Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗
Dead glimpses of apocalypse:
The child pissing off the rock,
Or woman withered in the lips,
Contemplate the unseen Cock
That crows all beasts to ecstasy;
And so the Saints beyond the clock
Cry to men their dead eyes see.
Come, incomparable crown,
Love my love is lost to claim,
O hollow fame that makes me groan;
We are a king without a name:
Regain thine angel’s lost renown,
As, in the mind’s forgotten meadow,
Where brightest shades sleep under stone,
Man runs after his own shadow.
New York, March 1949
After All, What Else Is There to Say?
When I sit before a paper
writing my mind turns
in a kind of feminine
madness of chatter;
but to think to see, outside,
in a tenement the walls
of the universe itself
I wait: wait till the sky
appears as it is,
wait for a moment when
the poem itself
is my way of speaking out, not
declaiming of celebrating, yet,
but telling the truth.
New York, Early 1949
Sometime Jailhouse Blues
Sometime I’ll lay down my wrath,
As I lay my body down
Between the ache of breath and breath,
Golden slumber in the bone.
Thought’s a stone, though sweet or sorry,
Run-down from an uphill climb:
Money, money, work and worry,
And all the aimless toil of Time.
Sometime I look up in light
And see the weary sun go West;
Sometime I see the moon at night
Go hidden in her cloudy rest.
Sometime tears of death will blind
All that was worldly, wise or fair,
And visioned by the death of mind
My ghost will wander in the air,
And gaze upon a ghostly face,
Not knowing what was fair or lost,
Remembering not what flesh lay waste,
Or made him kind as ghost to ghost.
Brooklyn, April 24, 1949
Please Open the Window and Let Me In
Who is the shroudy stranger of the night,
Whose brow is mouldering green, whose reddened eye
Hides near the window trellis in dim light,
And gapes at old men, and makes children cry?
Who is the laughing walker of the street,
The alley mummy, stinking of the bone,
To dance unfixed, though bound in shadow feet,
Behind the child that creeps on legs of stone?
Who is the hungry mocker of the maze,
And haggard gate-ghost, hanging by the door,
The double mummer in whose hooded gaze
World has beckoned unto world once more?
Paterson, May 1949
Tonite all is well… What a
terrible future. I am twenty-three,
year of the iron birthday,
gate of darkness. I am ill,
I have become physically and
spiritually impotent in my madness this month.
I suddenly realized that my head
is severed from my body;
I realized it a few nights ago
by myself,
lying sleepless on the couch.
Paterson, Summer 1949
Fyodor
The death’s head of realism
and superhuman iron mask
that gapes out of The Possessed,
sometimes: Dostoievski.
My original version of D.
before I read him, as the dark
haunted-house man, wild, aged,
spectral Russian. I call him
Dusty now but he is
Dostoyevsky What premonitions
I had as a child.
Paterson, June 1949
Epigram on a Painting of Golgotha
On a bare tree in a hollow place,
A blinded form’s unhaloed face;
Sight, where Heaven is destroyed,
The hanging visage of the void.
New York, Summer 1949
“The road to a true philosophy of life seems to lie in humbly recording diverse readings of its phenomena.”
—Thos. Hardy
I attempted to concentrate
the total sun’s rays in
each poem as through a glass,
but such magnification
did not set the page afire.
New York, Summer 1949
Metaphysics
This is the one and only
firmament; therefore
it is the absolute world.
There is no other world.
The circle is complete.
I am living in Eternity.
The ways of this world
are the ways of Heaven.
New York, Mid-1949
In Death, Cannot Reach What Is Most Near
We know all about death that