Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 119
- Предыдущая
- 119/287
- Следующая
Chicago train soldiers chatted over beer
They, too, vowed to fight the Cottenpickin Communists
and give their own bodies to the fray.
Where’ve they learnt the lesson? Grammarschool
taught ’em Newspaper Language?
D’they buy it at Safeway with Reader’s Digest?
“Reducing the Unreal to Unreality, and causing the one
real Self to shine, the Guru …”
1966 trains were crowded with soldiers.
“… the Divine Eye, the eye that is pure Consciousness
which has no visions. Nothing that is seen is real.”
Passing tollgate,
regatta of yachts on river hazed
bend at Reading, giant smokestacks, watertowers
feed elevators—
“Seeing objects and conceiving God in them are mental processes, but that is not seeing God, because He is within.
“Who am I? … You’re in truth a pure spirit but you identify it with a body …”
The war is Appearances, this poetry Appearances
… measured thru Newspapers
All Phantoms of Sound
All landscapes have become Phantom—
giant New York ahead’ll perish with my mind.
“understand that the Self is not a Void”
not this, not that,
Not my anger, not War Vietnam
Maha Yoga a phantom
Blue car swerves close to the bus
—not the Self.
Ramana Maharshi, whittle myself a walkingstick,
waterspray irrigating the fields
That’s not the Self—
hard-on spring in loins
rocking in highway chair,
poignant flesh spasm not it Self,
body’s speaking there,
& feeling, that’s not Self
Who says No, says Yes—not Self.
Phelps Dodge’s giant white building
highway side, not Self.
Who? Who? both asleep & awake
closes his eyes?
Who opens his eyes to Sweden?
You happy, Lady, writing yr
checks on Howard Johnson’s counter?
Mind wanders. Sleep, cough & sweat…
Mannahatta’s
tunnel-door cobbled for traffic,
trucks into that mouth
MAKE NO IMAGE
Mohammedans say
Jews have no painting
Buddha’s Nameless
Alone is Alone,
all screaming of soldiers
crying on wars
speech politics massing armies
is false-feigning show—
Calm senses, seek self, forget
thine own adjurations
Who are you?
to mass world armies in planet war?
McGraw-Hill building green grown old, car fumes &
Manhattan tattered, summer heat,
sweltering noon’s odd patina
on city walls,
Greyhound exhaust terminal,
trip begun,
taxi-honk toward East River where
Peter waits working
July 22–23, 1966
City Midnight Junk Strains
for Frank O’Hara
Switch on lights yellow as the sun
in the bedroom …
The gaudy poet dead Frank O’Hara’s bones
under cemetery grass
An emptiness at 8 P.M. in the Cedar Bar
Throngs of drunken
guys talking about paint
& lofts, and Pennsylvania youth.
Kline attacked by his heart
& chattering Frank
stopped forever—
Faithful drunken adorers, mourn.
The busfare’s a nickel more
past his old apartment 9th Street by the park.
Delicate Peter loved his praise,
I wait for the things he says
about me—
Did he think me an Angel
as angel I am still talking into earth’s microphone willy nilly
—to come back as words ghostly hued
by early death
but written so bodied
mature in another decade.
Chatty prophet
of yr own loves, personal
memory feeling fellow
Poet of building-glass
I see you walking you said with your tie
- Предыдущая
- 119/287
- Следующая
