Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 59
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secret recollective hidden
half-hand unrecorded way.
As the old sages of Asia, or the white beards of Persia
scribbled on the margins of their scrolls
in delicate ink
remembering with tears the ancient clockbells of their cities
and the cities that had been—
Nasca, Paracas, Chancay & Secrecy of the Priests
buried, Cat Gods
of all colors, a funeral shroud
for a museum—
None remember but all return to the same thought
before they die—what sad old
knowledge, we repeat again.
Only to be lost
in the sands of Paracas, or wrapped in a mystic shroud
of Poesy
and found by some kid in a thousand years
inspire what dreadful thoughts of his own?
It’s a horrible, lonely experience. And
Gregory’s letter, and Peter’s …
7:30 P.M., May 28
… In the foul dregs of Circumstance
‘Male and Female He created them’
with mustaches.
There ARE certain REPEATED
(pistol shot) reliable points
of reference which the insane
(pistol shot repeated outside
the window)—madman suddenly
writes—THE PISTOL SHOT
outside—the REPEATED situations
the experience of return to the
same place in Universal Creation
Time—and every time we return
we recognize again that we
HAVE been here & that is the
Key to Creation—the same pistol shot
—DOWN, bending over his book of Un
intelligible marvels with his mustache.
(my) Madness is intelligible reactions to
Unintelligible phenomena.
Boy—what a marvelous bottle,
a clear glass sphere of transparent
liquid ether—
(Chloraethyl Merz)
9 P.M.
I know I am a poet—in this universe—but what good does that do —when in another, without these mechanical aids, I might be doomed to be a poor Disneyan Shoe Store Clerk—This consciousness an accident of one of the Ether-possible worlds, not the Final World
Wherein we all look Crosseyed
& triumph in our Virginity
without wearing Rabbit’s-foot
ears or eyes looking sideways
strangely but in Gold
Humbled & more knowledgeable, acknowledge
the Vast mystery of our creation—
without giving any sign that
we have heard from the
GREAT CREATOR
WHOSE NAME I NOW
PRONOUNCE:
GREAT CREATOR OF THE UNIVERS, IF
THY WISDOM ACCORD IT
AND IF THIS NOT BE TOO
MUCH TO ASK
MAY I PUBLISH YOUR NAME?
I ASK IN THE LIMA
NIGHT
FEARFULLY WAITING
ANSWER,
hearing the buses out on
the street hissing,
Knowing the Terror
of the World Afar—
I have been playing with Jokes
and His is too mighty to hold
in the hand like a Pen
and His is the Pistol Shot Answer
that brings blood to the brain
And—
What can be possible
in a minor universe
in which you can see
God by sniffing the
gas in a cotton?
The answer to be taken in
reverse & Doubled Math
ematically both ways.
Am I a sinner?
There are hard & easy universes. This
is neither.
(If I close my eyes will I regain consciousness?)
That’s the Final Question—with
all the old churchbells ringing and
bus pickup snuffles & crack of iron
whips inside cylinders & squeal of brakes
and old crescendos of responsive
demiurgic ecstasy whispering in streets of ear
—and when was it Not
ever answered in the Affirmative? Saith the Lord?
A MAGIC UNIVERSE
Flies & crickets & the sound of buses & my
stupid beard.
But what’s Magic?
Is there Sorrow in Magic?
Is Magic one of my boyscout creations?
Am I responsible? I with my flop?
Could Threat happen to Magic?
Yes! this the one universe in which
there is threat to magic, by
writing while high.
A Universe in which I am condemned to write statements.
‘Ignorant Judgments Create Mistaken Worlds—’
and this one is joined in
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