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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The oval portrait of a dog was me at an early age. And my forest My funeral, And this hill and this Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.
This is mortality, this is eternity. King down in the vortex, Clash, leaping of bands, straight strips of hard colour, Blocked lights working in. More delicate than the historians’ are the map-makers’ colors. I myself am hell; nobody’s here– only skunks, that search in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart- It really goes. Something more near Though deeper within darkness Is entering the loneliness: Disbelief and conscious fastidiousness were ingredients in its disinclination to move.
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Her son’s a bishop. Holy the myster ious r i ve rs of tears under the s t r ee t s! Our hammers, our rams, Earless and eyeless, Perfectly voiceless, Widen the crannies, Shoulder through holes. There, still they stood, But now steaming and glistening under the flow of light, Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind-hooves Stirring under a thaw while all around them The frost showed its fires.
The kitchen w indow is open, to admi t a i r. A cool wind should inhabit these leaves And a dew collect on them, dearer than money, In the blue hour before sunup. Our Lady, too small for her canopy, Sits near the altar. Antologii angielskiej poezji metafizycznej XVII stulecia wyd.
What ever you see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. He heard when he walked into the water The forgetful surf creaming on those ledges. Then we overtook a boy we knew with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. W i l l thought of t ransc r ip t ion haze my menta l open eye?
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze – [PDF Document]
The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still. To Cape Cod Guns, cradled on the tide, Blast the eelgrass about a waterclock Of bilge and backwash, roil the salt and sand Lashing earth’s scaffold, rock Our warships in the hand Of the great God, where time’s contrition blues Whatever it was these Quaker sailors lost In the mad scramble of their lives.
And now our fairy decorator brightens his shop for fall; his fishnet’s filled with orange cork, orange, his cobbler’s bench and awl; there is no money in his work, he’d rather marry. Holy the solitudes of skysc rapers and pavements! And it exhausts me to watch you Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth. Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free. The very bird, grown taller as he sings, steels his form straight up. Moloch whom I abandon!
Cloudrack and owl-hollowed willows slanting over The bland Granta double their white and green World under the sheer water And ride that flux at anchor, upside down. Tralala bum cyk cyk! I w i sh to enter the k i tchen.
Pear Tree Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted, O silver, higher than my arms reach you front us with great mass; no flower ever opened so staunch a white leaf, no flower ever parted silver from such rare silver; O white pear, your flower tufts, thick on the branch, bring summer and ripe fruits in their purple hearts.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Something else is alive Beside the clock’s loneliness And this blank page where my fingers move. So, to the one long-sweeping symphony From times remote Till now, of human tenderness, shall we Supply one note, Small and untraced, yet that will ever be Somewhere afloat Amid the spheres, as part of sick Life’s antidote. Now he turns up f i fteen or twen ty years l a te r w i th an a r res t ing poem.
Hawk Roosting I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. It is that and other things, Bringing a system of them into play. The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top, reserved as their contours, saying nothing; repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea; the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze
John, With caravans, but never an ape or a bear. Hat brims Deflect the watery dazzle; the people idle As if in hospital.
My feet are locked upon the rough bark. This Room The room I entered was a dream of this room.