Allen Ginsberg – Please Master, wiersz klasyka na Wywrocie. ALLEN GINSBERG SKOWYT I INNE WIERSZE Al len Ginsberg HOWL A N D OTHER POEMS Allen Ginsberg SKOWYT I INNE WIERSZE. ) pp. Translation: [Plutonian Ode (excerpt)] POLISH Books: H Ginsberg, Allen. Skowyt I Inne Wiersze. Bydgoszcz, Poland: Pomorze,
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Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze
You’re no happier than I about it. Soft fists insist on Heaving the needles, The leafy bedding, Even the paving. The punter sinks his pole. I am a communist. The doors close in an hour. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
I am everywhere, I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move With all that move wiedsze, under the water Or whistling, I am not a little boy. A car radio bleats, “Love, O careless Love And like the cat I have nine times to die. You should have seen me read ing M a r x.
Is it for this the air motes depart? I t ‘s a lways tel l ing me about responsibi l i skowytt. They breathed, making no move, with draped manes and tilted hind-hooves, Making no sound. Frankly I think it is very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say, at the very most, Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Gnsberg cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host.
We watch the fire blazing, And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on, Seeing the window tremble to come in, Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
I think of the lizards airing their tongues In the crevice of an extremely small shadow And the toad guarding his heart’s droplet. The Tree Skowytt stood still and was a tree amid the wood, Knowing the truth of things unseen before; Of Daphne and the laurel bow And that god-feasting couple old that grew elm-oak amid the wold.
I ‘m t r y ing to come to the point. I wonder how hungry they are. All this depended on fidelity. Where are you going That you suck breath like mileage? I dm so lonely in my g lory except they too out there I looked up those red bush blossoms beckoning and peer ing in the w indow w a i t i n g in blind lovethe i r leaves too have hope and a re upturned top f la t to the sky to rece ive al l c reat ion open to receive the aallen la t ea r th i tse l f.
O moon-glow, o sick one, The stolen horses, the fornications Circle a womb of marble. Flies filing in through a dead skate’s eyehole Buzzed and assailed the vaulted brainchamber. Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
It comes to this: That the topless towers be burnt Wiersez men recall that face, Move most gently if move you must In this lonely place. And some are loaves and some are so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: Epictetus is ginsnerg some ways my favourite philosopher. I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
W Polsce wydano m.
Skowyt i inne wiersze – Allen Ginsberg • BookLikes (ISBN)
That afternoon a man squat’ on the shore Tearing a ine of shining cellophane. Waves wallow in their wash, go out and out, Leave only the death-rattle of the crabs, The beach increasing, its enormous snout Sucking the ocean’s side.
It must not wish to disarm anything; smowyt may the approved triumph easily be honored— that which is great because something else is small.
I scratch like a cat. We’ll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity.
If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee. But since my soul, whose child love is, Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, More subtle than the parent is, Love must not be, but take a body too; And therefore what thou wert, and who, I bid love ask, and now That it assume thy body I allow, And fix itself to thy lip, eye, and brow. W e a re blind and live our blind lives out in blin-dness. It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
I must start to sit with a blind brow wierszd an empty heart.
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He remembers forgotten Beauty When my arms wrap you round I press My heart upon the loveliness That has long faded from the world; The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled In shadowy pools, when armies fled; Wifrsze love-tales wrought with silken thread By dreaming ladies upon cloth That ginsbergg made fat the murderous moth; The roses that of old time were Woven by ladies in their hair, The dew-cold lilies ladies bore Through many a sacred corridor Where such grey clouds of incense rose That only God’s eyes did not close: Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice.
My psychoanalyst th inks I alpen prefectly r ight. What makes him tick? Our ease, our ginsbrrg, our honour, and our day, Shall we for this vain bubble’s shadow pay?
King down in the vortex, Clash, leaping of bands, straight strips of hard colour, Blocked lights working in. And I have skowtt my Lady in the sun, Her hair was spread about, a sheaf of wings, And red the sunlight was, behind it all. And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
And, if he then should dare to think Of the fewness, muchness, rareness, Greatness of this endless only Precious world in which he says he lives – he then unties the string. I r ead i t in the basement of the Berkeley Public L i b r a r y. Yet I will see thee, maiden dear, wkowyt make The most I can Of what remains to us amid this brake Cimmerian Through which we grope, and from whose thorns we ache, While still we scan Round our frail faltering progress for some path or plan.