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Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 71


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71

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

71

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