Russell Lichter

Greenpoint: Poems of Russell Lichter

Publisher Marketing: This second volume of works by Russell Lichter (whom I dubbed The Hermit of Blackpoint in the first volume) is entitled Greenpoint. Like Blackpoint, Greenpoint is the name of an actual geographical location in northern California. Highway 37 on its way from Novato to Vallejo bisects an oak forested area of several square miles, bordered to the east by the mouth of the Petaluma River and Richardson Bay, and to the west by miles of wetlands and cow pastures. Greenpoint is on the northern side of that highway, Blackpoint on the southern. Despite their contiguity they have different genii loci and different topologies. Most Blackpointers could not afford to live in Greenpoint and most Greenpointers wouldn't want to live in Blackpoint. And yet, the two form one whole. The geographical message here is that the works of the first volume form an emotional and spiritual continuum with the works of this volume. They come from, so to speak, the same place, both physically and metaphysically. While some may object to this, there is a lot to be said for remaining true to one's roots in a world that is becoming increasingly rootless, and where isolation and insecure disconnectedness abound, even at the highest economic and social levels. While the Asian philosophies that highly influence both the author and the publisher talk in terms of ?having no abode, ? and ?non-attachment to all phenomena, ? it is the publisher's view that a little Western thought is needed to balance this out, and the author, knowingly or unknowingly, has done so. While it is true that we do well not to be overly-clingy, it is the view of the great systematic German philosophers that place is not merely incidental, but of great spiritual significance. This is to say that the balanced man is willing to let go of place when the time comes that he must do so; but at the same time, we should remember that we really do come from somewhere, and we have roots in places; and to abandon any of those roots too carelessly is to tread on dangerous ground, socially and psychologically. And so the author of this second volume did well to sing his songs from his homeland in his first book, and then to, in a Bach-like way, re-present the first melodies with continual and minute variations on the themes which stir his soul. The tapestry presented is at once sweetly-nostalgic, sharply-observant and aching with earnest melancholy. The author also does a great service by veering from all orthodoxies in his refusal to simply wave away any serious emotion or profound concern. He does not, in these works, accept any philosophical, theological or psychological dictum which would have us shrug-off as negligible such themes as the persistent problems of aging, the vast array of missed opportunities, and past experiences which cannot be recovered. No experience of the heart is sent away with platitudes to feed on. Much like Victor Hugo, The Hermit of Blackpoint cannot be sold a false bill of goods. If something significant happens, he will not lie about it. If he misses a person, place or thing, he pulls no punches in confessing that. The past is not simply negated, belittled or ?transcended, ? but is seized upon if its reality is a powerful one; and if something about it hurts, he lets us know that it does, without any rationalized apology. This business of living is tough and uncertain, and Greenpoint, like its earlier brother Blackpoint, reflect this. And in doing so, both texts alternate between hope and despair; and that very ability to report the facts on the ground as they change, instead of trying to report old news which is no longer true, is not only the hallmark of good journalism, but of good poetry too. Contributor Bio:  Lichter, Russell Not everyone, to paraphrase Bugs Bunny, is born at an early age. But we are all born, to someone, somewhere, sometime. In my case, to David and Matilda, in the Year of Our Lord, 1945, in the coastal city of Long Branch, New Jersey, in the New World: swamps, skunk cabbage, stag horn sumac, Osage orange, poison ivy, cattails, railroad tracks, beaches, and the cold, heaving, endless Atlantic. The swamps of my youth are now all filled in with tract houses. I've regrets. Places I've visited where I wish I had stayed. People I've met whom I wish I had loved. And, in loving, often not loving unconditionally. But they tell me I couldn't have arrived here without having been there, so I've decided to be practical. I'll take care of those things that need caring for, like food and clothing, and supporting my friends; and the rest I'll allow to unfold like a big flower. If it were not for Eleanor Roosevelt, we probably wouldn't have Social Security in America and I probably wouldn't be alive to write poems from Black Point. This county was home to the Miwok people. Till some king or other took it away from the Miwok (who couldn't even conceive owning land) and gave vast tracts to rich and powerful friends. That was before my time: when I got here, the place was full of wealthy, white liberals and bicycle riders. I used to qualify in three of these four criteria, but I no longer ride a bike. Marin/Sonoma are still hauntingly beautiful despite the ongoing influx of people; and these days you can't drive any distance without passing a vineyard. I love it here. I love this planet. I'm not crazy about some of the people. But as Wodehouse's volatile chef, Anatole, says, "I can take a few smooths with a rough." From a Rorschach analysis I learned that I was a 'people person.' I will say that if you're going to be a people person, you probably should not be an introvert at the same time. Thus the poetry, from an early age. Think of it this way. If I saw you in Peet's arguing with the barista about the texture of the foam on your $2.95 cappuccino, I might join in; and you and I might end up talking about taste buds, aesthetics, and the life of the spirit. But since I have not met you, I reach out in words, hoping we will understand one another when we do meet. I look forward to that day. Meanwhile, I'll keep making poems.