Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 102

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          beloved of all the brides of Kansas City,

          kissed all over by every boy of Wichita—

      O but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me—

          On the bridge over Republican River

               almost in tears to know

                    how to speak the right language—

          on the frosty broad road

               uphill between highway embankments

          I search for the language

                    that is also yours—

          almost all our language has been taxed by war.

Radio antennae high tension

      wires ranging from Junction City across the plains—

      highway cloverleaf sunk in a vast meadow

               lanes curving past Abilene

                    to Denver filled with old

                              heroes of love—

               to Wichita where McClure’s mind

                    burst into animal beauty

                    drunk, getting laid in a car

                         in a neon misted street

                                   15 years ago—

      to Independence where the old man’s still alive

      who loosed the bomb that’s slaved all human consciousness

               and made the body universe a place of fear—

Now, speeding along the empty plain,

          no giant demon machine

               visible on the horizon

      but tiny human trees and wooden houses at the sky’s edge

          I claim my birthright!

               reborn forever as long as Man

                    in Kansas or other universe—Joy

          reborn after the vast sadness of War Gods!

A lone man talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear,

      imaging the throng of Selves

          that make this nation one body of Prophecy

               languaged by Declaration as Pursuit of

                    Happiness!

I call all Powers of imagination

      to my side in this auto to make Prophecy,

                         all Lords

      of human kingdoms to come

Shambu Bharti Baba naked covered with ash

      Khaki Baba fat-bellied mad with the dogs

Dehorahava Baba who moans Oh how wounded, How wounded

      Sitaram Onkar Das Thakur who commands

                         give up your desire

Satyananda who raises two thumbs in tranquillity

      Kali Pada Guha Roy whose yoga drops before the void

          Shivananda who touches the breast and says OM

Srimata Krishnaji of Brindaban who says take for your guru

      William Blake the invisible father of English visions

      Sri Ramakrishna master of ecstasy eyes

          half closed who only cries for his mother

Chaitanya arms upraised singing & dancing his own praise

      merciful Chango judging our bodies

          Durga-Ma covered with blood

               destroyer of battlefield illusions

          million-faced Tathagata gone past suffering

      Preserver Harekrishna returning in the age of pain

Sacred Heart my Christ acceptable

          Allah the Compassionate One

                         Jaweh Righteous One

                    all Knowledge-Princes of Earth-man, all

      ancient Seraphim of heavenly Desire, Devas, yogis

                    & holymen I chant to—

                         Come to my lone presence

                              into this Vortex named Kansas,

I lift my voice aloud,

      make Mantra of American language now,

          I here declare the end of the War!

               Ancient days’ Illusion!—

          and pronounce words beginning my own millennium.

Let the States tremble,

      let the Nation weep,

          let Congress legislate its own delight

               let the President execute his own desire—

this Act done by my own voice,

               nameless Mystery—

published to my own senses,

               blissfully received by my own form

      approved with pleasure by my sensations

          manifestation of my very thought

          accomplished in my own imagination

               all realms within my consciousness fulfilled

      60 miles from Wichita

                    near El Dorado,

                         The Golden One,

in chill earthly mist

      houseless brown farmland plains rolling heavenward

                         in every direction

one midwinter afternoon Sunday called the day of the Lord—

      Pure Spring Water gathered in one tower

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