Allen Ginsberg – Please Master, wiersz klasyka na Wywrocie. ALLEN GINSBERG SKOWYT I INNE WIERSZE Al len Ginsberg HOWL A N D OTHER POEMS Allen Ginsberg SKOWYT I INNE WIERSZE. ) pp. Translation: [Plutonian Ode (excerpt)] POLISH Books: H Ginsberg, Allen. Skowyt I Inne Wiersze. Bydgoszcz, Poland: Pomorze,
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See, he answers nicely allen he’s spoken to. Moloch whose fac tor ies d ream and c roak in the fog! Everything glittered like blank paper.
For that pale breast and lingering hand Come from a more dream-heavy land, A more dream-heavy hour than this; And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew. IV A s w a r m of baggage s i t t ing by the counter as the t r anscont inenta l bus pulls in. 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.
The stream flows down under the druid tree, Shiloah’s whirlpools gurgle and make glad The castle of God. A r e you going to let your emot ional life be run by T ime Magazine? Now he turns up f i fteen or twen ty years l a te r w i th an a r res t ing poem.
Grey silent fragments Of a grey silent world. Harvarda, Columbii i Nowojorskim. Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their schooling by, What can they know that we know that know the time to die?
That girls at puberty may find The first Adam in their thought, Shut the door of the Pope’s chapel, Keep those children out. The fire makes it precious, The same fire Melting the tallow heretics, Ousting the Jews.
So many of us! Children Were wierszee where combers broke and the spindrift Raveled wind-ripped from the crest of the wave.
He found a mangled leather by the lake, Lost in the destructive sand this year Like feathery independence, hope. Light Flashed from his matted head and marble feet, He grappled at the net With the coiled, hurdling muscles of his thighs: Can honey distill such fragrance as your bright hair– for your face is as fair as rain, yet as rain that lies clear on white honey-comb, lends radiance to the white wax, so your hair on your brow casts light for a shadow.
Holy t ime in etern i ty holy etern i ty in t ime holy the clocks in space holy the four th dimension holy the f i f th In te rnat iona l holy the Angel in Moloch! O slow Horse the colour of rust, Hooves, dolorous bells – All morning the Morning has been blackening, A flower left out. It is the belief in the a r t of poetry tha t has gone hand in hand w i th this man into his Go lgothaf rom tha t charne l house, s im i la r in every w a yto tha t of the Jews in the past w a r.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules? But that wasn’t fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them, With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiers to people they say Oh yes, they’re the ones that a lot of wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them. Say w h a t you wi l lhe proves to us, in spite of the most debasing exper iences tha t life can offer a manthe sp i r i t of love survives to ennoble our lives if we have the w i t and the courage and the fa i th and the a r t!
It is more natural to me, lying down. Certain Ming products, imperial floor coverings of coach— wheel yellow, are well enough in their way but I have seen something that I like better—a mere childish attempt to make an imperfectly ballasted animal stand up similar determination to make a pup eat his meat from the plate.
The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease. Moloch in whom I am a consciousness w i thout a body!
The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. All night I’ve held your hand, as if you had a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad – its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye – and dragged me home alive. So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunf lower and stuck it a t my side l ike a scepterand del iver my sermon to my soul gnisberg, and Jack ‘ s soul too, and anyone who ‘ l l l isten, W e ‘ r e not our skin of g r imew e ‘ r e not our dread bleak dusty image-less locomot ivew e ‘ r e all beautiful golden sunf lowers ins ide, we ‘ re blessed by our own.
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze. Grey birds obsess my heart, Mouth-ash, ash of eye. None of these will bring disaster. Her son’s a bishop. There are fumes that I cannot touch.
These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods. Once you, a woman, came To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be You love not me? Sea-gulls blink their heavy lids Seaward. There is no sophistry in my body: In the u ash-pit of Jehoshaphat The bones cry for the blood of the white whale, The fat flukes arch and whack about its ears, The death-lance churns into the iwersze, tears The gun-blue swingle, heaving like a flail, And hacks the coiling life out: And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx — beautiful under networks of foam, and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed; the birds swim throught the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore — the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath skwoyt and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bell-buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink — in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.
The bum’s as holy as the se raph im! Moloch whose eyes a re a thousand blind w i n d o w s! These Flemish lovers flourish;not for long. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. Cloudrack and owl-hollowed willows slanting over The bland Granta double their white and green World under the sheer water And ride that flux at anchor, upside down.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each. So Willy climbed up with us, but the crow gave a “Caw! Snake and bird Doze behind the old maskss of fury. The kitchen w indow is open, to admi t a i r.