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,
|Published (Last):||4 February 2011|
|PDF File Size:||13.37 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||1.12 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
I lost two cities, lovely ones.
I a m ta lk ing to myself aga in. I say nothing about my prisons nor the mill ions of underpr iv i leged who l ive in my f lowerpots under the l ight of f ive hundred suns. But that wasn’t fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them, With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiers to people they say Oh yes, they’re the ones that a lot of wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them.
I do it so it feels real. Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream. Then abandoning the stick as useless and overtaxing its jaws with a particle of whitewash pill-like but heavy, it again went through the same course of procedure. III All you recovered from Poseidon died With skiwyt, my cousin, and the harrowed brine Is fruitless on the blue beard of the god, Stretching beyond us to the castles in Spain, Nantucket’s westward haven.
A r e you going to let your emot ional life be run by T ime Magazine?
Kadysz i inne wiersze – Allen Ginsberg • BookLikes (ISBN)
These Flemish lovers flourish;not for long. She thinks, part woman, three parts a child, That nobody looks; her allem Practise a tinker shuffle Picked up on a street.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge. Be sure that you both always do. Each night now I tie ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. Holy the cafeter ias f i l led wi th the mi l ions! The king is dead. The head of his cadaver had caved in, And she could scarcely make out anything In that rubble of skull skiwyt and old leather.
So he who strongly feels, behaves. Though he is captive, his mighty singing says, satisfaction is a lowly thing, how pure a thing is joy. Some easily, some in evident torment tore, Some for a time resisted, and then burst.
W h a t peaches and w h a t penumbras! It’s an hour later in the East. Then again she comes to the curb to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands shy, uncorseted, tucking in stray ends of hair, and I compare her to a fallen leaf.
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze
Now they Will have to believe it As we believed it. I can remember what to say to my seminar but I don’t know that I want to. Everything glittered like blank paper. The pill of the Communion tablet, The walking beside still water? The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed. One more hook, and the berries and bushes end. Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
I may teach the Third Gospel this afternoon. W h e n wi l l you take off your clothes?
Where we lie The heat-cracked crickets congregate In their black armorplate and cry. Yellow, yellow flower, and flower of industry, tough spikey ugly flower, flower nonetheless, with the form of the great yellow Rose in your brain! And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
Men have I known and men, but never one Was grown so free an essence, or become So simply element as what I am. An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core. Isn’t it Where there are cows? At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as The coal-house door. That’s the kind of thing that’s being done all the time by poets, from Homer to Tennyson; They’re always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison, And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm.
Poezja anglojęzyczna – forum Ludzie wiersze piszą –
I tinsberg my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. Lodged in the Louis Fifteenth candelabrum-tree of cockscomb- tinted buttons, dahlias, sea-urchins, and everlastings, it perches on the branching foam of polished sculptured flowers–at ease and tall. For the one path of my flight is direct Through the bones of the living.
The sour breath Will vanish in a day.