When I lived in Brighton in the 1980s I used to see poet Sam Cornish walking down Commonwealth Avenue. With his thick glasses, powerful stride, and intense stare, I thought to myself, "This cat means business." I never approached him, but I knew of his reputation as part of the "Boston Underground" school of poets, and knew he taught at Emerson College.

It wasn't until he was appointed to the position of Boston Poet Laureate that I actually met him, and now our paths have crossed more than a few times. Cornish, 73, was born in Baltimore, Maryland, and for a long time commuted between his native city and Boston.

He was a poor kid, raised by his mother and grandmother after his father died. He was influenced by the small press movement in poetry, as well as the Black Arts Movement, but basically he has been viewed as a poet who is hard to classify. His poetry deals with slavery, civil rights, as well as pop culture: from Louie Armstrong to Frank Sinatra. His poetry is usually stripped down and potent.

Cornish's breakthrough book of poetry was "Generations" published in 1971. The book is organized into five sections: Generations, Slaves, Family, Malcolm, and others. He combined his own family with figures from African-American history. Cornish received a National Endowment for the Arts Award in 1967 and 1969, he was the literature director at the Massachusetts Council of the Arts, and owned a bookstore in Brookline. He has a number of poetry collections under his belt, the most recent: "An Apron Full of Beans" (CavanKerry). I recently spoke with Cornish on my Somerville Cable Access TV Show: "Poet to Poet: Writer to Writer."

Doug Holder: Sam, you told me that you did not consider yourself to be part of the Black Arts Movement in the 60's and 70's. Yet I have read in a few places that people consider you an "unappreciated" figure of the movement. How would you define yourself?

Sam Cornish: What might distinguish me from poets of this generation in the movement, folks like: Sonia Sanchez, Niki Giovanni, etc., was that I was influenced by a number of writers and sources that may not have been part of the influence and education in the Black Arts Movement. Some of the poets in the movement came from a conventional Negro background. The Negro middle class: doctors, lawyers, and teachers. I came from a poor family, raised by my mother and grandmother. My mother was forced to go on welfare when she could no longer work. I went to a neighborhood school and frequented the public library.

I bought books and as a result became interested in poetry. The poets that moved me were T.S. Eliot, Langston Hughes, prose writers like James T. Farrell and Richard Wright. As an adolescent I loved Farrell's character, Studs Lonegian. I could identify with him and I was motivated to find other books that I could identify with. I read books by George Simeon, the great French writer of psychological murder mysteries, for instance.

DH: Who published many of the writers of the Black Arts Movement?

SC: The Broadside Press. It was a small press that was based in Chicago. It was started by a man named Dudley Randall. They were publishing young black writers who were very militant and defined themselves as being "Black" rather than "Negro." There was a very strong political stance to them.

DH: Didn't you have a strong political slant to your work?

SC: If I did it was politics that grew out of the 1930's. That was a mixture of left leaning, the communist and the socialist.

DH: This was in contrast to the militancy of the 60's?

SC: Yes. Because a lot of that was directed at whites generally. It was confrontational or abrasive. You were now black and different from previous generations. You had no patience with your forefathers, your parents, those who were living as negroes. It was a very angry and self-destructive ideology. People like James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, and Robert Hayden were viewed as not being pro black.

DH: Your poetry seems to be stripped down rather than weighted with ornate flourishes.

SC: For me it is a choice of language. How do you describe something? How do you create a poem? How do you communicate? I would say that it is the influence of the hard world or the naturalistic writer, where you use the language that's employed in common speech. At the same time you recognize the lyric possibilities in this language. I have had my days when I had tons of words on the page. I realized though that it was necessary to use fewer words.

DH: You told me that a poet should reveal something about himself in a poem?

SC: I'm back and forth about that. There are poems where you can't find the poet. There are novels where you can't find the writer. I just feel very strongly that it is important to present yourself as honestly as you possibly can. Hold yourself up as a mirror people can see their selves and vice a versa. Poetry does provide an opportunity for people to hide themselves behind the language. They use the poem as a form of escape. And that's OK as a form of entertainment.

DH: You have talked about the photographer Walker Evans, who used to hide a camera

under his coat, and snapped pictures of people that truly captured the moment, on the New York subway for instance. Should a poet be Walker Evans-like?

SC: For me perhaps. But maybe not for others. I like the idea of interacting with people–different kinds of people.

