Al Young, California's Poet Laureate

Since the summer of 1985, when he was my prof at the Bennington College Writers Workshop, it's been my privilege to call Al Young friend. Al lives in Berkeley, but oddly enough we used to see each other more often when I still lived on the other coast. As you can see from his biography, he travels a great deal. New York and Boston were gateways. Santa Barbara is not, and regrettably I don't get to the Bay Area very often. I haven't seen him since my husband and I went down to Los Angeles for the ceremony at which Al received the PEN/USA Award for Best Non-Fiction Book of the Year. That was nine years ago. (Seems impossible that it's that long ago. But it is. I checked.) Nevertheless, we manage to stay in touch.

Any communication with Al is a rich experience and it's always wonderful to hear from him. But when he phoned late last month, the news he called to share positively bowled me over.

He's been named California's Poet Laureate!

He regaled me with the story of his interview with Arnold Schwarzenegger, a vetting required for those on the short list. Al is a lefty-ish kind of guy. Ahnold asked him about his politics, and Al said, "I'm a liberal Democrat," figuring that was surely the end of his nomination. To Schwarzenegger's credit, he didn't hold it against Al — well, of course, he doesn't hold it against his in-laws either. All that's necessary now for Al to "take office" is pro forma approval by the State Senate.

The Governor conducted the interview in the Cigar Tent. Al says he was stylishly tailored, full of good humor, and well prepared — even to having memorized a part of one of Al's poems and reciting it for its author.

I don't know which part. But here's the whole thing. Help me try to hear the moment!

Conjugal Visits

By noon we'll be deep into it —
up reading out loud in bed.
Or in between our making love
I'll paint my toenails red.

Reece say he got to change his name
from Maurice to Malik.
He think I need to change mine too.
Conversion, so to speak.

"I ain't no Muslim yet," I say.
"Besides, I like my name.
Kamisha still sounds good to me.
I'll let you play that game."

"I'd rather play with you," he say,
"than trip back to the Sixties."
"The Sixties, eh?" I'm on his case.
"Then I won't do my striptease."

This brother look at me and laugh;
he know I love him bad
and, worse, he know exactly how
much loving I ain't had.

He grab me by my puffed up waist
and pull me to him close.
He say, "I want you in my face.
Or on my face, Miss Toes."

What can I say? I'd lie for Reece,
but I'm not quitting school.
Four mouths to feed, not counting mine.
Let Urban Studies rule!

I met him in the want ads,
we fell in love by mail.
I say, when people bring this up,
"Wasn't no one up for sale."

All these Black men crammed up in jail,
all this I.Q. on ice,
while governments, bank presidents,
the Mafia don't think twice.

They fly in dope and make real sure
they hands stay nice and clean.
The chump-change Reece made on the street
— what's that supposed to mean?

"For what it costs the State to keep
you locked down, clothed and fed,
you could be learning Harvard stuff,
and brilliant skills," I said.

Reece say, "Just kiss me one more time,
then let's get down, make love.
Then let's devour that special meal
I wish they'd serve more of."

They say the third time out's a charm;
I kinda think they're right.
My first, he was the Ace of Swords,
which didn't make him no knight.

He gave me Zeus and Brittany;
my second left me twins.
This third one ain't about no luck;
we're honeymooners. Friends.

I go see Maurice once a month
while Moms looks after things.
We be so glad to touch again,
I dance, he grins, he sings.

When I get back home to my kids,
schoolwork, The Copy Shop,
ain't no way Reece can mess with me.
They got his ass locked up.