Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 127
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Isaiah denouncing the root of Evil to the Nation
14 billion 200 million a year to the Debt Money System,
Rolling back darkness in Nebraska—
Shanghai water power cut off by Mao’s enemies
I am a Rock, I am an Island radio souls cry
passing north of Lincoln’s tiny bright downtown horizon;
Square banks huddled under Capitol turret blinking red,
electric tower steam-drifts
ribboned across building tops
under city’s ruby night-glow—
Let the Viet Cong win over the American Army!
Dice of Prophecy cast on the giant plains!
Drum march on airwaves, anger march in the mouth,
Xylophones & trumpets screaming thru American brain—
Our violence unabated after a year
in mid-America returned, I prophesy against
this my own Nation
enraptured in hypnotic war.
And if it were my wish, we’d lose & our will
be broken
& our armies scattered as we’ve scattered the airy guerrillas
of our own yellow imagination.
Mothers weep & Sons be dumb
your brothers & children murder
the beautiful yellow bodies of Indochina
in dreams invented for your eyes by TV
all yr talk gibberish mouthed by radio,
yr politics mapped by paper Star
Thought Consciousness
Form Feeling Sensation Imagination the
5 skandhas, realms of Buddha
Invaded by electronic media KLYL
News Bureau
& yr trapped in red winking Kansas
one giant delicate electrical antenna upraised
in midwinter Nebraska plains blackness
January 1967
I hope we lose this war.
Lincoln airforce Base, Ruby, Gochner
US 80 near Big Blue River,
The radio Bibl’d Hour, Dallas Texas
a great nose pushed out of the dashboard
demanding Your Faith Pledge!
Money your dollars support
The Radio Bible Hour.
You pledge to God to send
100 or 10 or 2 or $1 a month to the
Radio Bible Hour—
The electric network selling itself:
“The medium is the message”
Even so, Come, Lord Jesus!
Straight thru Nebraska at Midnight
toward North Platte & Ogallala
returning down black superhighways to Denver.
January 8, 1967
Wales Visitation
White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow
Trees moving in rivers of wind
The clouds arise
as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist
above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed
along a green crag
glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine—
Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught
but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion,
of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology,
the wisdom of earthly relations,
of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible
orchards of mind language manifest human,
of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry
flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny
bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs—
Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower
& network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self
the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating
heard in Blake’s old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness
clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey—
Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!
All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind
undulating on mossy hills
a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels
on the mountainside
whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway
in granitic undertow down—
and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees
and lifted the grasses an instant in balance
and lifted the lambs to hold still
and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave
A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale,
a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley,
the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean
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