During the 43-year history of the International Poetry Forum (1966-2009), there were many incidents and remarks as memorable as the 400-plus readings themselves. These moments were not scandalous but interesting in their own right.
When W. H. Auden shuffled to the Carnegie Music Hall rostrum in floppy slippers he wore because of a foot condition, he saw twin microphones at the podium. I had been advised that Auden would probably need both to be heard. “Which one should I use?” he asked me. I said he should use both. He ended up using neither.
At a dinner prior to his reading, a guest asked him, “Don’t you think that dying in your sleep is the best way to die, Wystan?” “Oh, no,” he said. “I want last words.” Auden never got his wish, dying in his sleep in a hotel in Europe.
Charlie Jordan was a detective assigned to guard Princess Grace of Monaco during her 1978 and 1980 visits to Pittsburgh. His normal duties were with the vice squad, so he was far removed from the obsequious yes-men she normally encountered. He treated the princess with care and respect but at times spoke to her as if she were his sister, as in “Princess, your slip is showing on the left side.”
When she was leaving, he waited to say his goodbyes until she was just about to board her plane. “Princess,” he said, “it’s been an honor to guard you, and if I ever get to Monaco, I’d like to call you up and take you out for a cup of coffee.” She smiled and answered, “Sure, Charlie.” When Charlie died in 1981, she sent a handwritten letter of condolence to his widow.
We hosted the princess at a private dinner at LeMont. At one point she excused herself, and she and a friend went to the restroom. When they returned, Marilyn Donnelly, a member of the Forum advisory board, went to the same restroom and found the attendant in a state of awe. “Honey,” she said to Marilyn, “You’ll never guess who was just in here ... the princess of Monaca.”
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Polish writer Jerzy Kosinski, who agreed to be the master of ceremonies for the Forum’s 20th anniversary program in 1986, told me without emotion about an experience he had in 1969. He was living in Paris and received an invitation to attend a party in Los Angeles. He agreed to attend and booked his flight. At the airport, he was asked by a boarding official for his final destination. Kosinski said it would be Paris because he planned to return immediately after the party. The official responded that he was already in Paris and told him to step out of line. After much altercation that led nowhere (“It was too much for the French mind,” he said), Kosinski missed his flight and the party. This was the party at Roman Polanski’s home at which Charles Manson’s coterie murdered Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate, and four others.
Denise Levertov’s poetry reading was uneventful. At the end, she said her husband, Mitchell Goodman, was being sued for derogatory remarks he had made about Hubert Humphrey and that they needed help with their legal costs. She asked the audience for contributions, and many gave the astonished, unprepared ushers money as they left the hall.
Pulitzer Prize winner W. D. Snodgrass hailed from Wilkinsburg, so his appearance here was a kind of return. A half-hour prior to the reading, he told me that he had to excuse himself to “tune his lute.” To this day, I don’t know what he did or even whether he had a lute with him, but he gave an interesting reading.
I invited Alexander Scourby to present an evening of contemporary Greek poetry. Scourby, of Greek lineage and a narrator of multiple radio, television and film features, also recorded numerous audio books. I noticed that there were many young blind people in the audience. After the program ended, the blind students came backstage to meet Scourby and touch his hand. When I asked why, they said, “Because he is our book.”
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Prior to her reading, Anne Sexton was totally nervous. Nothing I said by way of encouragement seemed to do any good. At one point, she even called her psychiatrist in Boston for assurance. Just before she went to the rostrum to read from “To Bedlam and Part Way Back,” she seemed so beside herself that I feared the evening would be a disaster. Instead, she walked calmly on stage and read and commented on her poems in a totally professional manner. It left me thinking that the display of nerves was all an act. Later, the actress Claire Bloom seemed similarly upset in advance of her program, “These are Women.” Her husband, Rod Steiger, kept assuring her that she would be fine. The program indeed was flawless from start to finish. As she came offstage, Steiger told her, “I knew you could do it.” “Of course, I could do it,” she said. “Did you have any doubts that I could?”
In the late 1960s and the 1970s, Yevgeny Yevtushenko and Andrei Voznesensky were Russia’s prime literary exports. Both were excellent reciters of their poetry from memory. It was the Forum’s invitation to Yevtushenko through the State Department that made his first visit to the United States possible, and a crowd packed the Carnegie Music Hall to hear him. As he made a few preliminary remarks, someone shouted from the balcony that he should stand closer to the microphone because he could not be heard. After a pause, Yevtushenko said in English, “You come closer to me.” And the audience did, and the evening was unforgettable.
