Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 152

You bomb you!

Whom bomb?

You bomb you!

Whom bomb?

You bomb you!

Whom Bomb?

You bomb you!

What do we do?

Who do we bomb?

What do we do?

Who do we bomb?

What do we do?

Who do we bomb?

What do we do!

Who do we bomb?

What do we do?

You bomb! You bomb them!

What do we do?

You bomb! You bomb them!

What do we do?

We bomb! We bomb them!

What do we do?

We bomb! We bomb them!

Whom bomb?

We bomb you!

Whom bomb?

We bomb you!

Whom bomb?

You bomb you!

Whom bomb?

You bomb you!

May 1971

II

Why bomb?

We don’t want to bomb!

Why bomb?

We don’t want to bomb!

Why bomb?

You don’t want to bomb!

Why bomb?

You don’t want to bomb!

Who said bomb?

Who said we had to bomb?

Who said bomb?

Who said we had to bomb?

Who said bomb?

Who said you had to bomb?

Who said bomb?

Who said you had to bomb?

We don’t bomb!

We don’t bomb!

We don’t bomb!

We don’t bomb!

We don’t bomb!

We don’t bomb!

We don’t bomb!

We don’t bomb!

for Don Cherry and Elvin Jones

New York, June 16, 1984

September on Jessore Road

Copyright © 1972 by May King Poetry Music Inc., Allen Ginsberg

September on Jessore Road

Millions of babies watching the skies

Bellies swollen, with big round eyes

On Jessore Road—long bamboo huts

Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts

Millions of fathers in rain

Millions of mothers in pain

Millions of brothers in woe

Millions of sisters nowhere to go

One Million aunts are dying for bread

One Million uncles lamenting the dead

Grandfather millions homeless and sad

Grandmother millions silently mad

Millions of daughters walk in the mud

Millions of children wash in the flood

A Million girls vomit & groan

Millions of families hopeless alone

Millions of souls Nineteenseventyone

homeless on Jessore road under gray sun

A million are dead, the millions who can

Walk toward Calcutta from East Pakistan

Taxi September along Jessore Road

Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load

past watery fields thru rain flood ruts

Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts

Wet processions Families walk

Stunted boys big heads dont talk

Look bony skulls & silent round eyes

Starving black angels in human disguise

Mother squats weeping & points to her sons

Standing thin legged like elderly nuns

small bodied hands to their mouths in prayer

Five months small food since they settled there

on one floor mat with a small empty pot

Father lifts up his hands at their lot

Tears come to their mother’s eye

Pain makes mother Maya cry

Two children together in palmroof shade

Stare at me no word is said

Rice ration, lentils one time a week

Milk powder for warweary infants meek

No vegetable money or work for the man

Rice lasts four days eat while they can

Then children starve three days in a row

and vomit their next food unless they eat slow.

On Jessore road Mother wept at my knees

Bengali tongue cried mister Please

Identity card torn up on the floor

Husband still waits at the camp office door

Baby at play I was washing the flood

Now they won’t give us any more food

The pieces are here in my celluloid purse

Innocent baby play our death curse

Two policemen surrounded by thousands of boys

Crowded waiting their daily bread joys

Carry big whistles & long bamboo sticks

to whack them in line They play hungry tricks

Breaking the line and jumping in front

Into the circle sneaks one skinny runt