Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 84

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Trying to remember what happened while it’s still happening—

I wrote a “poem,” I scribbled quotation marks everywhere over Fate passing by

Sometimes I felt noble, sometimes I felt ugly, I spoke to man and woman

from Times & Time, summarized hugely—plots, cinematic glories, I boasted a little, subtly—

Was I seen thru? Too much happened to see thru All—

I was never alone except for two blocks by the park, nor was I unhappy—

I blessed my Guru, I felt like a shyster—told Ed how much I liked being made love to by delicate girl hands—

It’s true, more girls should do that to us, we chalked up another mark what’s wrong

and told everybody to register to vote this November—I stopped on the street and shook hands—

I took a crap once this day—How extraordinary it all goes! recollected, a lifetime!

Imagine writing autobiography what a wealth of Detail to enlist!

I see the contents of future magazines—just a peek Today being hurried—

Today is slowly ending—I will step back into it and disappear.

New York, July 21, 1964

Message II

     Long since the years

     letters songs Mantras

     eyes apartments bellies

     kissed and gray bridges

     walked across in mist

     Now your brother’s Welfare’s

     paid by State now Lafcadio’s

     home with Mama, now you’re

     in NY beds with big poetic

     girls & go picket on the street

I clang my finger-cymbals in Havana, I lie

with teenage boys afraid of the red police,

I jack off in Cuban modern bathrooms, I ascend

over blue oceans in a jet plane, the mist hides

the black synagogue, I will look for the Golem,

I hide under the clock near my hotel, it’s intermission

for Tales of Hoffmann, nostalgia for the 19th century

rides through my heart like the music of The Moldau,

I’m still alone with long black beard and shining eyes

walking down black smoky tramcar streets at night

past royal muscular statues on an old stone bridge,

Over the river again today in Breughel’s wintry city,

the snow is white on all the rooftops of Prague,

Salute beloved comrade I’ll send you my tears from Moscow.

March 1965

Big Beat

The Olympics have descended into

          red velvet basement

          theaters of Centrum

long long hair over skeleton boys

thin black ties, pale handsome

          cheeks—and screams and screams,

Orchestra mob ecstasy rising from

     this new generation of buttocks and eyes

               and tender nipples

Because the body moves again, the

        body dances again, the body

          sings again

     the body screams new-born after

War, infants cursed with secret cold

        jail deaths of the Fifties—Now

     girls with new breasts and striplings

     wearing soft golden puberty hair—

1000 voices scream five minutes long

clapping thousand handed in great ancient measure

saluting the Meat God of XX Century

that moves thru the theater like the

     secret rhythm of the belly in

               Orgasm

Kalki! Apocalypse Christ! Maitreya! grim

     Chronos weeps

            tired into the saxophone,

The Earth is Saved! Next number!

     SHE’S A WOMAN

               Electric guitar red bells!

and Ganymede emerges stomping

          his feet for Joy on the stage

     and bows to the ground, and weeping, GIVES.

Oh the power of the God on his throne

          constantly surrounded by white drums

     right hand Sceptered beating brass cymbals!

Prague, March 11, 1965

Cafe in Warsaw

These spectres resting on plastic stools

leather-gloved spectres flitting thru the coffeehouse one hour

spectre girls with scarred faces, black stockings thin eyebrows

spectre boys blond hair combed neat over the skull little chin beards

new spectres talking intensely crowded together over black shiny tables late afternoon

the sad soprano of history chanting thru a hi-fidelity loudspeaker

—perspective walls & windows 18th century down New World Avenue to Sigmund III column’d

sword upraised watching over Polish youth 3 centuries—

O Polish spectres what’ve you suffered since Chopin wept into his romantic piano

old buildings rubbled down, gaiety of all night parties under the air bombs,

first screams of the vanishing ghetto—Workmen step thru prewar pink-blue bedroom walls demolishing sunny ruins—

Now spectres gather to kiss hands, girls kiss lip to lip, red witch-hair from Paris

& fine gold watches—to sit by the yellow wall with a large brown briefcase—

to smoke three cigarettes with thin black ties and nod heads over a new movie—

Spectres Christ and your bodies be with you for this hour while you’re young

in postwar heaven stained with the sweat of Communism, your loves and your white smooth cheekskin soft in the glance of each other’s eye.

O spectres how beautiful your calm shaven faces, your pale lipstick scarves, your delicate heels,

how beautiful your absent gaze, legs crossed alone at table with long eyelashes,

how beautiful your patient love together sitting reading the art journals—

how beautiful your entrance thru the velvet-curtained door, laughing into the overcrowded room,

how you wait in your hats, measure the faces, and turn and depart for an hour,

or meditate at the bar, waiting for the slow waitress to prepare red hot tea, minute by minute

standing still as hours ring in churchbells, as years pass and you will remain in Novy Swiat,

how beautiful you press your lips together, sigh forth smoke from your mouth, rub your hands

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