Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 13
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narrowing down the name
to nothing,
seven years’:
fears
in a web of ancient measure;
the words dead
flies, a crop
of ghosts,
seven years’:
the spider is dead.
Paterson, Spring 1950
The Shrouded Stranger
1
The Shroudy Stranger’s reft of realms.
Abhorred he sits upon the city dump.
His broken heart’s a bag of shit.
The vast rainfall, an empty mirror.
2
A Dream
He climbed over the rim
of the huge tower
looking down afraid,
descended the escarpment
over sheaves of rock,
crossed railyard gullies
and vast river-bridges
on the groundward slope
under an iron viaduct,
coming to rivulet
in a still meadow
by a small wood
where he stood trembling
in the naked flowers,
and walked under oak
to the house of folk.
3
I dreamed I was dreaming again
and decided to go down the years
looking for the Shrouded Stranger.
I knew the old bastard
was hanging around somewhere.
I couldn’t find him for a while;
went looking under beds,
pulling mattresses off,
and finally discovered him
hiding under the springs
crouched in the corner:
met him face to face at last.
I didn’t even recognize him.
“I’ll bet you didn’t think
it was me after all,” he said.
4
Fragmenta Monumenti
It was to have a structure, it
was going to tell a story;
it was to be a mass of images
moving on a page, with
a hollow voice at the center;
it was to have told of Time
and Eternity; to have begun
in the rainfall’s hood and moon,
and ended under the street light
of the world’s bare physical
appearance; begun among vultures
in the mountains of Mexico,
traveled through all America
and ended in garbage on River Street;
its first line was to be
“Be with me Shroud, now—”
and the last “—naked
on broken bottles
between the brick walls,”
being THE VISION OF THE SHROUDED STRANGER OF THE NIGHT.
Paterson-New York, 1949-September 1950
An Imaginary Rose in a Book
Oh dry old rose of God,
that with such bleak perfume
changed images to blood
and body to a tomb,
what fragrance you have lost,
and are now withered mere
crimson myth of dust
and recollection sere
of an unfading garden
whereof the myriad life
and all that flock in blossom,
none other met the knife.
Paterson, Early 1950
Crash
There is more to Fury
Than men imagine
Who drive a pallid jury
On a pale engine.
In a spinning plane,
A false machine,
The pilot drops in flame
From the unseen.
Paterson, Early 1950
The Terms in Which I Think of Reality
a.
Reality is a question
of realizing how real
the world is already.
Time is Eternity
ultimate and immovable;
everyone’s an angel.
It’s Heaven’s mystery
of changing perfection:
absolutely Eternity
changes! Cars are always
going down the street,
lamps go off and on.
It’s a great flat plain;
we can see everything
on top of the table.
Clams open on the table,
lambs are eaten by worms
on the plain. The motion
of change is beautiful,
as well as form called
in and out of being.
b.
Next: to distinguish process
in its particularity with
an eye to the initiation
of gratifying new changes
desired in the real world.
Here we’re overwhelmed
with such unpleasant detail
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