Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 168

And the suffering of other forms of life

And which we promise to transform into friendly song and dancing

To all the ten directions of the Earth.

November 18, 1975

V

Snow falls

souls freeze

Speed kills

heart’s ease

Alcohol

fools wills

O slaves

Who craves

junk raves

Downer’s

angers

eyes blur—

I sing

Rolling

Thunder

Ho ho!

Macho

frenzy

in thee

’s a drag

dead bag.

Smoke grass

Yaas Yass

Shake ass

mind’s wealth

joint’s health

Ready?

Meditations

patience

eyes keen

serene

as graves

saves! saves

nations.

Montreal, December 4, 1975

Cabin in the Rockies

I

Sitting on a tree stump with half cup of tea,

               sun down behind mountains—

                    Nothing to do.

Not a word! Not a Word!

Flies do all my talking for me—

and the wind says something else.

Fly on my nose,

I’m not the Buddha,

There’s no enlightenment here!

Against red bark trunk

               A fly’s shadow

lights on the shadow of a pine bough.

An hour after dawn

I haven’t thought of Buddha once yet!

—walking back into the retreat house.

II

Walking into King Sooper after Two-week Retreat

A thin redfaced pimpled boy

          stands alone minutes

looking down into the ice cream bin.

Boulder, September 16, 1975

Reading French Poetry

Poems rise in my brain

like Woolworth’s 5 & 10? Store perfume

O my love with thin breasts

17 year old boy with smooth ass

O my father with white hands

specks on your feet & foul breath bespeak tumor

O myself with my romance

fading but fat bodies remain

in bed with me warm passionless

unless I exercise myself like a dumbbell

O my Fiftieth year approaching

like Tennessee like Andy a failure, big nothing—

very satisfactory subjects for Poetry.

New York, January 12, 1976

Two Dreams

I

As I passed thru Moscow’s grass lots I heard

a voice, a small green dwarf, leaf-clothed &

thin corn-stalk arms, head capped with green

husk & tassel, walking toward me talking:

“You see these other tassel heads stalking

thru long green grass spears half buried

in empty lots where building-ghosts stand

razed by police state but bursting from ground

Springtime as now seeds grown natural

So I full grown sprite of Friendship salute

you who seek love in Roman Moscow circuses—

Be cheerful our enemy’s enemy is Death

and since Death is We, since all die, all

is not lost but to Death, & what lives eccentric

as yourself & Me, ancient friends, lives

humorous and democratic as your leaves of grass

which die also prophesied but live as you and I.

Bee cheerful, good Sir. Cockhead green am I

an entertainer triumphant in the tiny cliffs

between buildings, in old grasslots of Paterson

where the wrecker’s ball creates a tiny farm

for worms, and bottles glint in new turned earth—

and weeds and we sprout renewing Nature’s

humor where the architectural police are on the nod.

The sun will rise and I’ll accompany your eye

that walks thru Moscow looking for human love.”

March 1, 1976

II     sludge

Dantean, the cliffside whereon I walked

With volumes of Milton & the Tuscan Bard enarmed:

Highway prospecting th’ocean Sludged transparent

lipped to asphalt built by Man under sky.

Far down below the factory I espied, and plunged

full clothed into the Acid Tide, heroic precipitous

Stupidly swam the noxious surface to my goal—

An Oil platform at land’s end, where Fellows watched

my bold approach to the Satanic World Trade Center.

Father dying tumored, Industry smog

o’erspreads dawn sky, gold beams descend

on Paterson thru subtle tar fumes, viewless