NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW ON-LINE

BLUE BEAT JACKET is a well produced, lively little magazine, which, as its title suggests, has a definite bias in favour of the Beat approach to poetry. The last issue was dedicated to Gregory Corso (1930-2001) and apparently included several previously unpublished Corso poems. Quite a coup for a small magazine. The next issue, we are promised, will be a Lawrence Ferlinghetti Special.

There are four poems in French by Denis Emorine and an interesting (if at times slightly over earnest) article by Scott Watson about the Japanese poet Basho. Among other things Watson tells us about how Basho has been appropriated by the Japanese tourist industry. Apparently, one of many tourist attractions named after him is a love hotel near Matsushima. How long, one has to wonder, before the Irish Tourist Board start naming knocking-shops after W.B.Yeats?

Apart from this though the magazine has a very definite feel of Americans abroad to it, with a few Brits thrown in for good measure. The quality of the poetry is mixed. A.D. Winans A FRONT ROW SEAT IN HEAVEN gets off to a powerful enough start:

	The World Trade Center buried
	in rubble
	Bands of Palestinians celebrating
	in the streets
	King Kong's balls cut off
	but erection still firm

	Old glory about to be prostituted
	by pimp politicians
	and unindicted corporate criminals
	No eulogy for New York City
	No eulogy for Bin Laden
	No eulogy for Israel
	No eulogy for suicide terrorists

The nicely understated style of Gerald England's I SAID I'D NEVER BEEN SO THEN I WENT stands in fairly stark contrast to Kevyn Knox's ALL THESE DAYS:

	and we play adam & eve in naked garden William Blake drama of paradise
	lost & regained again
	and identity opens upon self mind in sunflower sutra satori
	of mystic eastern nighttime
	we dance to rhythm of inner id vision and begin reborn poet revolution

Harry R. Wilkens, on the other hand, reminded me somewhat of Charles Bukowski:

	ANOTHER WORLD

	That gorgeous
	teenager
	was swaying
	her ass
	walking in front
	of me
	with her
	no less
	gorgeous mother,
	narrowly
	avoiding
	a big
	heap of shit
	on the sidewalk,
	and for some
	moments
	she stepped
	hesitatingly
	as if she
	realized
	that there
	must be
	another
	world.

Despite this, though, BLUE BEAT JACKET is a likeable enough magazine. Its fresh, accessible style reminds one of all that was best about Ginsberg, Corso, Felinghetti et al. Its weaknesses, on the other hand, should remind neo-Beats everywhere, that it simply isn't enough to keep on endlessly trying to sound like a Ginsberg or a Bukowski. Because in the end the only, really 'cutting edge' thing to do is to try and sound more and more like your boring old self.

This is the Laurence Ferlinghetti Issue. Dare I say that this magazine shows evidence of love in its content and production? With its A5 pages carefully sewn and tied, it is like a handmade present. If every fanzine is as good, then John Clare, Jane Austen and Wilfred Owen (who all have their own magazines) are lucky too. The printing is not perfect (but for 10xIRCs?) — over-inking has made some of the lettering appear Japanese. Two pages laid out in Japanese characters show the magic squiggles of what writing is made of. There is a world-wrapping page where Pradip Choudhuri from India writes CALCUTTA CITY BLUES-SPRING SONATA IN ENGLISH, with a Japanese version opposite. There is a poem in Italian — FERLINGHETTI IS LIKE A CAKE MIX — and a drawing of CHAGALL'S PARIS by Ferlinghetti himself ...

A fanzine like Blue Beat Jacket lies between museums and poets, keeping some live connections. Steve Dalachinsky, in THE LEAVES ARE CHANGING shows the butterfly poetry pinned down, no longer flying:

	food-phone-gas-lodging
	are not far
	away
	my letter
	is safe under
	glass
		at the n.y. public
	library
		along with my dreams
	& some of the dharma

We are included. These writers influenced so many others — not least the Liverpool poets.

The poems in American/ English demand some nifty eye and brain co-ordination; no punctuation, no guidelines. You are left to roam through these word-roads, along the word-tracks, stopping here, noticing there, going back, retracing, wandering. These are not the dum-de-dum linear mainstream stuff. You are left free in the act of reading. Ferlinghetti's spirit flavours all with a spirit of benevolence. There are some people —: Leonard Cohen is another — who are like old friends. Laurence Ferlinghetti is the same. We are given two postcards written by him, two photos, and a collage. Several poems from the Vojo Sindolic Beat Archive in Croatia are included. This is like being allowed backstage.

Beat poetry skims delicately, ice-skating over deep subject-matter and for all its vaunted spiritual aspirations, it is its childlike enthusiasm and openness that is its main quality. Less is more, and it is very clever. Many poems are set in that philosophical area between Bhuddism and Christianity, East and West via the back door, from Japan to Alaska.

In that spirit, Sam Hamill's THE NEW YORK POEM ends with

	I'll kiss the sword that kills me if I must.

	Off-season silence
	of Coney Island dusk —

	still shadows dreaming —

	... dank hell's a poppin'

	smoke and gut
	junky shoot'em ups

	ten dollar a pop cheap
	thrills — whores and scores —

	darkness made visible
	by a bad moon rising

Leave this mag under your pillow and in the morning, you might wake up as either a poet ... or with one.