Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 34

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The Campanile pokes its white granite (?) innocent head into the clouds for me to look at.

A cripple lady explains French grammar with a loud sweet voice: Regarder is to look—

the whole French language looks on the trees on the campus.

   The girls’ haunted voices make quiet dates for 2 o’clock—yet one of them waves farewell and smiles at last—her red skirt swinging shows how she loves herself.

   Another encased in flashy Scotch clothes clomps up the concrete in a hurry—into the door—poor dear!—who will receive you in love’s offices?

How many beautiful boys have I seen on this spot?

The trees seem on the verge of moving—ah! they do move in the breeze.

Roar again of airplanes in the sky—everyone looks up.

And do you know that all these rubbings of the eyes & painful gestures to the brow

of suited scholars entering Dwinelle (Hall) are Holy Signs?—anxiety and fear?

How many years have I got to float on this sweetened scene of trees & humans clomping above ground—

O I must be mad to sit here lonely in the void & glee & build up thoughts of love!

But what do I have to doubt but my own shiny eyes, what to lose but life which is a vision today this afternoon.

   My stomach is light, I relax, new sentences spring forth out of the scene to describe spontaneous forms of Time—trees, sleeping dogs, airplanes wandering thru the air, negroes with their lunch books of anxiety, apples and sandwiches, lunchtime, icecream, Timeless—

And even the ugliest will seek beauty—‘What are you doing Friday night?’ asks the sailor in white school training cap & gilt buttons & blue coat,

and the little ape in a green jacket and baggy pants and overloaded school-book satchel says ‘Quartets.’

Every Friday nite, beautiful quartets to celebrate and please my soul with all its hair—Music!

and then strides off, snapping pieces chocolate off a bar wrapped in Hershey brown paper and tinfoil,

eating chocolate rose.

& how can those other boys be them happy selves in their brown army study uniforms?

Now cripple girl swings down walk with loping fuck gestures of her hips askew—

let her roll her eyes in abandon & camp angelic through the campus bouncing her body about in joy—

someone will dig that pelvic energy for sure.

Those white stripes down your chocolate cupcake, Lady (held in front of your nose finishing sentence preparatory to chomp),

they were painted there to delight you by some spanish industrial artistic hand in bakery factory faraway,

expert hand in simple-minded messages of white stripes on millions of message cupcakes.

I have a message for you all—I will denote one particularity of each!

   And there goes Professor Hart striding enlightened by the years through the doorway and arcade he built (in his mind) and knows—he too saw the ruins of Yucatan once—

followed by a lonely janitor in dovegray italian fruitpeddler Chico Marx hat pushing his rolypoly belly thru the trees.

N sees all girls

as visions of

their inner cunts,

yes, it’s true!

and all men walking

along thinking

of their spirit cocks.

So look at that poor dread boy

with two-day black hair

all over his dirty face,

how he must hate his cock

     —Chinamen stop shuddering

   and now to bring this to an end with a rise and an ellipse—

   The boys are now all talking to the girls ‘If I was a girl I’d love all boys’ & girls giggling the opposite, all pretty everywhichway

and even I have my secret beds and lovers under another moonlight, be you sure

& any minute I expect to see a baby carriage pushed on to the scene

and everyone turn in attention like the airplanes and laughter, like a Greek Campus

and the big brown shaggy silent dog lazing openeyed in the shade

lift up his head & sniff & lower his head on his golden paws & let his belly rumble away unconcerned.

   … the lion’s ruddy eyes

Shall flow with tears of gold.

Now the silence is broken, students pour onto the square, the doors are crowded, the dog gets up and walks away,

the cripple swings out of Dwinelle, a nun even, I wonder about her, an old lady distinguished by a cane,

we all look up, silence moves, huge changes upon the ground, and in the air thoughts fly all over, filling space.

My grief at Peter’s not loving me was grief at not loving myself.

Huge Karmas of broken minds in beautiful bodies unable to receive love because not knowing the self as lovely—

Fathers and Teachers!

   Seeing in people the visible evidence of inner self thought by their treatment of me: who loves himself loves me who love myself.

Berkeley, September 1955

America

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.

America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.

I can’t stand my own mind.

America when will we end the human war?

Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.

I don’t feel good don’t bother me.

I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.

America when will you be angelic?

When will you take off your clothes?

When will you look at yourself through the grave?

When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?

America why are your libraries full of tears?

America when will you send your eggs to India?

I’m sick of your insane demands.

When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?

America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.

Your machinery is too much for me.

You made me want to be a saint.

There must be some other way to settle this argument.

Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.

Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?

I’m trying to come to the point.

I refuse to give up my obsession.

America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.

America the plum blossoms are falling.

I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.

America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.

America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.

I smoke marijuana every chance I get.

I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.

When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.

My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.

You should have seen me reading Marx.

My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.

I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.

I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.

America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.

I’m addressing you.

Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?

I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.

I read it every week.

Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.

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