DH: So you must have been an admirer of the late Studs Terkel?

SC: Very much so. He transcended the genre.

DH: Your breakthrough poetry collection was "Generations" published in 1971. How was it a breakthrough?

SC: It might have been a breakthrough because the number of black writers being published at that time were few. The Beacon Press of Boston published it. As a black writer there may have been anger in the book. It was not an anger directed at white America. It attempted to describe living in an America that is black and white, and all the other things that go with it. The book is arranged like most of my books are: from past to present. It begins with a slave funeral and it ends with a sense of Apocalypse. The history comes from things I heard from home, and things I picked up from the neighborhoods, not to mention popular culture.

DH: We have discussed Alfred Kazin's memoir "A Walker in the City." Kazin was inspired by pounding the pavement on the teeming streets of New York City. How about you in Boston?

SC: I used to walk with a pocket camera, and took pictures as I walked. I would al

so walk with a notebook. I would describe things I would see, and imagined them as little scenarios. That was an important part of my day.

DH: I get the impression that you are the consummate urban man. Could you survive in the country?

SC: If I did live in the country I would like the freedom to move back and forth. I like to be near theatres, bookstores and cinemas.< br />
DH: You had your own small press: the Bean Bag Press. You hung with small press legends like Hugh Fox, and co- edited the anthology: "The Living Underground: An Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry" (Ghost Dance Press: 1969) with him. What is vital about the small press in the literary milieu?

SC: Publication. The major presses publish very few books of poetry. They also have a fixed standard as to what they select. So you often get the same voices. The small press allows us to have a variety of voices. It allows us to be challenged, upset, disturbed and sometimes angered by what we read. The major press' books are pleasant and fun to read. But they are not disturbing. They are basically not truthful. The small press has novelty, surprise, can be violent, and sometimes it can be damn good poetry.

DH: What are your goals in your position of Boston Poet Laureate?

SC: Right now I am available for people through the library and also through Mayor Menino's office. If people call and request my presence at a school or senior citizen's center, or where people would like a poet, I go. I try to be the person to bring a poem to people who might not read poetry, or those who want to talk to a poet about the craft.

The South Was Waiting in Baltimore

Ruth Brown

sang bad songs about her brown body but I

could see white boys hit the nigger streets

saw them running through the projects looking

for colored girls

the Fifties were marching

integrating schools

young Richard Nixon

barbers standing

in the doors of their

shops saying

shame

shame

at the sight

of my hair

Negro men

scratched their heads burned

their hair

to make it

good

like Nat

King Cole

Emmett Till died

in Mississippi his

picture

in JET

Magazine

his death a word on the streets I never

went to Mississippi

during the bus boycotts

nor sat in

for civil rights

and hamburgers

I was poor even

then my shoes were holes

held together

by threats & good luck but I read Camus

& listened to Martin

Luther King

the Muslims

in the temple

selling

bean pie

& promising the death

of white devils

the white

man

that never came

in my room

the students

fucked I read

about Algeria &

0A

found James Baldwin

disturbing

some of my friends

made jokes

about Mississippi

I never rode

The Freedom Bus

but I

walked the streets

of Baltimore

visited Little Italy

the Polish

neighborhoods

near the waterfronts

you did not

have to travel

to the Southern

states

it was waiting

in Baltimore

"a dream tree. Polly's tree

wears a valentine

arc of tear-pearled

bleeding hearts on its sleeve

and, crowning it, one

blue larkspur star."

family trees

days peel back with a force beyond my own

knowing every puddle slick every pigeon

feather every candle every change every second

hand leaps forward rolls skeleton in boxes

in every church relics reveal those intense

relationships prone across continents each root

each pomegranate seed mustard seed

each three seven gamble my father forgiving

without grudge or elastic bracelets bound from one

country to another alive with possibility

his embedding shiver swivels his connection

his semi-precious stones strung together

on thin gold chain

floating on top of mother's soup

beef falls off the bone

she serves our want as her own

downspout summer rain my sister

and brother flick marbles

virginity our cracker jack box prize

a cowboy drips licorice and long sleek cars

park out front we play between hen house

and shoemaker's shop

lemons squeezed over almost all our food

we keep old recipes

the afternoon shade under old aunt's fig trees

pear and apple trees our sweet dispositions

even though it is not always then

–Irene Koronas * From her recently released chapbook of poetry: "Zero Boundaries" (Cervena Barva Press)