# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Krijime në gjuhë të huaja >  Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)

## angeldust

Louis Ginsberg was a published poet, a high school teacher and a moderate Jewish Socialist. His wife, Naomi, was a radical Communist and irrepressible nudist who went tragically insane in early adulthood. Somewhere between the two in temperament was the Ginsberg's second son, Irwin Allen, born on June 3, 1926.

A shy and complicated child growing up in Paterson, New Jersey, Allen's home life was dominated by his mother's bizarre and frightening episodes. A severe paranoid, she often trusted young Allen when she was convinced the rest of the family and the world was plotting against her. As the sensitive boy tried to understand what was happening around him, he also had to struggle to comprehend what was happening inside him, because he was consumed by lust for other boys his age. 

He discovered the poetry of Walt Whitman (the original Beatnik) in high school, but despite his interest in poetry he followed his father's advice and began planning a career as a labor lawyer. This was what he had in mind when he began his freshman year at Columbia University, but he fell in with a crowd of wild souls there, including fellow students Lucien Carr and Jack Kerouac and non-student friends William S. Burroughs and Neal Cassady. These delinquent young philosophers were equally obsessed with drugs, crime, sex and literature. Ginsberg, the youngest and most innocent member of the circle, helped them develop their literary smarts, while they helped him in turn by utterly shattering his bookish naivete. 

His new crowd was based at Columbia, but they did not encourage him in his studies, and he eventually got suspended from Columbia for various small offenses. He began consorting with Times Square junkies and thieves (mostly friends of Burroughs), experimenting with Benzedrine and marijuana, and cruising gay bars in Greenwich Village, all the time believing himself and his friends to be working towards some kind of uncertain great poetic vision, which he and Kerouac called the New Vision. He began a passionate (for him, anyway) sexual affair with the reluctant Neal Cassady, and visited Cassady in Denver and San Francisco, helping to set in motion the cross-country trend that would soon inspire Kerouac's 'On The Road' adventures. The joyful craziness of his city friends somehow became a symbolic counterpoint, for Ginsberg, to the real craziness of his mother, whose condition continued to worsen until she was hospitalized for life and finally lobotomized. Many people deal with insanity in the family by becoming exaggeratedly normal, but Ginsberg went in the opposite direction. Knowing himself to be basically sane, he embraced bizarreness as a style of life, as if seeking to find the edge his mother had fallen over. Reading William Blake in a Harlem apartment one summer day in 1948, the 26-year-old Allen Ginsberg had a tremendous mad vision in which Blake came to him in person. This was the great moment of his life, and he joyfully told his family and friends that he had found God. 

The whole wild scene crashed, though, when the criminal activities of several of Ginsberg's friends (such as Burroughs and Herbert Huncke) resulted in his arrest and imprisonment. Ginsberg entered a 'straight' phase: he recounced Burroughs, immersed himself in psychoanalytic treatment, and even began dating a woman named Helen Parker. Now a self-declared heterosexual, he found a job as a marketing researcher. In an office in the Empire State Building, he helped develop an advertising campaign for Ipana Toothpaste (remember the 'Brush-a brush-a brush-a!' scene in the movie version of 'Grease'?) 

This phase was not meant to last. He met a kindred spirit, Carl Solomon, in the waiting room of a psychiatric hospital. He introduced himself to the important New Jersey poet William Carlos Williams, whose epic visionary poem about the town of Paterson had impressed Ginsberg greatly. Bearing a letter of introduction from the poet Williams, Ginsberg travelled to San Francisco and met Kenneth Rexroth, ringmaster of an emerging vibrant and youthful local poetry movement, which Ginsberg became a part of almost instantly. 

At the age of 29, Ginsberg had written much poetry but published almost none. He worked hard to promote the works of Kerouac and Burroughs to publishers, neglecting to promote his own. Even so, he was the first Beat writer to gain popular notice when he delivered a thundering performance of his new poem 'Howl' at the now-legendary Six Gallery poetry reading in October 1955. This great poem, conveniently publicized by a bungled obscenity charge that made Allen a worldwide symbol of sexual depravity (as homosexuality was then perceived), was the great expression of Beat defiance, just as Kerouac's 'On The Road,' published two years later, would be the great expression of Beat yearnings. 

Ginsberg followed 'Howl' with several other important new poems, such as 'Sunflower Sutra.' Now at a critical stage in his career, he was somehow able to avoid the 'fame burnout' that would soon engulf Kerouac. According to Bruce Cook in his book 'The Beat Generation,' Ginsberg even mellowed considerably during this period, after travelling the world, discovering Buddhism and falling in love with Peter Orlovsky, who would remain a constant companion (though their relationship was not monogamous) for thirty years. Perhaps most importantly, he exorcised some internal demons by writing 'Kaddish,' a brilliant and surprising poem about his mother's insanity and death.

