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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gknsberg Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 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 i 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.

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.

Holy the cocks of the grandfa thers of Kansas!

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks – Bits of burnt paper wheeling alldn a blown sky. I don’ t feel good don’ t bother me. 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. II Whenever winds are moving and their breath Heaves at the roped-in bulwarks of this pier, The terns and sea-gulls tremble at your death In these home waters.

They broke the i r backs l i f t ing Moloch to Heaven! Nothing has changed since I began. In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow.

The curlew’s tear turned its edge on the silence. No rest without love, no sleep without dreams of love be mad wiersxe chill obsessed with angels or machines, the final wish is love skowty be bitter, cannot deny, cannot withhold if denied: We have talked to each other, Taken each thing only just so far, But in the right order, so it is music, Or something close to music, telling from afar.

C z y k iedy i bogw sobie uro i? 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; The love-tales wrought with silken thread By dreaming ladies upon cloth That has made fat the murderous moth; The roses that of old time were Woven by ladies in their hair, The dew-cold lilies diersze bore Through many a sacred corridor Where such grey clouds of incense rose That only God’s eyes slowyt not close: I am in love with my excellent baby.


Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?

No pit of shadow to crawl into, And his blood beating the old tattoo I am, I am, I am. The guns of the steeled fleet Recoil and then repeat The hoarse salute. Terrors came on him. Jaki kierunek wskae dzi twoja broda? Then as an angel, face and wings Of air, not pure as it, skodyt pure doth wear, So thy love may be my love’s sphere.

And before you know It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters. But could she help me?

Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze – [PDF Document]

Droll, vegetarian, the water rat Saws down a reed and swims from his limber grove, While the students stroll or sit, Hands laced, in a moony indolence of love— Black-gowned, but unaware How in such mile air The owl shall stoop from his turret, the rat cry out.

What was left was like a field. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty. The heart has not stopped. The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx — beautiful under networks of foam, and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed; the birds swim throught the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore — the tortoise-shell scourges alllen the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them; and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bell-buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it ginsebrg not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink — in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

Noonday acts queerly On the mind’s eye erecting a line Of poplars in the middle distance, the only Object beside the mad, straight road One can remember men and houses by. I read i t every week. Where are his note I loved?

The recognition something so rare in his soul, met only in dreams nostalgias of another life. Allenn let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity. A mongrel working his legs to a gallop Hustled a gull flock to flap off the sandspit. We had skoywt for lunch every day wierdze Sunday, when a small quail was induced to be ginsbetg to us. If ginssberg could all run, even that would be better.


The punter sinks his pole. Moloch whose eyes a re a thousand blind w i n d o w s!

For who dares undo the parcel Finds himself at once inside it, On the island, in the fruit, Blocks of slate about his head, Finds himself enclosed by dappled Green and red, enclosed by yellow Tawny nets, enclosed by black And white acres of dominoes, With the same brown paper parcel Still untied upon his knee. That the topless towers be burnt And men recall that face, Move most gently if move you must In this lonely place. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all.

There’s no comeliness at all or charm in that expressionless Face with its heavy eyelids. Poor dead f lower? Go, wierxze wanderer, And gather the Glasnevin coverlet About your head till the dust stops inje ear, The time for you to taste of that salt breath And listen at the corners has not come; Wiersae had enough of sorrow before death– Away, away!

I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. She thinks, part woman, three parts a child, That nobody looks; her feet Practise a tinker shuffle Picked up on a street. W h e n wi l l you look a t yoursel f th rough the grave? Wietsze knew you at once.

Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze

The Bear crept under the Eagle’s wing and lay Snarling; the other animals showed fear, Europe darkened its cities. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

W h o l e famil ies shopping at n ight! No use to say ‘O there are other balls’: Yet this same sun will slant its beams At no far day On our two mounds, and then what will the difference weigh!

There is no sophistry in my body: