Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 70
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O mother with eyes of delightful movies enter at last into amorous play united with all Presidents of US.
Bombay, 1962
To P.O.
The whitewashed room, roof
of a third-rate Mohammedan hotel,
two beds, blurred fan
whirling over yr brown guitar,
knapsack open on floor, towel
hanging from chair, Orange Crush,
brown paper manuscript packages,
Tibetan tankas, Gandhi pajamas,
Ramakrishna Gospel, bright umbrella
a mess on a rickety wooden stand,
the yellow wall-bulb lights up
this scene Calcutta for the thirtieth night—
Come in the green door, long Western gold
hair plastered down your shoulders
from shower: “Did we take our pills
this week for malaria?” Happy birthday
dear Peter, your 29th year.
Calcutta, July 8, 1962
Heat
Forty feet long sixty feet high hotel
Covered with old gray for buzzing flies
Eye like mango flowing orange pus
Ears Durga people vomiting in their sleep
Got huge legs a dozen buses move inside Calcutta
Swallowing mouthfuls of dead rats
Mangy dogs bark out of a thousand breasts
Garbage pouring from its ass behind alleys
Always pissing yellow Hooghly water
Bellybutton melted Chinatown brown puddles
Coughing lungs Sound going down the sewer
Nose smell a big gray Bidi
Heart bumping and crashing over tramcar tracks
Covered with a hat of cloudy iron
Suffering water buffalo head lowered
To pull the huge cart of year uphill
Calcutta, July 21, 1962
Describe: The Rain on Dasaswamedh Ghat
Kali Ma tottering up steps to shelter tin roof, feeling her way to curb, around bicycle & leper seated on her way—to piss on a broom
left by the Stone Cutters who last night were shaking the street with Boom! of Stone blocks unloaded from truck
Forcing the blindman in his gray rags to retreat from his spot in the middle of the road where he sleeps & shakes under his blanket
Jai Ram all night telling his beads or sex on a burlap carpet
Past which cows donkeys dogs camels elephants marriage processions drummers tourists lepers and bathing devotees
step to the whine of serpent-pipes & roar of car motors around his black ears—
Today on a balcony in shorts leaning on iron rail I watched the leper who sat hidden behind a bicycle
emerge dragging his buttocks on the gray rainy ground by the glove-bandaged stumps of hands,
one foot chopped off below knee, round stump-knob wrapped with black rubber
pushing a tin can shiny size of his head with left hand (from which only a thumb emerged from leprous swathings)
beside him, lifting it with both ragbound palms down the curb into the puddled road,
balancing his body down next to the can & crawling forward on his behind
trailing a heavy rag for seat, and leaving a path thru the street wavering
like the Snail’s slime track—imprint of his crawl on the muddy asphalt market entrance—stopping
to drag his can along stubbornly konking on the paved surface near the water pump—
Where a turban’d workman stared at him moving along—his back humped with rags—
and inquired why didn’t he put his can to wash in the pump altarplace—and why go that way when free rice
Came from the alley back there by the river—As the leper looked up & rested, conversing curiously, can by his side approaching a puddle.
Kali had pissed standing up & then felt her way back to the Shop Steps on thin brown legs
her hands in the air—feeling with feet for her rag pile on the stone steps’ wetness—
as a cow busied its mouth chewing her rags left wet on the ground for five minutes digesting
Till the comb-&-hair-oil-booth keeper woke & chased her away with a stick
Because a dog barked at a madman with dirty wild black hair who rag round his midriff & water pot in hand
Stopped in midstreet turned round & gazed up at the balconies, windows, shops and city stagery filled with glum activity
Shrugged & said Jai Shankar! to the imaginary audience of Me’s,
While a white robed Baul Singer carrying his one stringed dried pumpkin Guitar
Sat down near the cigarette stand and surveyed his new scene, just arrived in the Holy City of Benares.
Benares, February 1963
Death News
Visit to W.C. W. circa 1957, poets Kerouac Corso Orlovsky on sofa in living room inquired wise words, stricken Williams pointed thru window curtained on Main Street: “There’s a lot of bastards out there!”
Walking at night on asphalt campus
road by the German Instructor with Glasses
W. C. Williams is dead he said in accent
under the trees in Benares; I stopped and asked
Williams is Dead? Enthusiastic and wide-eyed
under the Big Dipper. Stood on the Porch
of the International House Annex bungalow
insects buzzing round the electric light
reading the Medical obituary in Time.
“out among the sparrows behind the shutters”
Williams is in the Big Dipper. He isn’t dead
as the many pages of words arranged thrill
with his intonations the mouths of meek kids
becoming subtle even in Bengal. Thus
there’s a life moving out of his pages; Blake
also “alive” thru his experienced machines.
Were his last words anything Black out there
in the carpeted bedroom of the gabled wood house
in Rutherford? Wonder what he said,
or was there anything left in realms of speech
after the stroke & brain-thrill doom entered
his thoughts? If I pray to his soul in Bardo Thodol
he may hear the unexpected vibration of foreign mercy.
Quietly unknown for three weeks; now I saw Passaic
and Ganges one, consenting his devotion,
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