Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗
a letter to the Times saying
it’s unethical.
Come to rest hands down knees
straight—I wonder how
my liver’s doing. O.K. I guess
tonite, I quit smoking last
week. I wonder if they’ll blow
up an H Bomb? Probably not.
Manhattan Midnight, September 5, 1984
It’s All So Brief
I’ve got to give up
Books, checks, letters
File cabinets, apartment
pillows, bodies and skin
even the ache in my teeth.
September 14, 1984
I Love Old Whitman So
Youthful, caressing, boisterous, tender
Middle aged thoughtful, ten thousand noticings of shore ship or street,
workbench, forest, household or office, opera—
that conning his paper book again to read aloud to those few Chinese boys & girls
who know enough American tongue to ear his hand—
loath to select one leaf from another, loath to reject a sympathetic page
—the tavern boy’s look, a stone prisoner’s mustache-sweat, prostitute in the sun, garrulous old man waving goodbye on the stoop—
I skim Leaves beginning to end, this year in the Middle Kingdom
marvel his swimmers huffing naked on the wave
and touched by his desperado farewell, “Who touches this book touches a man”
tip the hat on my skull
to the old soldier, old sailor, old writer, old homosexual, old Christ poet journeyman,
inspired in middle age to chaunt Eternity in Manhattan,
and see the speckled snake & swelling orb earth vanish
after green seasons Civil War and years of snow
white hair.
Baoding, China, November 20, 1984
Written in My Dream by W. C. Williams
“As Is
you’re bearing
a common
Truth
Commonly known
as desire
No need
to dress
it up
as beauty
No need
to distort
what’s not
standard
to be
understandable.
Pick your
nose
eyes ears
tongue
sex and
brain
to show
the populace
Take your
chances
on
your accuracy
Listen to
yourself
talk to
yourself
and others
will also
gladly
relieved
of the burden—
their own
thought
and grief.
What began
as desire
will end
wiser.”
Baoding, November 23, 1984
One Morning I Took a Walk in China
Students danced with wooden silvered swords, twirling on hard packed muddy earth
as I walked out Hebei University’s concrete North Gate,
across the road a blue capped man sold fried sweet dough-sticks, brown as new boiled doughnuts
in the gray light of sky, past poplar tree trunks, white washed cylinders topped
with red band the height of a boy—Children with school satchels sang & walked past me
Donkeys in the road, one big one dwarf pulling ahead of his brother, hauled a cart of white stones
another donkey dragged a load of bricks, other baskets of dirt—
Under trees at the crossing, vendors set out carts and tables of cigarettes,
mandarin Tangerines, yellow round pears taste crunchy lemony strange,
apples yellow red-pinked, short bananas half black’d green,
few bunches of red grapes—and trays of peanuts, glazed thumbsized crab-apples 6 on a stick,
soft wrinkled yellow persimmons sat dozens spread on a cloth in wet mud by the curb—
cookpots on charcoal near cornerside tables, noodle broth vegetables sprinkled on top
A white headed barber shook out his ragged towel, mirror hung on red nail in the brick wall
where a student sat, black hair clipped at ears straight across the back of his neck
Soft-formed gritty coal pellets lay drying on the sidewalk and down the factory alley, more black mats spread,
Long green cabbages heaped by the buildingside waiting for home pot, or stacked on hand-tractor carts the market verandah a few yards away—
Leeks in a pile, bright orange carrots thick & rare, green unripe tomatoes, parsley, thin celery stalks awful cheap, potatoes & fish—
little & big heads chopped or alive in a tub, tiny fresh babies or aged carp in baskets—
a half pig on a slab, two trotters stick out, a white burlap shroud covered his body cleaved in half—
meat of the ox going thru a grinder, white fat red muscle & sinew together squeezed into human spaghetti—
Bicycles lined up along the concrete walk, trucks pull in & move out delivering cows dead and fresh green-stalked salad—
Downstreet, the dry-goods door—soap, pencils, notebooks, tea, fur coats lying on a counter—
Strawberry jam in rusty-iron topped jars, milk powder, dry cookies with sweetmeats
inside dissolve on the tongue to wash down fragrant black tea—
Ah, the machine shop gateway, brick walled latrine inside the truck yard —enter, squat on a brick & discharge your earth
or stand & pee in the big hole filled with pale brown squishy droppings an hour before—
Out, down the alleyway across the street a factory’s giant smokestack, black cloud-fumes boiling into sky
gray white with mist I couldn’t see that chimney a block away, coming home
past women on bicycles heading downtown their noses & mouths covered with white cotton masks.
Baoding, November 23, 1984, 9:30 P.M.
Reading Bai Juyi
I
I’m a traveler in a strange country
China and I’ve been to many cities
Now I’m back in Shanghai, days
under warm covers in a room with electric heat—
a rare commodity in this country—
