A poet of immense originality, Kaufman, often dubbed the “Black American Rimbaud” in France, carved out a unique space with his jazz-infused rhythms, surreal imagery, and a life lived on the raw edges of society. Kaufman raged against the Racism of Jim Crow America.

Born in New Orleans in 1925 to a Black Catholic mother and a German Jewish father, Kaufman’s early life was a tapestry of diverse influences, including a significant stint in the Merchant Navy, circumnavigating the globe multiple times. These experiences would later seep into the worldly, yet deeply personal, nature of his poetry.

Landing in San Francisco’s North Beach in the late 1950s, Kaufman became a pivotal, if sometimes overlooked, figure in the Beat movement. He co-founded the seminal magazine Beatitude with Allen Ginsberg and others, and his public recitations, often spontaneous and deeply improvisational, became legendary. His was a poetry meant to be heard, felt, and experienced, mirroring the bebop jazz he so ardently admired. Lines seemed to erupt from him, a fusion of street vernacular, high lyricism, and startling, dream-like visions.

“The Night That Lorca Comes,” by Bob Kaufman, is a poem that combines elements of surrealism, social commentary, and a powerful sense of historical and cultural memory. It evokes a dreamlike state where the poet envisions the South being left behind forever, with symbolic figures like Lincoln and Crispus Attucks playing a role in this transition.  The poem is named after the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca, who was also a strong voice for the marginalised and oppressed, suggesting Kaufman’s connection to Lorca’s spirit and artistic vision. 

[THE NIGHT THAT LORCA COMES]

THE NIGHT THAT LORCA COMES
SHALL BE A STRANGE NIGHT IN THE
SOUTH, IT SHALL BE THE TIME WHEN NEGROES LEAVE THE
SOUTH
FOREVER,
GREEN TRAINS SHALL ARRIVE
FROM RED PLANET MARS
CRACKLING BLUENESS SHALL SEND TOOTH-COVERED CARS FOR
THEM
TO LEAVE IN, TO GO INTO
THE NORTH FOREVER, AND I SEE MY LITTLE GIRL MOTHER
AGAIN WITH HER CROSS THAT
IS NOT BURNING, HER SKIRTS
OF BLACK, OF ALL COLORS, HER AURA
OF FAMILIARITY. THE SOUTH SHALL WEEP
BITTER TEARS TO NO AVAIL,
THE NEGROES HAVE GONE
INTO CRACKLING BLUENESS.
CRISPUS ATTUCKS SHALL ARRIVE WITH THE BOSTON
COMMONS, TO TAKE ELISSI LANDI
NORTH, CRISPUS ATTUCKS SHALL
BE LAYING ON BOSTON COMMONS,
ELISSI LANDI SHALL FEEL ALIVE
AGAIN. I SHALL CALL HER NAME
AS SHE STEPS ON TO THE BOSTON
COMMONS, AND FLIES NORTH FOREVER,
LINCOLN SHALL BE THERE,
TO SEE THEM LEAVE THE
SOUTH FOREVER, ELISSI LANDI, SHE WILL BE
GREEN.
THE WHITE SOUTH SHALL GATHER AT
PRESERVATION HALL.

Despite his undeniable talent, Kaufman’s work has often been overlooked in mainstream literary circles. Perhaps it’s because his poetry is so raw and uncompromising. Perhaps it’s because he refused to conform to societal expectations. Whatever the reason, it’s time for Bob Kaufman to take his rightful place among the literary giants of the 20th century.