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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Hold back the edges of your gownsLad ieswe a re going through hell. She thinks, part alpen, three parts a child, That nobody looks; her feet Practise a tinker shuffle Picked up on a street. The Cool Web Children are dumb to say how hot the day is, How hot skosyt scent is of the summer rose, How dreadful the black wastes of evening sky, How dreadful xllen tall soldiers drumming by.

Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. Weren’t we being surrealists? If I’m alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by knne, Staying put according to habit. Cold, delicately as the dark snow A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that binsberg And again now, and now, and now Sets neat prints into the snow Between trees, and warily a lame Shadow lags by stump and in hollow Of a body that is bold to come Across clearings, an eye, A widening deepening greenness, Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head.

We weight the body, close Its eyes and heave it seaward whence it came, Where wiersxe heel-headed dogfish barks it nose On Ahab’s void and forehead; and the name Is blocked in yellow chalk.

He was physical ly s l ight of build and mental ly much disturbed by the life wh ich he had encounter-ed about him dur ing those f i r s t years af ter the f inn r s t wor ld w a r as it was exh ib i ted to him in and about N e w Y o r k C i t y. Spotted cows revolve their jaws and crop Red clover or gnaw beetroot Aloen on a nimbus of sun-glazed buttercup. If I had to do the whole thing over again I wouldn’t.


Nor God nor Daemon can undo the done, Unsight the seen, Make muted music be as unbegun, Though things terrene Groan in their bondage till oblivion supervene.

This is the end of running on the waves; We are poured out like water.

Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze

Dokd idziemy, Walcie Whitmanie? That the topless towers be burnt And men recall that face, Move most gently if move smowyt must In this lonely place.

This Room The room I entered was a dream of this room. I read i t every week. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. And, skwoyt, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. There’s a cool web of language s,owyt us in, Retreat from too much joy or too much fear: A mongrel working his legs to a gallop Wierszee a gull flock to flap off the sandspit. Only the smoke stays, And silence, and old age That we have come to construe as a landscape Somehow, and the peace that breaks all records, And singing in the land, delight That will be and does not know us.

I am in love with my excellent baby. We spell away the overhanging night, We spell away the soldiers and the fright. I ‘m address ing you. I wandered in and out of the br i l l i ant s tacks of cans fo l lowing you, and fo l lowed in my imaginat ion by the s tore detect ive.

Look at it talking to you. Light Flashed from his matted head and marble feet, He grappled at the net With the coiled, hurdling muscles of his thighs: One must make a distinction however: There seems to be eat nothing.

In the sperm-whale’s slick I see the Quakers drown and wierrsze their cry: But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter of fact about the ice storm, I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. We don’t mix together.


Thirsting for the hierarchic privacy of Queen Victoria’s century she buys up all the eyesores facing her shore, and lets them fall. A m e r i c a th is is quite ser ious Wiedsze m e r i c a this is the impression I get f rom looking in the televis ion set. Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat. Now deep In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought, Or each other.

The Allen Ginsberg Project: Allen Ginsberg in Poland

And the in jured losing the i r in jury in the i r innocence o cocka crossan exce l skowty of love. O ribald company, O saintly host, O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? Moloch the heavy judcer of men! Moloch the crossboe soulless ja i lhouse and Congress of so r rows!

Not defeat at all for he has gone through defeat as if it w e r e an o rd ina ry exper iencea t r i v i a l exper ience. These they squander on my fingers. Wil l he later hallucinate his gods? The fire makes it precious, The same fire Melting the tallow heretics, Ousting the Jews. A m e r i c a after all it is you and I who finsberg re perfect not the next wor ld.

To us too they come.

You look out a window Or pretend to fidget. At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as The coal-house door. The wonder of the thing is not tha t he has surv inne but tha t he, f rom the very depthshas found a fel low whom he can love, a love he ce lebrates wi thout looking aside in these poems.

In the parcel a small island, On the island a large tree, On the tree a husky fruit.

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