally settled in Lansing, Michigan, where she became a professor at MSU.

 I was impressed by Wakoski's independence-as a pre-boomer, she was an anomaly for her generation.  Most 1950s women were railroaded into domesticity, but she was haunted by restlessness and a desire to write. As I read “The Motorcycle Betrayal Poems” and my other volumes, I formed an image of Wakoski-tough and independent, yet haunted by raging self-doubt.  Her plain but expressive face was a source of deep pain for her.  Wakoski couldn't make peace with what she judged as her utter lack of physical attractiveness. Nevertheless, this persistent discomfort was Wakoski's fuel, and it infused her writing with passion and longing.
           
As I stared at Wakoski's photos, I saw a fierce beauty in her features. I hoped I would have the opportunity to meet her one day.  I finally got my wish a few years later,  in Portland, Oregon. Wakoski gave a reading at an obscure college campus on the edge of town.  My husband and I had great trouble finding the lecture hall where the reading was scheduled.   We showed up early, fearing an overflow crowd. To our amazement, hardly anyone was present. Wakoski sat by herself in one of the center aisles, staring at her notes.  A few of her books rested on a small table, stacked in several neat piles.
           
Timidly, I approached Wakoski and said hello.  My husband and I sat down behind her, and three of us chatted pleasantly.  “I hope more people show up for the reading,” I said. 

“I hope so, too,” Wakowski said.  She didn't sound concerned about it. Her voice was soothing and quiet, the antithesis of what I'd perceived as her literary persona. I bought one of her books, intriguingly entitled, “The Emerald City of Las Vegas.”  She was happy to honor my request for an autograph.

“To Leah and Russ” she wrote, “that you may find many magic cities.”
           
Wakoski performed her reading for an audience of perhaps a dozen people, using the same quiet, understated tone that she'd employed during our conversation. She read work from several of her books, and then left the lecture hall with little fanfare.  The experience seemed surreal, as if it hadn't actually happened.  Why hadn't the college done a better job promoting her?  She was Diane Fucking WAKOSKI, for heaven's sake.  Still, the lack of other fans had made it possible for me to speak to one of my literary heroines.
           
Wakoski still resides in Lansing, Michigan-where, at the age of 78, she is a University Distinguished Professor Emeritus at MSU. Though I have been to Lansing several times during the past ten years, I never saw her again. I half-expected to see Diane at a bookstore, or wandering around the farmer's market, but somehow I always missed her.  I imagine she's holding up well, Midwest winters and all. Meanwhile, “The Emerald City of Las Vegas” remains on my shelf, unread.  Perhaps it's time for me to begin my search for those magic cities.
 

#Real #Essay #NationalPoetryMonth #April #BadassPoets

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