Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 85

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or lean together laughing to notice this wild haired madman who sits weeping among you a stranger.

April 10, 1965

The Moments Return

a thousand sunsets behind tramcar wires in open skies of Warsaw Palace of Culture chinese peaks blacken against the orange-clouded horizon—

an iron trolley rolling insect antennae sparks blue overhead, hat man limping past rusty apartment walls—

Christ under white satin gleam in chapels—trembling fingers on the long rosary—awaiting resurrection

Old red fat Jack mortal in Florida—tears in black eyelash, Bach’s farewell to the Cross—

That was 24 years ago on a scratchy phonograph Sebastian Sampas bid adieu to earth—

I stopped on the pavement to remember the Warsaw Concerto, hollow sad pianos crashing like bombs, celestial tune

in a kitchen in Ozone Park—It all came true in the sunset on a deserted street—

And I have nothing to do this evening but walk in a fur coat on the cool gray avenue years later, a melancholy man alone—

the music fading to another universe—the moments return—reverberations of taxicabs arriving at a park bench—

My beard is misery, no language to these young eyes—that I remember myself naked in my earliest dream—

now sat by the car-crossing rueful of the bald front of my skull and the gray sign of time in my beard—

headache or dancing exhaustion or dysentery in Moscow or vomit in New York—

Oh—the Metropol Hotel is built—crowds waiting on traffic islands under streetlamp—the cry of tramcars on Jerusalemski—

Roof towers flash Red State—the vast stone avenue hung with yellow bulbs —stop lights blink, long trolleys grind to rest, motorcycles pass exploding—

The poem returns to the moment, my vow to record—my cold fingers—& must sit and wait for my own lone Presence—the first psalm—

I also return to myself, the moment and I are one man on a park bench on a crowded streetcorner in Warsaw—

I breathe and sigh—Give up desire for children the bony-faced white bearded Guru said in Benares—am I ready to die?

or a voice at my side on the bench, a gentle question—worn young man’s face under pearl gray hat—

Alas, all I can say is “No Panamay”—I can’t speak.

Easter Sunday, April 18, 1965

Kral Majales

And the Communists have nothing to offer but fat cheeks and eyeglasses and lying policemen

and the Capitalists proffer Napalm and money in green suitcases to the Naked,

and the Communists create heavy industry but the heart is also heavy

and the beautiful engineers are all dead, the secret technicians conspire for their own glamour

in the Future, in the Future, but now drink vodka and lament the Security Forces,

and the Capitalists drink gin and whiskey on airplanes but let Indian brown millions starve

and when Communist and Capitalist assholes tangle the Just man is arrested or robbed or had his head cut off,

but not like Kabir, and the cigarette cough of the Just man above the clouds

in the bright sunshine is a salute to the health of the blue sky.

For I was arrested thrice in Prague, once for singing drunk on Narodni street,

once knocked down on the midnight pavement by a mustached agent who screamed out BOUZERANT,

once for losing my notebooks of unusual sex politics dream opinions,

and I was sent from Havana by plane by detectives in green uniform,

and I was sent from Prague by plane by detectives in Czechoslovakian business suits,

Cardplayers out of Cezanne, the two strange dolls that entered Joseph K’s room at morn

also entered mine, and ate at my table, and examined my scribbles,

and followed me night and morn from the houses of lovers to the cafes of Centrum—

And I am the King of May, which is the power of sexual youth,

and I am the King of May, which is industry in eloquence and action in amour,

and I am the King of May, which is long hair of Adam and the Beard of my own body

and I am the King of May, which is Kral Majales in the Czechoslovakian tongue,

and I am the King of May, which is old Human poesy, and 100,000 people chose my name,

and I am the King of May, and in a few minutes I will land at London Airport,

and I am the King of May, naturally, for I am of Slavic parentage and a Buddhist Jew

who worships the Sacred Heart of Christ the blue body of Krishna the straight back of Ram

the beads of Chango the Nigerian singing Shiva Shiva in a manner which I have invented,

and the King of May is a middleeuropean honor, mine in the XX century

despite space ships and the Time Machine, because I heard the voice of Blake in a vision,

and repeat that voice. And I am King of May that sleeps with teenagers laughing.

And I am the King of May, that I may be expelled from my Kingdom with Honor, as of old,

To show the difference between Caesar’s Kingdom and the Kingdom of the May of Man—

and I am the King of May, tho’ paranoid, for the Kingdom of May is too beautiful to last for more than a month—

and I am the King of May because I touched my finger to my forehead saluting

a luminous heavy girl trembling hands who said “one moment Mr. Ginsberg”

before a fat young Plainclothesman stepped between our bodies—I was going to England—

and I am the King of May, returning to see Bunhill Fields and walk on Hampstead Heath,

and I am the King of May, in a giant jetplane touching Albion’s airfield trembling in fear

as the plane roars to a landing on the gray concrete, shakes & expels air,

and rolls slowly to a stop under the clouds with part of blue heaven still visible.

And tho I am the King of May, the Marxists have beat me upon the street, kept me up all night in Police Station, followed me thru Springtime Prague, detained me in secret and deported me from our kingdom by airplane.

Thus I have written this poem on a jet seat in mid Heaven.

May 7, 1965

Guru

It is the moon that disappears

It is the stars that hide not I

It’s the City that vanishes, I stay

with my forgotten shoes,

my invisible stocking

It is the call of a bell

Primrose Hill, May 1965

Drowse Murmurs

… touch of vocal flattery

exists where you wake us

at dawn with happy sphinx

lids eyeball heavy anchored

together in mysterious Signature,

this is the end of the world

whether Atom bomb hits

it or I fall down death

alone no body help help

It’s me myself caught in throes

of Ugh! They got me whom you lately loved

of soft cloth beds to stick his cock

in the wrong way lost animal, what wd Zoology

say on Park Bench watching the Spectacle

of this time Me it’s my body going to die,

it’s My ship sinking forever, O Captain

the fearful trip is done! I’m all alone,

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