Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 71
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because he walked on the steely bank & prayed
to a Goddess in the river, that he only invented,
another Ganga-Ma. Riding on the old
rusty Holland submarine on the ground floor
Paterson Museum instead of a celestial crocodile.
Mourn O Ye Angels of the Left Wing! that the poet
of the streets is a skeleton under the pavement now
and there’s no other old soul so kind and meek
and feminine jawed and him-eyed can see you
What you wanted to be among the bastards out there.
Benares, March 20, 1963
Vulture Peak: Gridhakuta Hill
I’ve got to get out of the sun
mouth dry and red towel wrapped
round my head
walking up crying singing ah sunflower
Where the traveler’s journey
closed my eyes is done in the
black hole there
sweet rest far far away
up the stone climb past where
Bimbisara left his armies
got down off his elephant
and walked up to meet
Napoleon Buddha pacing
back and forth on the platform
of red brick on the jut rock crag
Staring out Lidded-eyed beneath
the burning white sunlight
down on Rajgir kingdom below
ants wheels within wheels of empire
houses carts streets messengers
wells and water flowing
into past-future simultaneous
kingdoms here gone on Jupiter
distant X-ray twinkle of the eye
myriad brick cities on earth and under
New York Chicago Palenque Jerusalem
Delphos Macchu Picchu Acco
Herculaneum Rajagriha
here all windy with the tweetle
of birds and blue rocks
leaning into the blue sky—
Vulture Peak desolate bricks
flies on the knee hot shadows
raven-screech and wind blast
over the hills from desert plains
south toward Bodh Gaya—
All the noise I made with my mouth
singing on the path up, Gary
Thinking all the pale youths and
virgins shrouded with snow
chanting Om Shantih all over the world
and who but Peter du Peru
walking the streets of San Francisco
arrived in my mind on Vulture Peak
Then turned round and around on my heels
singing and plucking out my eyes
ears tongue nose and balls as I whirled
longer and longer the mountains stretched
swiftly flying in circles
the hills undulating and roads speeding
around me in the valley
Till when I stopped the earth
moved in my eyeballs
green bulge slowly
and stopped
*
My thirst in my cheeks and tongue
back throat drives me home.
Benares, April 18, 1963
Patna-Benares Express
Whatever it may be whoever it may be
The bloody man all singing all just
However he die
He rode on railroad cars
He woke at dawn, in the white light of a new universe
He couldn’t do any different
He the skeleton with eyes
raised himself up from a wooden bench
felt different looking at the fields and palm trees
no money in the bank of dust
no nation but inexpressible gray clouds before sunrise
lost his identity cards in his wallet
in the bald rickshaw by the Maidan in dry Patna
Later stared hopeless waking from drunken sleep
dry mouthed in the RR Station
among sleeping shoeshine men in loincloth on the dirty concrete
Too many bodies thronging these cities now
Benares, May 1963
Last Night in Calcutta
Still night. The old clock Ticks,
half past two. A ringing of crickets
awake in the ceiling. The gate is locked
on the street outside—sleepers, mustaches,
nakedness, but no desire. A few mosquitoes
waken the itch, the fan turns slowly—
a car thunders along the black asphalt,
a bull snorts, something is expected—
Time sits solid in the four yellow walls.
No one is here, emptiness filled with train
whistles & dog barks, answered a block away.
Pushkin sits on the bookshelf, Shakespeare’s
complete works as well as Blake’s unread—
O Spirit of Poetry, no use calling on you
babbling in this emptiness furnished with beds
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