His celebrity continued to grow as the 'Beat' concept evolved from an idea into a movement and then into a cliche. In the early sixties, Ginsberg threw himself into the hippie scene. He and Timothy Leary worked together to publicize Leary's new discovery, the psychedelic drug LSD, and Ginsberg attempted to turn on every famous cultural figure in his address book, including Willem De Kooning, Franz Kline, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonius Monk, Robert Lowell and Jack Kerouac (whose cranky response sent Timothy Leary on his first bum trip). 

As a famous American poet, Ginsberg was able to attain audiences with important political figures all over the world, and during the 60's he took advantage of this repeatedly. He pissed off one important official after another, causing furors in India, getting kicked out of Cuba and Prague, and annoying America's right wing to no end. He was a familiar bushy-bearded figure at protests against the Vietnam War, and his willingness to state his controversial views in public was an important factor in the development of the revolutionary state of mind that America developed during the 1960's. 

The list of 60's events that Ginsberg played an important part in is almost unbelievably huge. He participated in Ken Kesey's Acid Test Festivals in San Francisco, and helped Kesey break the ice between the San Francisco hippies and the antagonistic Hell's Angels. In the summer of 1965 Ginsberg made a seminal trip to London with several other Beat figures. Their reading at the Royal Albert Hall signalled the beginning of the London underground scene, based at the UFO Club, from which bands like Pink Floyd and the Soft Machine would emerge. Bob Dylan often cited Ginsberg as one of the few literary figures he could stand. Ginsberg can be seen standing in the alley in the background of Dylan's 1965 'Subterranean Homesick Blues' video, and would later play a major part in Dylan's 1977 film 'Renaldo and Clara.' Ginsberg, Gary Snyder and Michael McClure led the crowd in chanting 'OM' at the San Fransisco Be-In in 1967. Ginsberg, Burroughs, Jean Genet and Terry Southern were key figures at the Chicago Democratic Convention antiwar protests in 1968. One of the only radical events of the Sixties that Ginsberg was not a part of was the Stonewall gay uprising, and Ginsberg showed up at the site the next day to offer his support. 

In 1970 Ginsberg met the controversial Tibetan guru Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche. Ginsberg would soon accept Trungpa as his personal guru. He and poet Anne Waldman joined to create a poetry school, the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, at Trungpa's Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado. 

In the early eighties, Ginsberg even joined the punk rock movement, appearing on the Clash's 'Combat Rock' album and performing with them on stage. 

Ginsberg carried on an active social schedule until his death on April 5, 1997. He never moved away from his humble apartment in the poetry-rich streets of New York City's Lower East Side, and would constantly be seen at local readings and multicultural gatherings, either on a stage or in a crowd. He was one of my favorite living writers, and yet I personally grew so accustomed to seeing him sitting a few benches from me at readings that I stopped noticing. Now that he's dead these moments take on a broader dimension in my memory.

I spoke to him at length only once; you can read about it here.

I also saw him read poetry countless times, but it never stopped being a unique experience. He was a truly and simply free soul on stage, clinking little finger cymbals and barking weirdly melodic chants with an impish smile behind his graying beard and thick glasses. I particularly remember seeing him at a Carnegie Hall benefit for Tibet House, where performers like Paul Simon and Philip Glass received polite applause from the well-dressed crowd. Ginsberg wandered out looking like a bearded shtetl shoemaker and began croaking a weird and hilarious rant about meditation. The crowd loosened up for the first time, laughing at his Zen jokes, and they finally gave him the biggest applause of the night.

(One good way to experience this poet's utter weirdness today is to listen to his music. Songs like "Birdbrain" and "Gospel Noble Truths" are two of the more bizarrely rewarding. But don't play this stuff at a party unless you want everybody to go home.)

The first great thing about Ginsberg was his refusal to be embarrassed or to deny himself. And the other great thing was his poetry, which spoke in so strong a voice that his talent could not be denied.

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## angeldust

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing. 
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 
17, 1956. 
I can't stand my own mind. 
America when will we end the human war? 
Go **** yourself with your atom bomb. 
I don't feel good don't bother me. 
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind. 
America when will you be angelic? 
When will you take off your clothes? 
When will you look at yourself through the grave? 
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? 
America why are your libraries full of tears? 
America when will you send your eggs to India? 
I'm sick of your insane demands. 
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I 
need with my good looks? 
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not 
the next world. 
Your machinery is too much for me. 
You made me want to be a saint. 
There must be some other way to settle this argument. 
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back 
it's sinister. 
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical 
joke? 
I'm trying to come to the point. 
I refuse to give up my obsession. 
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing. 
America the plum blossoms are falling. 
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday 
somebody goes on trial for murder. 
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. 
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid 
I'm not sorry. 
I smoke marijuana every chance I get. 
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses 
in the closet. 
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid. 
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble. 
You should have seen me reading Marx. 
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right. 
I won't say the Lord's Prayer. 
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. 
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle 
Max after he came over from Russia. 
I'm addressing you. 
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by 
Time Magazine? 
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine. 
I read it every week. 
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner 
candystore. 
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library. 
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business- 
men are serious. Movie producers are serious. 
Everybody's serious but me. 
It occurs to me that I am America. 
I am talking to myself again. 
Asia is rising against me. 
I haven't got a chinaman's chance. 
I'd better consider my national resources. 
My national resources consist of two joints of 
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable 
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour 
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions. 
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of 
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots 
under the light of five hundred suns. 
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers 
is the next to go. 
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that 
I'm a Catholic. 
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly 
mood? 
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as 
individual as his automobiles more so they're 
all different sexes. 
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 
down on your old strophe 
America free Tom Mooney 
America save the Spanish Loyalists 
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die 
America I am the Scottsboro boys. 
America when I was seven momma took me to Com- 
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a 
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the 
speeches were free everybody was angelic and 
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin- 
cere you have no idea what a good thing the 
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand 
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me 
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody 
must have been a spy. 
America you don't really want to go to war. 
America it's them bad Russians. 
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. 
And them Russians. 
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power 
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our 
garages. 
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers' 
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. 
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta- 
tions. 
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read. 
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us 
all work sixteen hours a day. Help. 
America this is quite serious. 
America this is the impression I get from looking in 
the television set. 
America is this correct? 
I'd better get right down to the job. 
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes 
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and 
psychopathic anyway. 
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel. 
- Berkeley, January 17, 1956 

From Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg.

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## angeldust

In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai Shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday

Supported by the CIA
Pushing junk down Thailand way

First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting opium to send to The Man

Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA

Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Mai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief's brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train
Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA

The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. aid

The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA

He got so sloppy and peddled so loose
He busted himself and cooked his own goose
Took the reward for the opium load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold

Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA

Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & wench
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till opium flowed through the land like a flood

Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA

The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. intelligence came in to Laos

Mary Azarian/Matt Wuerker

I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosavan

All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA

And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars

It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA

All through the Sixties the dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshall Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting comfiture for President Thieu

All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA

Operation Haylift Offisir Wm Colby
Saw Marshall Ky fly opium Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of Dirty Tricks
"Hitch-hiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix

Subsidizing the traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA

-January 1972 

From Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg.

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## angeldust

upppsss me falni,

nje teme e tille me poezi nga Allen Ginsberg ekziston tashme ne forum. U kujtova vone te kontrolloja. :o 

Tema eshte ketu... 

http://www.forumishqiptar.com/showth...threadid=16260

Ju lutem moderatoreve ta rregullojne pak.

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## angeldust

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--

--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past--

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial-- modern--all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown--

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos--all these

entangled in your mummied roots--and you standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen,

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

From Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg.

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## angeldust

*Cosmopolitan Greetings*

(To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates & International Bards 1986)



Stand up against governments, against God.

Stay irresponsible.

Say only what we know & imagine.

Absolutes are coercion.

Change is absolute.

Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions.

Observe what's vivid.

Notice what you notice.

Catch yourself thinking.

Vividness is self-selecting.

If we don't show anyone, we're free to write anything.

Remember the future.

Advise only yourself.

Don't drink yourself to death.

Two molecules clanking against each other requires an observer to become 
        scientific data.

The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal
        world after Einstein.

The universe is subjective.

Walt Whitman celebrated Person.

We Are an observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person.

Universe is person.

Inside skull vast as outside skull.

Mind is outer space.

"Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound."

First thought, best thought.

Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.

Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.

Syntax condensed, sound is solid.

Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best.

Consonants around vowels make sense.

Savor vowels, appreciate consonants.

Subject is known by what she sees.

Others can measure their vision by what we see.

Candor ends paranoia.


