Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 82
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Where shall I seek Law? in the State
in offices of telepath bureaucracy—?
in my dis-ease, my trembling, my cry
—ecstatic song to myself
to my police my law my state my
many selfs—
Aye, Self is Law and State Police
Kennedy struck down knew him Self
Oswald, Ruby ourselves
Till we know our desires Blest
with babe issue,
Resolve, accept
this self flesh we bear
in underwear, Bathrobe, smoking cigarette
up all night—brooding, solitary, set
alone, tremorous leg & arm—
approaching the joy of Alones
Racked by that, arm laid to rest,
head back wide-eyed
Morning, my song to Who listens, to
myself as I am
To my fellows in this shape that building
Brooklyn Bridge or Albany name—
Salute to the self-gods on
Pennsylvania Avenue!
May they have mercy on us all,
May be just men not murderers
Nor the State murder more,
That all beggars be fed, all
dying medicined, all loveless
Tomorrow be loved
well come & be balm.
March 16, 1964
II
On the roof cloudy sky fading sun rays
electric torches atop—
auto horns—The towers
with time-hands giant pointing
late Dusk hour over
clanky roofs
Tenement streets’ brick sagging cornices
baby white kite fluttering against giant
insect face-gill Electric Mill
smokestacked blue & fumes drift up
Red messages, shining high floors,
Empire State dotted with tiny windows
lit, across the blocks
of spire, steeple, golden topped utility
building roofs—far like
pyramids lit in jagged
desert rocks—
The giant the giant city awake
in the first warm breath of springtime
Waking voices, babble of Spanish
street families, radio music
floating under roofs, longhaired
announcer sincerity squawking
cigar voice
Light zips up phallos stories
beneath red antennae needling
thru rooftop chimneys’ smog
black drift thru the blue air—
Bridges curtained by uplit apartment walls,
one small tower with a light
on its shoulder below the “moody, water-loving giants”
The giant stacks burn thick gray
smoke, Chrysler is lit with green,
down Wall street islands of skyscraper
black jagged in Sabbath quietness—
Oh fathers, how I am alone in this
vast human wilderness
Houses uplifted like hives off
the stone floor of the world—
the city too vast to know, too
myriad windowed to govern
from ancient halls—
“O edifice of gas!”—Sun shafts
descend on the highest building’s
striped blocktop a red light
winks buses hiss & rush
grinding, green lights
of north bridges,
hum roar & Tarzan
squeal, whistle
swoops, hurrahs!
Is someone dying in all this stone building?
Child poking its black head out of the womb
like the pupil of an eye?
Am I not breathing here frightened
and amazed—?
Where is my comfort, where’s heart-ease,
Where are tears of joy?
Where are the companions? in
deep homes in Stuyvesant Town
behind the yellow-window wall?
I fail, book fails—a lassitude,
a fear—tho I’m alive
and gaze over the descending—No!
peer in the inky beauty of the roofs.
April 18, 1964
After Yeats
Now incense fills the air
and delight follows delight,
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