Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 145

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                    Waiting for the exquisite mycologist’s visit.

Winter’s coming, build a rough wood crib

                    & fill it with horse dung, hot horse dung,

                              all round the house sides.

Bucolics & Eclogues!

                    Hesiod the beginning of the World,

                              Virgil the end of his World—

          & Catullus sucked cock in the country

                         far from the Emperor’s police.

Empire got too big, cities too crazy, garbage-filled Rome

                    full of drunken soldiers, fat politicians,

                                        circus businessmen—

          Safer, healthier life on a farm, make yr own wine

                              in Italy, smoke yr own grass in America.

Pond’s down two feet from drainpipe’s rusty top—

Timothy turned brown, covered with new spread manure

                    sweet-smelt in strong breeze,

                              it’ll be covered in snow couple months.

               & Leary covered in snow in San Luis Obispo jail?

               His mind snowflakes falling over the States.

Did Don Winslow the mason come look at the basement

               So we can insulate a snug root cellar

                    for potatoes, beets, carrots,

               radishes, parsnips, glass jars of corn & beans

Did the mortician come & look us over for next Winter?

Black flies walking up and down the metal screen,

                                             fly’s leg tickling my forehead—

                                        “I’ll play a fly’s bone flute

                                        & beat an ant’s egg drum”

                                             sang the Quechua Injun

                                             high on Huilca snuff, Medieval

                                             Peruvian DMT.

Phil Whalen in Japan

                              stirring rice, eyes in the garden,

                                             fine pen nib lain by notebook.

Jack in Lowell farming worms, master of his

                                   minuscule deep acre.

Neal’s ashes sitting under a table piled with

                              books, in an oak drawer,

                                             sunlight thru suburb windows.

O wind! spin the generator wheel, make Power Juice

To run the New Exquisite Noise Recorder, & I’ll sing

                         praise of your tree music.

Squash leaves wave & ragweeds lean, black tarpaulin

                    plastic flutters over the bass-wood lumber pile

               Hamilton Fish’s Congressional letter

                         reports “Stiffer laws against peddling smut”

                    flapping in dusty spiderwebs by the windowscreen.

What’s the Ammeter read by the Windmill? Will

                    we record Highest Perfect Wisdom all day tomorrow,

                                   or Blake’s Schoolboy uninterrupted next week?

Fine rain-slant showering the gray porch

                    Returnable Ginger Ale Bottles

                              on the wood rail, white paint flaked

                                        off into orange flowered

                                             blossoms

Out in the garden, rain

                    all over the grass, leaves, roofs,

                                   rain on the laundry.

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Night winds hiss thru maple black masses

Gas light shine from

                         farmhouse window upstairs

               empty kitchen wind

Cassiopeia zigzag

                              Milky Way thru cloud

                                             September 4

The baby pig screamed and screamed

                              four feet rigid on grass

                              screamed and screamed

                                             Oh No! Oh No!

                    jaw dripping blood

                                             broken by the horse’s hoof.

Slept in straw all afternoon, eyes closed,

                                        snout at rest between paws—

                              ate hog mash liquid—two weeks

                                             and his skull be healed

                                        said the Vet in overalls.

That bedraggled duck’s sat under the door

                    June to Labor Day, three hatched

                                   yellow chicks’ dry fur bones found

                                             by the garage side—

                    two no-good eggs left, nights chillier—

                                   Next week, move her nest

                                             to the noisy chickenhouse.

We buried lady dog by the apple tree—

                    spotted puppy daughter Radha

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