                                        Kral Majales
                                        June 25, 1986
                                        Boulder, Colorado

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## angeldust

*Kaddish, Part I* 


For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894-1956

Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
   the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
   talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
   shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
   And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
   how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
   prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
   swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--
Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
   lypse,
the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after, 
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
   Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed--
like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion--
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
   trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
   ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it
   lasts, a Vision--anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
   Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
   dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and
   the sky above--an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side
   --where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the
   first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock 
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward
   Newark--
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice 
   cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
   and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
   on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
   sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
   the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved
   thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
   the street, firs escapes old as you
--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with
   us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever
   every time--
That's good!  That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,
   torture even toothache in the end--
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,
   in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair 
   and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
   braintricked Implacability.
Ai! ai!  we do worse! We are in a fix!  And you're out, Death let you out,
   Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with 
   God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure
   --Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the
   world--
There, rest.  No more suffering for you.  I know where you've gone, it's good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more 
   fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,
   loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands--
No more of sister Elanor,--she gone before you--we kept it secret you
   killed her--or she killed herself to bear with you--an arthritic heart
   --But Death's killed you both--No matter--
Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and
   weeks--forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human-
   ity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin's at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar
   --by standing room with Elanor & Max--watching also the Capital 
   ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL's hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts
   pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and
   laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave--lucky to
   have husbands later--
You made it--I came too--Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and
   will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer--or kill
   --later perhaps--soon he will think--)
And it's the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now
   --tho not you
I didn't foresee what you felt--what more hideous gape of bad mouth came 
   first--to you--and were you prepared?
To go where?  In that Dark--that--in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the 
   Void?  Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream?  Adonoi at last, with
   you?
Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull
   in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon--Deaths-
   head with Halo?  can you believe it?
Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence,
   than none ever was?
Nothing beyond what we have--what you had--that so pitiful--yet Tri-
   umph,
to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower--fed to the 
   ground--but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, 
   shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth
   wrapped, sore--freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the
   knife--lost
Cut down by an idiot Snowman's icy--even in the Spring--strange ghost 
   thought some--Death--Sharp icicle in his hand--crowned with old
   roses--a dog for his eyes--cock of a sweatshop--heart of electric
   irons.
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out--clocks, bodies, consciousness,
   shoes, breasts--begotten sons--your Communism--'Paranoia' into
   hospitals.
You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later.  You of 
   stroke.  Asleep?  within a year, the two of you, sisters in death.  Is
   Elanor happy?
Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over
   midnight Accountings, not sure.  His life passes--as he sees--and
   what does he doubt now?  Still dream of making money, or that might 
   have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Im-
   mortality, Naomi?
I'll see him soon.  Now I've got to cut through to talk to you as I didn't
   when you had a mouth.
Forever.  And we're bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson's horses
   --headed to the End.
They know the way--These Steeds--run faster than we think--it's our own
   life they cross--and take with them.

   Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, mar-
ried dreamed, mortal changed--Ass and face done with murder.
   In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under
pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
   Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless,
Father in death.  Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I'm
hymnless, I'm Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
   Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not
light or darkness, Dayless Eternity--
   Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some
of my Time, now given to Nothing--to praise Thee--But Death
   This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won-
derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping
--page beyond Psalm--Last change of mine and Naomi--to God's perfect
Darkness--Death, stay thy phantoms!

II
   Over and over--refrain--of the Hospitals--still haven't written your
history--leave it abstract--a few images
   run thru the mind--like the saxophone chorus of houses and years--
remembrance of electrical shocks.
   By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your
nervousness--you were fat--your next move--
   By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you--
once and for all--when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my
opinion of the cosmos, I was lost--
   By my later burden--vow to illuminate mankind--this is release of
particulars--(mad as you)--(sanity a trick of agreement)--
   But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and
spied a mystical assassin from Newark,
   So phoned the Doctor--'OK go way for a rest'--so I put on my coat
and walked you downstreet--On the way a grammarschool boy screamed,
unaccountably--'Where you goin Lady to Death'? I shuddered--
   and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask
against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma--
   And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of 
the gang?  You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on--to New
York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound--


From Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg.

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## ATMAN

ALLEN GINSBERG
Intiligjence Verbuese


Shtegtoj prej vdekjes

Per te bere nje shnje jete perseri ty

E ashper dhe e mrekullueshme si perplasje veturash

Ne Plaza de Armas



Betohem qe une kam pare Driten

Nuk do te deshtoj per te puthur faqen tende te

Nevertishme

Kur qivuri yt mbyllet.



