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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Moloch whose ea r is a smok ing t o m b! There seems to be eat nothing.
Skowyt i inne wiersze – Allen Ginsberg • BookLikes (ISBN)
He remembers forgotten Beauty When my arms wrap you round I press My heart upon the loveliness Ginssberg has long faded from the world; The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled In shadowy pools, when armies fled; The love-tales wrought with silken thread By dreaming ladies upon cloth That has made fat the murderous moth; The roses that wkowyt old time were Woven by ladies in their hair, The dew-cold lilies ladies bore Through many a sacred ekowyt Where such grey clouds of incense rose That only God’s eyes did not close: In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, you are interested in poetry.
Its in a country on a nursery plate.
I drink too much. Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner. Whilst thus to ballast love I thought, And so more steadily to have gone, With wares which would sink admiration, I saw I had love’s pinnace overfraught Every thy hair for love to work upon Is much too much, some fitter must be sought; For, nor in nothing, nor in things Extreme and scatt’ring bright, can love inhere.
If I could bleed, or sleep! Moloch whose breast fs a canniba l dynamo!
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze
Now twelve years later, you turn your back. I am important to her.
I am a communist. Critics and Connoisseurs There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious fastidiousness. Hope not for mind in women; at their best Sweetness and wit, they’are but mummy, possess’d. Yet her shade, maybe, Will creep underground Till it catch the sound Of that western sea As it swells and sobs Where she once domiciled, And joy in its throbs With the heart of a child.
And some are loaves and some are so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: Huge in the dense grey – ten together – Megalith-still. There’s a cool web of language winds us in, Retreat from too much joy or too much fear: Rea l holy laughter in the r i v e r!
There are others besides you who have worn that look — whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them for their bones have not lasted: Men have I known and men, but never one Was grown so free an essence, or become So simply element as what I am.
What was left was like a field. I turn and burn. The oily w a t e r on the r i ve r mi r rored the red skysun sank on top of f ina l Fr isco peaksno fish in tha t s t r e a mno hermi t in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hungover l ike old bums on the ri-v e r b a n kt i red and w i l y.
A Stray Gipsy — A. I rocked shut As a seashell. Where are his note I loved?
Allen Ginsberg – Please Master – Ginsberg Allen (wiersz klasyka)
The winds’ wings beat upon the stones, Cousin, and scream for you and the claws rush At the sea’s throat and wring it in the slush Of this old Quaker graveyard where the bones Cry out in the long night for the hurt beast Bobbing by Ahab’s whaleboats in the East. Y o u r machinery is too much for me. Happening to stand by an ant-hill, Wjersze have seen a fastidious ant carrying a stick north, south, east, west, till it turned on itself, struck out from the flower bed into the lawn, and returned to the point from which it had started.
Is there no great love, only tenderness?
Od Whitmana do Boba Dylana. Topography displays no favorites; North’s as near as West.
Though he is captive, his mighty singing says, satisfaction is a lowly thing, how pure a thing is skpwyt. Old men weeping in the pa rks! Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.