“Richard Denner is one of the most original people I know. Copying furiously, creating fearlessly, he begs, borrows & steals, and then invents something utterly unexpected and astounding—& he himself is the first to be surprised. He has too much talent for one person, and his outpourings reflect this abundance. (“Mithra cutting/the throat of theBull w/a ZIP code”) He never stops to chip away, to enhance, or to reduce—it’s all there in a Henry Millerian stream-of-absurdity with blasts of wisdom. Quite amazing is Richard.”
—Gail Chiarello
“Richard Denner composes poetry with a light touch from a relaxed hand, getting progressively clearer, deeper and more profound through decades of practice. From Berkeley to Alaska, through Ellensburg to Buddhism, his classic insight is rendered in a fine idiomatic vernacular.”
—Charles Potts
“Richard Denner has always belonged to the alternative party, its Masonic-anarchist branch. His poems can be playful or run an idea a bit further than you’re comfortable with; they almost always vibrate, as he does. Denner is one of the edgiest people I’ve ever know, and in his best poetry that comes through.”
—Mark Halperin
“Out there stuff…it is you coming from that place…in a low-rider with tinted windows, no mufflers on the dual pipes, a hot chicano mama snuggled up against your pale Nordic shoulder.”
—John Bennett
“These poems are extraordinary, fantastic, freaky turnings not to be secured with ease, the clarity developed by pursuit, the dark and light of understanding, of misunderstanding, all are here, the eloquence of it as it appears and disappears, whatever it might be, all of it is here.”
—Luis Garcia
The muse is not necessarily embodied in a single person. My first contact with this spirit of inspiration was Juanita Miller, the daughter of the flamboyant, 19th century California poet, Joaquin Miller. She lived in a vine-covered castle among her father’s monuments to Moses, John Frémont, and the Brownings, nestled in the Oakland hills, in what is now Joaquin Miller Park. In our neighborhood, she was unusual. On a foggy Halloween night, some friends and I spotted her in a white nightgown walking barefoot through the eucalyptus. We were sure her house was haunted and dared not go to her doorstep to trick or treat. She rode with my family to church on Sunday, and on one occasion she signed a copy of a collection of her father’s poems and presented it to my mother. I revered this book. I would open it and gently touch her signature. It amazed me that we knew someone who was associated with the arts.
I offer this cluster of poems. Many events have affected my view. Many collaborations have enriched my life. I am especially grateful to my family and the many friends of my life. My poetry is my experience. This is my secret autobiography.
