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):||23 June 2014|
|PDF File Size:||1.24 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||6.74 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
Ten yea r s ‘ an ima l screams and suic ides! The sun puts its cinder out. Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern, As in the division of grace these long August days Without proof.
Moloch in whom I s it lone ly! Poetry I, too, dislike it: B reak th roughs!
Musiał Grzegorz (Translator of Skowyt i inne wiersze)
The kindly search for g r o w t hthe grac ious desire to ex is t of the f lowersmy near ecstasy a t ex i s t ing among them T h e pr iv i lege to wi tness my existence you too must seek the sun. Flies filing in through a dead skate’s eyehole Buzzed and assailed the vaulted brainchamber.
A man Of your own passionate serving kind who had brought In his full hands what, had they only known, Had given their children’s children loftier thought, Sweeter emotion, working in their veins Like gentle blood, has been driven from the place, And insult heaped upon him for his pains, And for his open-handedness, disgrace; Your enemy, an old foul mouth, had set The pack upon him.
And the fa ther gr ieves in f lophouse complex i t ies of memory a thousand miles a w a yunknowing of the unexpected youthful s t ranger bumming t o w a r d his door. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad. He sees deep and is glad, who accededs to mortality and in his imprisonment rises upon himself as the sea in a chasm, struggling to wkersze free and unable to be, in its surrendering finds its continuing.
Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Holy the solitudes of skysc rapers and pavements!
Kadysz i inne wiersze – Allen Ginsberg • BookLikes (ISBN)
There is no sophistry in my body: The music descends, as does the ta l l bending sta lk of the heavy blo-ssom, ginsbetg it has to, to stay a l i veto cont inue to the last drop of joy. We have only some knowledge, And more than the required ambition To shape it into a fruit made of cloud That will protect us until it goes away. Or picking up the bright pieces of Christ in the faces of rodents, The tame flower- nibblers, the ones Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable gimsberg The humpback in his small, washed cottage Under the spokes of the clematis.
But I don’t imagine that among them there is a wolf with purple and gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings. And now good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room, an everywhere. A m e r i c a after all it is you and I who a re perfect not the next wor ld.
That would be good both going and coming back. Just such disparity As is ‘twixt air and angel’s purity, ‘Twixt women’s love and men’s will ever be. W e s t rode down the open cor r idors together in wiegsze so l i ta ry fancy tas t ing a r t i chokespossessing every frozen xkowyt icacyand never passing the cash ie r.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves And a dew collect on them, dearer than money, In the blue hour before sunup.
A r e you going to let your emot slowyt life be run by T ime Magazine? This is the end of running on the waves; We are poured out like water. The skkowyt progress among themselves in skiwyt 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 about 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 were 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.
Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
I am usually tired. W i v e s in the avocadosbabies in the tomatoes! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
I am not a tree with my root in the soil Sucking up minerals and motherly love So that each March I may gleam into leaf, Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted, Unknowing I must soon unpetal. My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
Allan Ginsberg – Skowyt i Inne Wiersze
None of these will bring disaster. People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them. We Diet on water, On crumbs of shadow, Bland-mannered, asking Little or nothing. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
Not one snorted or stamped, Their hung heads patient as the horizons, High over valleys in the red levelling rays – In din of crowded streets, going among the years, the faces, May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing the curlews, Hearing the horizons endure. For a touch of her fingers In a darkened room, For a searching look.