Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 8

Incarnate in the rain as in the sea,

Watches after us out of our eyes.

What a sweet dream! to be some incorruptible

Divinity, corporeal without a name,

Suffering metamorphosis of flesh.

Holy are the Visions of the soul

The visible mind seeks out for marriage,

As if the sleeping heart, agaze, in darkness,

Would dream her passions out as in the Heavens.

In flesh and flesh, imperfect spirits join

Vision upon vision, image upon image,

All physical and perishing, till spirit

Driven mad by Time, a ghost still haunted

By his mortal house, goes from the tomb

And drops his body back into the dirt.

I fear it till my soul remembers Heaven.

My name is Angel and my eyes are Fire!

O wonder, and more than wonder, in the world!

Now I have built my Love a sepulchre

Of whitened thoughts, and sat a year in ash,

Grieving for the lost entempled dead,

And Him who appeared to these dead eyes,

And Him my wakened beating mind remembered,

And Love that moved in substance clear as bone,

With beautiful music, at the fatal moment,

And clock stopped by its own, or hidden, hand.

These are the hollow echoes of His word.

Ah, but to have seen the Dove of still

Divinity come down in silken light of summer sun

In ignorance of the body and bone’s madness.

Light falls and I fail! My youth is ending,

All my youth, and Death and Beauty cry

Like horns and motors from a ship afar,

Half heard, an echo in the sea beneath,

And Death and Beauty beckon in the dawn,

A presage of the world of whitening shadows

As another pale memorial.

Ah! but to have seen the Dove, and then go blind.

I will grow old a grey and groaning man,

Hour after hour, with each hour a thought,

And with each thought the same denial. Am I to spend

My life in praise of the idea of God?

Time leaves no hope, and leaves us none of love;

We creep and wait, we wait and go alone.

When will the heart be weary of its own

Indignity? Or Time endured destroy

The last such thoughts as these, the thoughts of Dove?

Must ravenous reason not be self-consumed?

Our souls are purified of Time by Time,

And ignorance consumes itself like flesh.

Bigger and bigger gates, Thou givest, Lord,

And vaster deaths, and deaths not by my hand,

Till, in each season, as the garden dies,

I die with each, until I die no more

Time’s many deaths, and pass toward the last gates,

Till come, pure light, at last to pass through pearl.

Take me to thy mansion, for I house

In clay, in a sad dolor out of joy.

Behold thy myth incarnate in my flesh

Now made incarnate in Thy Psalm, O Lord.

New York, March 1949

Fie My Fum

Pull my daisy,

Tip my cup,

Cut my thoughts

For coconuts,

Bone my shadow,

Dove my soul,

Set a halo

On my skull,

Ark my darkness,

Rack my lacks,

Bleak my lurking,

Lark my looks,

Start my Arden,

Gate my shades,

Silk my garden,

Rose my days,

Whore my door,

Stone my dream,

Milk my mind

And make me cream,

Say my oops,

Ope my shell,

Roll my bones,

Ring my bell,

Pope my parts,

Pop my pot,

Poke my pap,

Pit my plum.

New York, Spring 1949

Pull My Daisy

Pull my daisy

tip my cup

all my doors are open

Cut my thoughts

for coconuts

all my eggs are broken

Jack my Arden

gate my shades

woe my road is spoken

Silk my garden

rose my days

now my prayers awaken

Bone my shadow

dove my dream

start my halo bleeding

Milk my mind &

make me cream

drink me when you’re ready

Hop my heart on

harp my height

seraphs hold me steady

Hip my angel

hype my light

lay it on the needy

Heal the raindrop