WL Gertz
The author was the co-founder of DREAMS, a poetry and music magazine in NYC in the 1970s and early 1980s. Many of his poems appeared there first. He backpacked through Europe in 1973 and 1974 which inspired much of his writing. He continues to travel extensively each year and enjoys cinema, modern art, and fencing.
WYSTC LISBON
When did you start writing poetry?
I started when I was around 13. It was mostly rhyming stuff
(moon, June spoon). I had no exposure to poetry in school of course other than an occasional Robert Frost poem. I went to college when I was 16 basically to get out of my house. At college I had my first poetry course. We sat outside in little circles taking about life. It was the late Sixties. I read the San Francisco beat, the stuff coming out of City Lights bookstore. Lots of Ginsberg, Bly, Braughton, Welch etc. Decided to become a poet.
Was it just the poets?
Hell no. The music coming out of the Sixties was amazing—Janis, Country Joe, Quicksilver—lots of psychedelia. Of course the British Invasion was an influence—Beatles, Stones and Kinks were the holy trinity for me. I couldn’t play an instrument other than Blues Harp. But we played music in the streets constantly.
So music and writing. What about Modern Art?
Art came later. The trip to Europe in 1973 opened my eyes. Paris especially. When music got bad in the mid nineteen seventies, art became my passion. It still is. I have a nice collection. Botellos from Puerto Rico and Michael Patterson, a NY painter. But the 1920s were inspiring. Harry Crosby and Black Sun Press for poetry and Modigliani and Picasso and Braque. No one better
Did you follow in their footsteps?
Tried to. Moved to France in 1974. Lived in a house in Eastern France with friends, wrote a lot (nothing great) cooked soups and stews, Froze. Money ran out-- homeward bound. Europe was great. We read Balzac and huddled in our little house.
Then what?
Moved back to NYC. Got a tenement for $240 a month. Seemed like a lot to pay. roaches, and no space. But a grand time doing so many projects. Started Dreams Magazine and ran a music club. Wrote constantly. The Seventies were ugly as NYC was crime ridden.
WL Gertz
-Author-
Drugs?
Not an influence at all. I could take them or leave them. Never helped my writing.
Other writing?
I wrote constantly since I was 16. Lots of little notebooks filled with thoughts and lists like top ten singers, etc. Political stuff came later. I wrote a lot of rock criticism influenced by Paul Williams at Crawdaddy! He was the first to intellectually review “teenage” music. I was like that kid in Almost Famous—obsessed by rock and roll. Sent a few pieces into Rolling Stone but they weren’t published. We were always starting creative endeavors. Made super eight movies when the cheap cameras came out. They were pretty cool—influenced by Godard and French New Wave directors.
The political stuff was mostly bad. Revolution and redistributing the wealth and all that. Times were crazy, the Weatherman, Patty Hearst, SDS, etc. I was always a good writer and had the fastest pen in the west.Got into investigative reporting. Wrote for the Village and Our Town in NYC. Exposing wrongs—stuff like that. Too depressing for me ultimately.
Tell me About Dreams?
A labor of love for sure. We did about 15 issues in a few years. It was pretty revolutionary. Our Manifestos were legendary. I’m going to publish them next. We captured and era perfectly. Also lots of music journalism (undiscovered folks like Nick Drake) and my poetry and poetry by others. Some drawings. Lots of made up stories which was our specialty. When I was 14 my cousin and I started a magazine called Glive—"the magazine of lies” It was pretty funny. We went door to door selling copies at bookstores and by direct mail. Got lots of reviews. Got bored and moved on.
Any interesting jobs?
Worked in subsidy book publishing, writing flap copy and press releases. Telling people their book was great and would sell a million copies. Dispatched police radio cars in Bed Sty at the 79th precinct. I could listen to the police radio and sent the cars to crime scenes Fun job. Good for my writing I guess. In 1977 I got my first real job. At CIEE in NYC working in international education and travel. I still do this at AIFS, a great organization. I’m super lucky as I have gotten to travel all over the globe meeting people and observing different cultures. Perfect gig for me.
THE SUN AT MY KNEES
Running through pages of anarchy
Plotting courses on maps without America
I sing the sound of a thousand dead poets
and leap in through the gap in history
(Noble prize winners eating caviar
drop fish eggs into their greying beards)
Sitting in a café by the ancient baths
With visions of Romans building for God
I speak of the death of artistic drive
and leap in through the gap in history
(My wife is having a baby
its name is chocolate ice cream)
Standing in a room with no light to see
The paintings which are staring at me
I hum to dying cowboys and prostitutes
and leap in through the gap in history
(The bumps on the side of a basketball
are as deadly as those on a Neutron bomb)
Flying forty thousand feet in the air
with the clouds at my feet and the sun at my knees
I cry for the old and smile at the new
and prepare for my entrance into history
(Money flows like spit on a windowpane
while the young have dreams of eternity)
2 SAMPLES OF POEM
PARIS IN BLUE
Red wasp wings trapped in a misty glass
surrounded by the cheese of a Croque Monsieur
The paratrooper is trapped by the promise of a bed
and one thousand tri-color dreams
Life is expensive, but the tomatoes are ripe
French Foreign Legion lands in Zaire
Croissants are not what they used to be
For butter is scarce, and the massacre begins
Paratrooper remembers 1954
when they told him, “forget it, be gone”
Paratrooper remembers 1968
when they told him, “forget it, be gone”
He’ll bleed red wine in the Café Le Ruth
for all the fucked-up people in this fucked up world
Block out the sun and cry for himself
For he’ll never grow old/ He’ll never surrender
Not while sugar comes wrapped in paper
Inscribed with the beauty of Paris in blue
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