Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 27

          of mountain afternoon,

the distant valleys fading,

          regnant peaks beyond

to days on the Pacific

          where I bathed—

then riding, fitful,

          gazing, sleeping

through the desert

          beside a wetback

sad-faced old-man-

          youth, exhausted

to Mexicali

          to stand

near one night’s dark shack

          on the garbage cliffs

of bordertown overhanging

          the tin house poor

man’s village below,

          a last night’s

timewracked brooding

          and farewell,

the end of a trip.

—Returning

          armed with New Testament,

critic of horse and mule,

          tanned and bearded

satisfying Whitman, concerned

          with a few Traditions,

metrical, mystical, manly

… and certain characteristic flaws

          —enough!

The nation over the border

grinds its arms and dreams

          of war: I see

the fiery blue clash

          of metal wheels

clanking in the industries

          of night, and

detonation of infernal bombs

          … and the silent downtown

of the States

          in watery dusk submersion.

Guanajuato-Los Angeles, 1954

Song

The weight of the world

     is love.

Under the burden

     of solitude,

under the burden

     of dissatisfaction

     the weight,

the weight we carry

     is love.

Who can deny?

     In dreams

it touches

     the body,

in thought

     constructs

a miracle,

     in imagination

anguishes

     till born

in human—

looks out of the heart

     burning with purity—

for the burden of life

     is love,

but we carry the weight

     wearily,

and so must rest

in the arms of love

     at last,

must rest in the arms

     of love.

No rest

     without love,

no sleep

     without dreams

of love—

     be mad or chill

obsessed with angels

     or machines,

the final wish

     is love

—cannot be bitter,

     cannot deny,

cannot withhold

     if denied:

the weight is too heavy

     —must give

for no return

     as thought

is given

     in solitude

in all the excellence

     of its excess.

The warm bodies

     shine together

in the darkness,

     the hand moves

to the center

     of the flesh,

the skin trembles

     in happiness

and the soul comes

     joyful to the eye—

yes, yes,

     that’s what

I wanted,

     I always wanted,

I always wanted,

     to return

to the body

     where I was born.

San Jose, 1954

In back of the real

railroad yard in San Jose

     I wandered desolate

in front of a tank factory

     and sat on a bench

near the switchman’s shack.

A flower lay on the hay on

     the asphalt highway

—the dread hay flower

     I thought—It had a

brittle black stem and

     corolla of yellowish dirty

spikes like Jesus’ inchlong

     crown, and a soiled

dry center cotton tuft

     like a used shaving brush

that’s been lying under

     the garage for a year.