Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 42
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roads and streetsigns rocks and hills and names on everybody’s house
looking for the lost address of a notable Frenchman of the Void
to pay our tender crime of homage to his helpless menhir
and lay my temporary American Howl on top of his silent Calligramme
for him to read between the lines with Xray eyes of Poet
as he by miracle had read his own death lyric in the Seine
I hope some wild kidmonk lays his pamphlet on my grave for God to read me on cold winter nights in heaven
already our hands have vanished from that place my hand writes now in a room in Paris Git-le-Coeur
Ah William what grit in the brain you had what’s death
I walked all over the cemetery and still couldn’t find your grave
what did you mean by that fantastic cranial bandage in your poems
O solemn stinking deathshead what’ve you got to say nothing and that’s barely an answer
You can’t drive autos into a sixfoot grave tho the universe is mausoleum big enough for anything
the universe is a graveyard and I walk around alone in here
knowing that Apollinaire was on the same street 50 years ago
his madness is only around the corner and Genet is with us stealing books
the West is at war again and whose lucid suicide will set it all right
Guillaume Guillaume how I envy your fame your accomplishment for American letters
your Zone with its long crazy line of bullshit about death
come out of the grave and talk thru the door of my mind
issue new series of images oceanic haikus blue taxicabs in Moscow negro statues of Buddha
pray for me on the phonograph record of your former existence
with a long sad voice and strophes of deep sweet music sad and scratchy as World War I
I’ve eaten the blue carrots you sent out of the grave and Van Gogh’s ear and maniac peyote of Artaud
and will walk down the streets of New York in the black cloak of French poetry
improvising our conversation in Paris at Pere Lachaise
and the future poem that takes its inspiration from the light bleeding into your grave
II
Here in Paris I am your guest O friendly shade
the absent hand of Max Jacob
Picasso in youth bearing me a tube of Mediterranean
myself attending Rousseau’s old red banquet I ate his violin
great party at the Bateau Lavoir not mentioned in the textbooks of Algeria
Tzara in the Bois de Boulogne explaining the alchemy of the machineguns of the cuckoos
he weeps translating me into Swedish
well dressed in a violet tie and black pants
a sweet purple beard which emerged from his face like the moss hanging from the walls of Anarchism
he spoke endlessly of his quarrels with Andre Breton
whom he had helped one day trim his golden mustache
old Blaise Cendrars received me into his study and spoke wearily of the enormous length of Siberia
Jacques Vache invited me to inspect his terrible collection of pistols
poor Cocteau saddened by the once marvelous Radiguet at his last thought I fainted
Rigaut with a letter of introduction to Death
and Gide praised the telephone and other remarkable inventions
we agreed in principle though he gossiped of lavender underwear
but for all that he drank deeply of the grass of Whitman and was intrigued by all lovers named Colorado
princes of America arriving with their armfuls of shrapnel and baseball
Oh Guillaume the world so easy to fight seemed so easy
did you know the great political classicists would invade Montparnasse
with not one sprig of prophetic laurel to green their foreheads
not one pulse of green in their pillows no leaf left from their wars—Maya-kovsky arrived and revolted
III
Came back sat on a tomb and stared at your rough menhir
a piece of thin granite like an unfinished phallus
a cross fading into the rock 2 poems on the stone one Coeur Renversee
other Habituez-vous comme moi A ces prodiges que j’annonce Guillaume Apollinaire de Kostrowitsky
someone placed a jam bottle filled with daisies and a 5&10? surrealist typist ceramic rose
happy little tomb with flowers and overturned heart
under a fine mossy tree beneath which I sat snaky trunk
summer boughs and leaves umbrella over the menhir and nobody there
Et quelle voix sinistre ulule Guillaume qu’es-tu devenu
his nextdoor neighbor is a tree
there underneath the crossed bones heaped and yellow cranium perhaps
and the printed poems Alcools in my pocket his voice in the museum
Now middleage footsteps walk the gravel
a man stares at the name and moves toward the crematory building
same sky rolls over thru clouds as Mediterranean days on the Riviera during war
drinking Apollo in love eating occasional opium he’d taken the light
One must have felt the shock in St. Germain when he went out Jacob & Picasso coughing in the dark
a bandage unrolled and the skull left still on a bed outstretched pudgy fingers the mystery and ego gone
a bell tolls in the steeple down the street birds warble in the chestnut trees
Famille Bremont sleeps nearby Christ hangs big chested and sexy in their tomb
my cigarette smokes in my lap and fills the page with smoke and flames
an ant runs over my corduroy sleeve the tree I lean on grows slowly
bushes and branches upstarting through the tombs one silky spiderweb gleaming on granite
I am buried here and sit by my grave beneath a tree
Paris, Winter-Spring 1958
Message
Since we had changed
rogered spun worked
wept and pissed together
I wake up in the morning
with a dream in my eyes
but you are gone in NY
remembering me Good
I love you I love you
& your brothers are crazy
I accept their drunk cases
It’s too long that I have been alone
it’s too long that I’ve sat up in bed
without anyone to touch on the knee, man
or woman I don’t care what anymore, I
want love I was born for I want you with me now
Ocean liners boiling over the Atlantic
Delicate steelwork of unfinished skyscrapers
Back end of the dirigible roaring over Lakehurst
Six women dancing together on a red stage naked
The leaves are green on all the trees in Paris now
I will be home in two months and look you in the eyes
Paris, May 1958
To Lindsay
Vachel, the stars are out
dusk has fallen on the Colorado road
a car crawls slowly across the plain
in the dim light the radio blares its jazz
the heartbroken salesman lights another cigarette
In another city 27 years ago
I see your shadow on the wall
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