Peter J. Harris QEPD

Peter J. Harris leaves a resounding legacy in memories of astounding performances of the poet's work. Every performance offers a constant reminder that Harris is a consummate reader and interpreter of poetry, one of the language's two best male readers. 

Sharing fotos and accounts over the years of Peter J. Harris readings illustrate the poet's ability to make a difference in the lives of an audience, a readership, and fellow poets. In memoriam, I share a pair of columns, Harris' farewell performance as Co-Poet Laureate of Altadena, California, and a reading with Luis J. Rodriguez at a critical point in one listener's life.

La Bloga is privileged to have shared Peter J. Harris, the man and his work, witnessed at his September 2023 farewell reading, when Harris and his Altadena Co-Poet Laureate Carla R. Sameth, concluded their two-year service. The event also marked Harris' goodbye to his longtime Southern California home. (Click the link below to read the full account.) 

Hail and Farewell forms the heart of an evening's poetry reading with Altadena, California's co-Poets Laureate, Carla R. Sameth and Peter J. Harris (link to biographies). The audience quickly fills every seat and staff bring more chairs, and more people arrive. There's a buzz in the air, electric excitement you feel on rare occasions. Something Significant occurring here.

The news had reached many attendees: Peter Harris is really sick. Peter Harris is hospitalized. Peter Harris might not attend his own reading. Tonight, Peter J. Harris sits at the front of the room. He's using a 4-wheel walker and a cane, looks frail. The Poet takes the lectern. He shares his news: Peter Harris is moving to Florida.

Familia and friends have thronged to be with the poet this important, landmark evening. https://labloga.blogspot.com/2023/09/hail-laureates-atque-vale-peter-j-harris.html

Peter J. Harris, along with Luis J. Rodriguez, resuscitated my soul the evening I'd checked my wife, Barbara, into a memory care ward where I feared she would live her remaining years. (Click the link below to read the full account.)

The two poets reading in a local bookstore I'd never set foot in offered a powerful lure. Luis J. Rodríguez and Peter J. Harris need to be experienced in writing and in person and together, and they were reading in Pasadena at Battery Books at the city's least amenable to foot traffic address. Siri knew where it was but damned if I had confidence in where she was leading me. But I have an imperative tonight. It's the night of the day my wife went into Memory Care and just like that, I am living alone. 

Tonight, I test my sea legs as an independent entity. I'll deal with the guilt later, at having fun and being out among 'em without her. We hadn't done much going out the past few years as the Alzheimer's progression expressed itself by fatigue and agoraphobia. Gente came to Casa Sedano and that's how we got our poetry read aloud, the Living Room Floricanto.

These guys write kick-ass poetry. These guys write break-your-heart-for-all-sorts-of-reasons poetry. Poetry that breaks your heart for its stories and voices of tragedy, privation, desperation, love. Poetry that breaks your heart for being il miglior fabbro stuff. Rodríguez is the emeritus Poet Laureate of the City of LosAngeles, that kind of quality. I don't know why Harris hasn't been named to a Laureateship, that breaks your heart.

https://labloga.blogspot.com/2019/07/recharging-at-battery.html

Eulogies to il miglior fabbro

Luis J. Rodriguez

The extraordinary poet, activist, and wonderful human being, Peter J. Harris, has passed. I send my deepest condolences to his family and countless friends and admirers. He was also a dear friend. We met 44 years ago at the University of California, Berkeley where we were part of the 1980 Summer Program for Minority Journalists, an 11-week training program. He was my roommate in the university dorms. The program consisted of young writers of color from all over the United States. Peter and I also had two small children each. Mine were six and four when I entered this program. His were in Washington D.C. Mine in East Los Angeles. Twenty-six years old, I no longer had a wife or a family, although my children were constantly in my heart, and I had to forge a loving relationship with them despite a messy breakup and years of abandonment on my part. Peter and I talked about this: love, children, broken relationships, being imperfect in our responses, and then what we had to do to become the fathers they needed. Too many wrongs can make right, but it takes work, dedication, and love, love, love. I have had a hard time, but I'm now good with my oldest children (and two other sons, five grandkids, and seven great-grandkids). I know Peter has filled this gap as well. More importantly, while we struggled to be journalists of color at a time when we were less than three percent of U.S. newsrooms, we both also became renowned poets. While I lived in Chicago for fifteen years, when I returned to Los Angeles I was glad to know Peter was already here. We renewed our friendship, and took an active part in this city's expansive poetry scene. I was also honored to publish Peter's powerful poetry collection "Bless the Ashes" with Tia Chucha Press (link), my small press (now 35 years old), also part of a larger cultural space and bookstore known as Tia Chucha's Centro Cultural & Bookstore (link). Peter was not only a friend, but one of the most amazing poets. More importantly he was generous of heart, a sweet soul. He fought for happiness in a world that didn't seem to have much. He was about spreading joy; he was joy. I honor Peter J. Harris, griot for the ages.

