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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