Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 61
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with whatever attitude I hold the cotton
to my nose, it’s still a secret joke
with pinkie akimbo, or with effete queer
eye in mirror at myself,
or serious-brow mien
& darkened beard,
I’m still the kid of obscene chance awaiting—
breathing in a chinese Universe
thru the nose like some old Brahmanic God.
O BELL TIME RING THY MIDNIGHT FOR THE BILLIONTH SOUNDY TIME, I HEAR AGAIN!
I’ll go to walk the street,
Who’ll find
me in the night, in Lima, in my
33’d year,
On Street (Cont.)
The souls of Peter &
I answer each other.
But—and what’s a soul?
To be a poet’s a
serious occupation,
condemned to that
in universe—
to walk the city
ascribbling in
a book—just accosted
by a drunk—
in Plaza de Armas
sidestreet under
a foggy sky, and
sometimes with no
moon.
The heavy balcony
hangs over the white
marble of the Bishop’s
Palace next the Cathedral—
The fountain plays
in light as e’er—
The buses & the
motorcyclists pass
thru midnight, the
carlights shine
the beggar turns
a corner with his
Who’ll find
cigarette stub &
cane, the Noisers
leave the tavern
and delay, conversing
in high voice,
Awake,
Hasta Manana
they all say—
and somewhere
at the other end of
the line, a telephone
is ringing, once again
with unknown news—
The night
looms over Lima,
sky black fog—
and I sit helpless
smoking with a
pencil hand—
The long crack
in the pavement
or yesterday’s
volcano in Chile,
or the day before
the Earthquake
that begat the
World.
The Plaza pavement
shines in the electric
light. I wait.
The lonely beard
workman staggers
home to bed from
Death.
Yes but I’m
a little tired of
being alone …
Keats’ Nightingale—the
instant of realization
a single consciousness
that hears the chimes
of Time, repeated
endlessly—
All night, w/ Ether, wave
after wave of magic
understanding. A disturbance
of the field
of consciousness.
Magic night, magic stars,
magic men, magic moon
magic tomorrow, magic death,
magic Magic.
What crude Magic
we live in (seeing trolley
like a rude monster
in downtown street
w/ electric diamond
wire antennae to sky
pass night cafe under
white arc-light by
Gran Hotel Bolivar.)
The mad potter of
Mochica made a
pot w/ 6 Eyes & 2
Mouths & half a Nose
& 5 Cheeks & no Chin
for us to figure out,
serious side-track,
blind alley Kosmos.
Back in Room (Cont.)
How strange to remember anything, even a button
much less a universe.
‘What creature gives birth to itself?’
The universe is mad, slightly mad.
—and the two sides wriggle away
in opposite directions to die
lopped off
the blind metallic length curled up
feebly & wiggling its feet
in the grass
the millipede’s black head moving inches away
on the staircase at Macchu Picchu
the Creature feels itself
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