Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗
or go? I wouldn’t
give you a nickel,
you aren’t much of a doll
anyway. And he
picks up his pride
and puts on his pants
—glad enough
to have pants to wear—
and goes.
Why is it that versions
of this lack
of communication are
universal?
New York, Late 1950
A Typical Affair
Living in an apartment with a gelded cat
I found a maiden—and left her there.
I seek a better bargain; and that aunt,
that aunt of hers was an awful nuisance.
Seriously, between us, I think I did right
in all things by her. And I’ll see her again,
and we’ll become friendly (not lovers) because
I have to work with her in the shoestore.
She knows, too. And it will be interesting
tomorrow to see how she acts. If she’s
friendly (or even loving) I will resist:
albeit so politely she’ll think she has
been complimented. And one night
drunk maybe we’ll have a ball.
Paterson, December 1950
A Poem on America
America is like Russia.
Acis and Galatea sit by the lake.
We have the proletariat too.
Acis and Galatea sit by the lake.
Versilov wore a hair shirt
and dreamed of classical pictures.
The alleys, the dye works,
Mill Street in the smoke,
melancholy of the bars,
the sadness of long highways,
negroes climbing around
the rusted iron by the river,
the bathing pool hidden
behind the silk factory
fed by its drainage pipes;
all the pictures we carry in our mind
images of the thirties,
depression and class consciousness
transfigured above politics
filled with fire
with the appearance of God.
Early 1951
After Dead Souls
Where O America are you
going in your glorious
automobile, careening
down the highway
toward what crash
in the deep canyon
of the Western Rockies,
or racing the sunset
over Golden Gate
toward what wild city
jumping with jazz
on the Pacific Ocean!
Spring 1951
Marijuana Notation
How sick I am!
that thought
always comes to me
with horror.
Is it this strange
for everybody?
But such fugitive feelings
have always been
my metier.
Baudelaire—yet he had
great joyful moments
staring into space,
looking into the
middle distance,
contemplating his image
in Eternity.
They were his moments
of identity.
It is solitude that
produces these thoughts.
It is December
almost, they are singing
Christmas carols
in front of the department
stores down the block on
Fourteenth Street.
New York, November 1951
Gregory Corso’s Story
The first time I went
to the country to New Hampshire
when I was about eight
there was a girl
I always used to paddle with a plywood stick.
We were in love,
so the last night there
we undressed in the moonlight
and showed each other our bodies,
then we ran singing back to the house.
December 10, 1951
I Have Increased Power
over knowledge of death.
(See also Hemingway’s
preoccupation.) My
dreamworld and realworld
become more and more
distinct and apart.
I see now that what
I sought in X seven years
ago was mastery or
victimage played out
naked in the bed.
Renewal of nostalgia
for lost flair of those days,
lost passions …
Trouble with
me now, no active life
in realworld. And Time,
as realworld, appearing vile,
as Shakespeare says:
ruinous, vile, dirty Time.