Thelma T. Reyna

Our world was diminished with the passing of Peter J. Harris, a literary star whose brilliant, musical poetry and prose awakened our senses and broadened our understanding of humanity. He was a consummate Co-Poet Laureate in Altadena, CA, one of the finest Laureates any of us has known. He gave us his best work, his best thinking in each project he undertook: as journalist, editor, speaker, blogger, advocate, community leader, and founder of the Black Man of Happiness Project. He mentored, collaborated, and inspired, always kind, thoughtful, honest, and courageous. Those of us who knew him and worked with him will deeply miss him.

Peter was the brilliant Editor of my Golden Foothills Press' Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology 2024 (link). Battling a critical illness, he singlehandedly vetted over 350 poems submitted to us for the anthology from throughout the U.S. He culled these to 178 poems, and the anthology was born. In a conversation with me, Peter said he considered this book his "gift" to the poetry community. It was his labor of love and excellence. It was his last published book.

Link to the Press: http://www.goldenfoothillspress.com/

John Martinez

When a mountain disappears from the surface of earth, the people are left, shocked, with disbelief, unaccepting. Fact is, a mountain, a true mountain, never leaves. It gazes over, all that is terminal, the animals, the mumbling trees; it stands, above and is always, always present. This is what I feel about the passing of Peter J. Harris. We mourn, that we won’t see him again, those glasses, tipped on the rim of his nose, his straight shoulders, the time colored grey-his trimmed gotee the light bronze of his face. We won’t hear him, on stage, clutching his open book, slightly hunched into the mic, eyes wide open, drawing us all in, as he peers back at us, then back to his open book, then, back to the audience. But you see, he’s a mountain. He emerged from the earth, eons ago. And we could see him, from afar, his presence, in the blue, blue, between the green hang of tree branches. 

Once, I gave Peter J., a ride to his home, after a poetry reading in East Los Angeles. We were in my convertible BMW. The air was brisk, the sky, an emergence of firefly’s and stars. I was in my dark mode (as usual) existential angst, this uselessness I felt, about writing, about poetry, and the thought of death was so overwhelming. And he was patient as a seasoned doctor, always on call. I, then, reminded him, that all of this was in contrast to the sheer optimism in his writing, the love he had for his community, for all of us-his poetic and precise love for life itself. He responded with Patience. Patience for an old poet, 59, going on 15., “What is important here,” he said, as the night sky breeze chilled our faces, the wind ruffled through his sheep’s pelt hair…“It’s all about, happiness.” He said. And he looked over at me and grinned. It was that look that Vic (my brother) would give me when my observations were off put, that it might be time for me to shut up and listen.  Besides, it was foolish of me, to act out my fears, before legendary poet. A man, who had already risen from such nonsense. “Happiness.” This is the word. This is what makes the ink, worthy. And so, on the way, Pasadena is green. Greener than I have ever imagined. Even though, I passed through, many, many, times-this time, the hues were vamped, like someone sloshed on the landscape with a photoshop saturation brush. And the streets are shimmering, tar mirrors from a rain that was less than a mist. And when we stopped at the entrance to his home, he said to me; “Always write, and consider happiness,” as he gathered his books and a few tattered  notebooks, crunches them to his chest and opened the door. And in my trek to my own home, I took the 210 Freeway, East, and to my left, the soft outlining of foothills and behind them, the dark blue bold of snow peaked mountains, I felt the permanency of it all, how something’s in life, remain, always remain. 

RIP Peter J. Harris.