Voznesensky had a less dramatic personality but a similar stage presence. At dinner before his recital, I asked him what he liked most about America. “Girls,” he answered instantly. “What about Russian girls?” I asked. “Too tired,” he said. I knew at that point if the communist system could offer nothing more enticing than tired girls, we had little to worry about.
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When John Updike read his poems here, his parents traveled from eastern Pennsylvania to hear him. Upright, reserved and modest, Mr. and Mrs. Wesley Updike looked like they had stepped out of a Grant Woods painting. When I said they should be quite proud of their son, Wesley Updike responded, “We do hope he makes a contribution.”
John Ashbery was the darling of a certain New York group of editors and poets who won every imaginable award for his poetry. I tried reading his poems to see what all the fuss was about and came away numb. I thought that hearing him would make a difference, but instead, I thought his reading raised boredom to new levels. One woman left the reading with the comment, “He’s very deep.” The woman with her answered, “He’s not deep; he’s just confused.”
James Dickey appeared twice at the Forum, once before the 1972 film based on his novel “Deliverance” and once afterward. The first time, he read from a book of poems called “Buckdancer’s Choice.” In his second appearance, he seemed like a different man. He wore boots, a wide leather belt and a hunter’s cap (“Deliverance” garb), and he made copious references to Burt Reynolds and allusions to the film. That movie shadowed Dickey for the rest of his life. As far as his poetry was concerned, it probably was the worst thing that could have happened to him.
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When Brooke Shields appeared in the Forum’s “Turn of the Century Impromptu” with James Earl Jones and David Conrad, many assumed that her fame and beauty precipitated the invitation. What they did not know was that she knew French literature, spoke French fluently and had a degree from Princeton with French as her forte. I asked her to begin her portion of the program by reading without preliminary remarks a poem by Jacques Prevert. As soon as she began, I noticed that many in the audience had a look of awe and discovery. At the reception after the performance, she stayed over so as to be able to converse with all who waited to meet her. In fact, she was the last one to leave.
One actress I wanted at the Forum was Irene Pappas. I hoped that she could perform excerpts from Greek plays such as “Antigone” and “Medea,” in which women were the dominant characters. I made an appointment to meet her in New York so that we could discuss the idea. In the middle of the talk, she said, “You mean you want me to play those crazy ladies by myself before an audience? I cannot. When Mr. [Michael] Cacoyannis is my director, I do it because then I am performing before an audience. But if I am looking at the audience, and the audience is you and not they, I cannot. You must understand.” I told her that I understood completely and that it was a pleasure to meet her. I then asked about her family. “I am married one time and a half,” she said. I thought it best not to pursue that.
Before Queen Noor of Jordan presented her program “Women and Peace” at the Forum in 2005, I met by chance a young hotel official who happened to be a Jordanian. He was excited about Queen Noor’s visit and had tickets to attend. I invited him to come to a post-performance private reception and introduced him to Queen Noor, who paid him particular attention. Later, he told me with some feeling, “I had to come to America to meet my queen.”
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There are many other memories, too, including Maureen Stapleton’s decision to travel by train from New York to Pittsburgh and back because she wouldn’t fly “even on Air Christ;” Lynn Emanuel’s anecdote about a blonde “so blonde” that she inspired a poem; Eva Marie Saint’s reply when asked how she would prefer to die — “Quickly, but not today;” the unflinching honesty of Philip Levine and Jim Daniels in their poetic portraits of a working man’s Detroit; the truly poetic musical evenings with Victoria de los Angeles, Mildred Miller Posvar, Judy Collins, Nana Mouskouri, Lucinda Williams, the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem.
At our final presentation, featuring Adam Zagajewski, in 2009, a special poster with the names of all those who appeared at the Forum was offered at no charge to all of the people in that last audience. Every poster was taken.
Samuel Hazo (samhazo1@earthlink.net) founded the International Poetry Forum. The Upper St. Clair resident’s most recent works are a book of poems, “And the Time Is,” and a play, “Tell It to the Marines.” Carlow University houses the Forum archives.
First Published: February 15, 2015, 5:00 a.m.