Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗
bus to bus, cameras moving behind me. What was my role?
I hardly knew these faded heroes, friendly strangers
so long on the road, I’d been out teaching in Boulder, Manhattan,
Budapest, London, Brooklyn so long, why follow me thru
these amazing Further bus party reunion corridors tonite?
or is this movie, or real, if I turn to face the camera I’d break
the scene, dissolve the plot illusion, or is’t illusion
art, or just my life? Were cameras ever there, the picture
flowed so evenly before my eyes, how could a crew follow
me invisible still and smoothly noiseless bus to bus
from room to room along the caravan’s painted labyrinth?
This wasn’t cinema, and I no hero spokesman documenting friendship
scenes, only myself alone lost in bus cabins with familiar
strangers still looking for some sexual angel for mortal delights
no different from haunting St. Mark’s Boys Bar again solitary
in tie jacket and grey beard, wallet in my pocket full of
cash and cards, useless.
A glimmer of lights
in the curtained doorway before me! my heart leapt
forward to the Orgy Room, all youths! Lithe and
hairless, smooth skinned, white buttocks ankles, young men’s
nippled chests lit behind the curtain, thighs entwined
in the male area, place I was looking for behind
my closed eyelids all this night—I pushed my hand
into the room, moving aside the curtain that shimmered
within bright with naked knees and shoulders pale
in candlelight—entered the pleasure chamber’s empty door
glimmering silver shadows reflected on the silver curtained veil,
eyelids still dazzling as their adolescent limbs
intangible dissolved where I put my hand into a vacant room,
lay down on its dark floor to watch the lights of phantom arms
pulsing across closed eyelids conscious as I woke in bed
returned at dawn New York wood-slatted venetian blinds over
the windows on E. 12th St. in my white painted room
April 30, 1987, 4:30–6:25 A.M.
When the Light Appears
Lento
You’ll bare your bones you’ll grow you’ll pray you’ll only know
When the light appears, boy, when the light appears
You’ll sing & you’ll love you’ll praise blue heavens above
When the light appears, boy, when the light appears
You’ll whimper & you’ll cry you’ll get yourself sick and sigh
You’ll sleep & you’ll dream you’ll only know what you mean
When the light appears, boy, when the light appears
You’ll come & you’ll go, you’ll wander to and fro
You’ll go home in despair you’ll wonder why’d you care
You’ll stammer & you’ll lie you’ll ask everybody why
You’ll cough and you’ll pout you’ll kick your toe with gout
You’ll jump you’ll shout you’ll knock your friends about
You’ll bawl and you’ll deny & announce your eyes are dry
You’ll roll and you’ll rock you’ll show your big hard cock
You’ll love & you’ll grieve & one day you’ll come believe
As you whistle & you smile the lord made you worthwhile
You’ll preach and you’ll glide on the pulpit in your pride
Sneak & slide across the stage like a river in high tide
You’ll come fast or come on slow just the same you’ll never know
When the light appears, boy, when the light appears
May 3, 1987, 2:30 A.M.
On Cremation of Chogyam Trungpa, Vidyadhara
I noticed the grass, I noticed the hills, I noticed the highways,
I noticed the dirt road, I noticed car rows in the parking lot
I noticed ticket takers, I noticed the cash and checks & credit cards,
I noticed buses, noticed mourners, I noticed their children in red dresses,
I noticed the entrance sign, noticed retreat houses, noticed blue & yellow Flags—
noticed the devotees, their trucks & buses, guards in Khaki uniforms
I noticed crowds, noticed misty skies, noticed the all-pervading smiles & empty eyes—
I noticed pillows, colored red & yellow, square pillows and round—
I noticed the Tori Gate, passers-through bowing, a parade of men & women in formal dress—
noticed the procession, noticed the bagpipe, drum, horns, noticed high silk head crowns & saffron robes, noticed the three piece suits,
I noticed the palanquin, an umbrella, the stupa painted with jewels the colors of the four directions—
amber for generosity, green for karmic works, noticed the white for Buddha, red for the heart—
thirteen worlds on the stupa hat, noticed the bell handle and umbrella, the empty head of the white clay bell—
noticed the corpse to be set in the head of the bell—
noticed the monks chanting, horn plaint in our ears, smoke rising from atop the firebrick empty bell—
noticed the crowds quiet, noticed the Chilean poet, noticed a Rainbow,
I noticed the Guru was dead, I noticed his teacher bare breasted watching the corpse burn in the stupa,
noticed mourning students sat crosslegged before their books, chanting devotional mantras,
gesturing mysterious fingers, bells & brass thunderbolts in their hands
I noticed flame rising above flags & wires & umbrellas & painted orange poles
I noticed the sky, noticed the sun, a rainbow round the sun, light misty clouds drifting over the Sun—
I noticed my own heart beating, breath passing thru my nostrils
my feet walking, eyes seeing, noticing smoke above the corpse-fir’d monument
I noticed the path downhill, noticed the crowd moving toward buses
I noticed food, lettuce salad, I noticed the Teacher was absent,
I noticed my friends, noticed our car the blue Volvo, a young boy held my hand
our key in the motel door, noticed a dark room, noticed a dream
and forgot, noticed oranges lemons & caviar at breakfast,
I noticed the highway, sleepiness, homework thoughts, the boy’s nippled chest in the breeze
