Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 144

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The little dakini playing her bells

                         & listening to late baritone Dylan

               dancing in the living room’s forgot almost

                         th’electric supply’s vanishing

                                   from the batteries in the pasture.

Chairs shifting downstairs, kitchen voices

               Smell of apples & tomatoes bubbling on the stove.

Behind the Chicken house, dirt flies from the shovel

               hour after hour, tomorrow they’ll be a big hole.

The editor sleeps in his bed, morning Chores are done,

               Clock hands move noonward, pig roots by flagstone

                              pathways, papers & letters lie quiet

                                             on many desks.

                    Books everywhere, Kabbalah, Gnostic Fragments, Mahanirvana & Hevajra Tantras, Boehme Blake & Zohar, Gita & Soma Veda, somebody reads—one cooks, another digs a pighouse foundation, one chases a Cow from the vegetable garden, one dances and sings, one writes in a notebook, one plays with the ducks, one never speaks, one picks the guitar, one moves huge rocks.

The wind charger’s propeller

                         whirs & trees rise windy

one maple at woods edge’s turned red.

Chickens bathe in dust at the house wall,

rabbit at fence bends his nose to a handful of Cornsilk,

                                             fly lights on windowsill.

At the end of a long chain, Billy makes a Circle in grass

               by the fence, I approach

                              he stands still with long red stick

                                        stretched throbbing between hind legs

                    Spurts water a minute, turns his head down

                              to look & lick his thin pee squirt—

                         That’s why he smells goat like.

Horse by barbed wire licking salt,

                              lifts his long head & neighs

                    as I go down by willow thicket

                              to find the 3-day-old heifer.

At bed in long grass, wet brown fur—

her mother stands, nose covered with a hundred flies.

The well’s filled up—

                    the Cast-iron ram

                         that pushes water uphill

                              by hydraulic pressure

                                        flowed from gravity

Can be set to motion soon,

                         & water flow in kitchen sink tap.

some nights in sleeping bag

               Cricket zinging networks dewy meadows,

               white stars sparkle across black sky,

falling asleep I listen & watch

               till eyes close, and wake silent—

                         at 4 A.M. the whole sky’s moved,

a Crescent moon lamps up the woods.

& last week one Chill night

                         summer disappeared—

          little apples in old trees red,

                         tomatoes red & green on vines,

green squash huge under leafspread,

                         corn thick in light green husks,

sleepingbag wet with dawn dews

               & that one tree red at woods’ edge!

Louder wind! ther’ll be electric to play the Beatles!

At summer’s end the white pig got so fat

                         it weighed more than Georgia

                                   Ray Bremser’s 3-year-old baby.

          Scratch her named Dont Bite Me under hind leg,

               she flops over on her side sweetly grunting,

               nosing in grass tuft roots, soft belly warm.

Eldridge Cleaver exiled w/ bodyguards in Algiers

Leary sleeping in an iron cell,

                    John Sinclair a year jailed in Marquette

Each day’s paper more violent—

                         War outright shameless bombs

                                        Indochina to Minneapolis—

                         a knot in my belly to read between lines,

                                        lies, beatings in jail—

                                        Short breath on the couch—

                              desolation at dawn in bed—

                                             Wash dishes in the sink, drink tea, boil an egg—

                                   brood over Cities’ suffering millions two

                                             hundred miles away

                                        down the oilslicked, germ-Chemicaled

                                             Hudson river.

Ed Hermit comes down hill

                         breaks off a maple branch

                         & offers fresh green leaves to the pink eyed rabbit.

Under birch, yellow mushrooms

                    sprout between grassblades & ragweed—

               Eat ’em & you die or get high & see God—

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