Mike Barrett (U.S.A.)

Richard Berengarten at 40

In 1983 Richard was teaching poetry and literature in the University of Notre Dame’s London Program. I was an Economics major who had been writing poetry since the age of 11. No one knew, for how could a Chicago street tough be a poet?

Richard was teaching a course on George Seferis and the poets of the Cambridge Literary Festival, culminating in the festival itself. I was taken by Richard’s intelligence and confidence. He was passionate in being true to himself. “Robert Hass is the only poet who can craft a line as beautifully as I can,” he proclaimed. He was productive as well, running Los Press, writing Blakean lyrics, and working on The Manager.

As the Cambridge Poetry Festival neared, Richard became increasingly high-strung. “Too much,” he said to me in an aside. “Too much drinking, smoking, talking, and sex.”

“So that’s the life of a poet,” I thought. “I love to do those things,” even though one of them was still out of reach.

When the Festival commenced, Richard arranged our residency in various places around Cambridge. I stayed in a house owned by an elderly anarchist woman. The rooms were full of artifacts, with young radicals and punks streaming in and out, looking warily at the squeaky-clean Catholic youth sleeping on the floor.

At first, pints and punting on the Cam occupied our time, and then I dove into the festival. I was disappointed; some of the sessions seemed to be more about posture than poetry. I had always thought poetry was supposed to be profound, cleansing the doors of perception.

Then Richard told us, “You must see Ken Smith.” We respected Richard, so we attended. Ken Smith got on stage and said, “I’m going to read from my poem. Straight through. If that’s too much for you, leave now.”

Richard shouted from the balcony, “Give me a second.” He put his book bag down as a pillow, lay down across the bench, and propped his cowboy boot-clad feet on the edge. “Ok. I’m ready. You can proceed.” Ken Smith laughed, then tore into Fox Running. I was blown away. When I looked over to Richard, his hands were folded, resting on his mid-section. His eyes were closed, and, deep in the poem, he was smiling.

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