This Tuesday I’m having lunch with Gerald Locklin. It’s my treat, in more ways than one.

A year and a half ago when I learned that Gerry was going to be joining us in the USC Master of Professional Writing program, I was delighted. I knew him in two different ways: as a poet whose work I greatly enjoyed, and as a famed friend of Charles Bukowski.

Since our first meeting at a faculty luncheon, Gerry has been unfailingly kind. As someone who writes faster than most of us can read, he’s had I think four books come out in the past 18 months, and he’s put a signed copy of each one in my MPW mailbox. He’s also shown up at every one of my own events, including Moving Arts’ 15th Anniversary. This sort of support from a fellow writer, especially one as highly esteemed as Gerry, means a lot.

Last week I ordered his book “Bukowski: A Sure Bet” from an obscure bookseller on the internet. It arrived at my office and I started to read it and immediately thought I should order another copy for my good friend Rich Roesberg, who introduced me to Bukowski’s work 25 years ago. That night when I checked my mailbox at USC, I found that Gerry had already put a copy there. So among his many other gifts, he appears to be psychic as well. (Note to Uncle Rich: this is your other non-birthday present, when I see you in June.) I saw Gerry that night at a reception and invited him to lunch. Until recently, I haven’t made enough time for friends and colleagues, and that was something I resolved to change in 2008. None of us knows how long we have before getting hit by that metaphoric big bus, and I didn’t want to miss the chance to have lunch with Gerald Locklin. I’ll let you know how that goes.

In the meantime, here’s a poem of Gerry’s that I particularly admire. Garrison Keillor loves it, too, and has read it on the air and included it in his anthology “Good Poems.” It’s a good poem.

The Iceberg Theory

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you’d think romaine was descended from
orpheus’s laurel wreath,
you’d think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they’ll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

I guess the problem is
it’s just too common for them.
it doesn’t matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
it just isn’t different enough, and
it’s too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize:
a critic has to have something to say.
perhaps that’s why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems I enjoy are those I don’t have
to pretend that I’m enjoying.

–Gerald Locklin

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 11th, 2008 at 6:29 pm and is filed under On reading. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.