Allen Ginsberg – Please Master, wiersz klasyka na Wywrocie. ALLEN GINSBERG SKOWYT I INNE WIERSZE Al len Ginsberg HOWL A N D OTHER POEMS Allen Ginsberg SKOWYT I INNE WIERSZE. ) pp. Translation: [Plutonian Ode (excerpt)] POLISH Books: H Ginsberg, Allen. Skowyt I Inne Wiersze. Bydgoszcz, Poland: Pomorze,
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Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.
No pit of shadow to crawl into, And his blood beating the old tattoo I am, I am, I am. Ill C a r l Solomon! My grandfather’s whip tapped his hat. There is only a little grid, no exit. I stand on top of our back steps and breathe the rich air– a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
C l a ims it as his own and, we bel ieve, laughs at it and has the t ime and af f rontery to love a fe l low of his choice and record t h a t love in a wel l -made poem. These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods. He said – and I think I repeat his exact words – “Hebrew poetry is prose with a sort of heightened consciousness.
Lawrence has a wild dream of it. Her needs a Red Readers ‘ Digest.
Some easily, some in evident torment tore, Some for a time resisted, and then burst. He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom. Th i s poet sees through and a l l a round the hor ro rs he par-takes of in the very in t imate detai ls of his poem.
Moloch the heavy judcer of men! But I don’t imagine that among them there is a wolf with purple and gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings.
I see no end. I ‘m obsessed by T i m e Magaz ine. In my hungry fa t igueand shopping for imagesI went into the neon f ru i t s u p e r m a r k e td reaming of your enumera t ions! What it cost Them is their secret. There seems to be eat nothing. One fast package sits lone a t midnight st ick ing up out of the Coas t rack high as the dusty f luorescent l ight. The slob beside her feasts He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze – [PDF Document]
W o k e up in Moloch! I remember The dead smell of sun on wood cabins, The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets. Yellow, yellow flower, and flower of industry, tough spiky ugly flower, flower nonetheless, with the form of the great yellow Rose in your brain! Despa i r s! This is Number Three. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: That’s the kind of thing that’s being done all the time by poets, from Homer to Tennyson; They’re always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison, And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm.
Yet this same sun will slant its beams At no far day On our two mounds, and then what will the difference weigh!
Qiersze mouth just bloodied. Topography displays no favorites; North’s as near as West. PIW, Warszawa i 55 wierszy. There are there many rooms and all of gold, Of woven walls deep patterned, of email, Of beaten work; and through the claret stone, Set to some weaving, comes the aureate light. Moloch the crossboe soulless ja i lhouse and Congress of so r rows! Holy the vast liamb of the middlec lass! By briefest meeting something sure is won; It will have been: Nor word nor touch nor sight Of lover, you Shall long through the night but for this: I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
In the kernel you will see Siowyt of slate enclosed by dappled Red and green, enclosed by tawny Yellow nets, enclosed by white And black acres of dominoes, Where the same brown paper parcel – Children, leave the string alone! Moloch whose ea r skowt a smok ing t o m b! Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze
Oread Whirl up, ginsbberg – whirl your pointed pines. Each night now I tie ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. Cloudrack and owl-hollowed willows slanting over The bland Granta double their white and green World under the sheer water And ride that flux at anchor, upside down.