Dhe vajtuesit njerezore ikin

Ne te tyren, te vjetren Enderr

Dhe ti zgjohesh ne Syrin e

Diktatorit te Universit



Nje tjeter mrekulli e merzitshme ! Une jam

Gabuar perseri !



Indiferenca jote ! Entuziazmi im !

Une ngul kembe ! Ti kollitesh !

Humbur ne dallget e arit qe

Ecin permes kozmosit



Ah, jam I lodhur duke kembengulur ! Mirupafshim

Te shoh vizione



Sonetat e tua te pastra?

Dua te lexoj, me te ndyrat, te tuat

Shgarravinat secrete

Shpresa jote, ne te tijen, me te pahijshmen, madheshti, 

Zoti im.



Vdekja nga te gjitha frontet


Nje hene e re shikon poshte ne planetin tone te embel, te semure

Orioni ndjek arushen e palevizshme ne mesrruge permes qiellit

Nga dimri ne dimer. Une zgjohem heret ne shtrat,

Kufoma fluturuese

Mbuluar me carcafe gazi te ndricuar, koka me dhemb,

Tempulli majtas

Fibrat e trurit pulsojne per Vdekjen e Pules dhe miriada morrash

Shperndare ne arsenikun e bardhe qe deperton ne

Perrenj, Kacabujte e qytetit

Hedhin valle ne dyshemete e kuzhinave te vendit,

S?ka bese per mua.

Djem tokesore te prere & hordhi vajzash pergjysem &

Fryme e lire

Thote kompjuteri ekspert Revolucionar:

Gjysma e populates se bakterit te globit blu, me

Shume se c?duhet,

Ruajne mushkerite e tuburllta nga pneumonia e ndyre.

Une thirra nje shfaroses qe lagu dyshemene e murit me

Vaj-vrases tartabiqesh: Qe do te njome trurin tim me

Vaj vrases !

Zgjohem para agimit, I tmerruar nga zoterimet e mia te drunjta,

Librat e mij gnostike, goja ime zelarte, plakja

Dashuron heshtjen, magjepsja

Ktheht ne imazh parajse, trupi im I dhjamur, I paafte

Per seks, babai duke vdekur

Qytetet e tokes te helmuara ne lufte, arti im I 

Pashprese

Mendja e fragmentarizuar- dhe ende abstrakte- 

Dhimbje ne

Tempullin majtas te vdekjes se gjalle.



Punk rock-u yt qaramani im I madh


Do ti tregoj nenes sime te shurdher per ty! Te

Rrezuar ne dysheme

Dhe haji pelenat e gjyshes tende! Daulle,

Sa shume zhurme, ti do nje revolucion?

Dua apokalipsin? Shpertheje nje tingull dinamiti?

S?mund te eksitohem. Me zelarte! Me me shume vese!



Qihu ne *****! Thithme! Eja ne veshet e mi!

I dua ato kerthizat e rozta, barkore!

Premtome, ti do te me vrasesh mua ne kanal me orgazem!

Do te t?a blej bileten per klubin tend te nates,

Dua te behem bust!

50-vjec dua te iki! Me kamzhik & zinxhire & lekure!

Qellome me shuplake! Puthme ne sy! Thithme kudo

Nga kopeshtet e Mabuhay-t tek CBGB, breg me breg

Nga kafka ne gishtin e kembes. Jepma kitaren tende elekrite nudo,

President Punk, gelltite F.B.I-ne me gojen tende te madhe.



Kenge



Peshe a botes eshte dashuria
Poshte barres se vetmise

Poshte barres se pakenaqesise

Pesha qe ne mbartim eshte dashuria.



Kush e mohon? 

Ne enderra preket trupi,

ne mendime krijohet nje mrekulli,

ne imazhinate nje ankth derisa lind

ne nje human-

      veshtron jashte zemres

      djegur me deliresi

      per barren e jetes

      qe eshte dashuria,



po ne qe mbajtem peshen te keputur

dhe keshtu ne duhet te pushojme

ne krahet e dashurise

ne fund duhet pushuar ne krahet e dashurise.



S?ka prehje pa dashuri

S?ka gjume pa endrra

Tashme te krijuara ne imazhinaten e njeriut

Bere e kapshme per adhurim

Ndodhet nje i brendshem

      I meparshem imazh

I hyjnores

Qe ma ben me shenje jashte

Per pelegrinazh.



O i ardhshem, i paimazhinueshem ZOT.



Amerika


Amerika, t?i kam dhene te gjitha dhe tani s?jam asgje

Amerika kur do t?i japim fund luftes njerezore?

Shko qihu ne ***** me bomben atomike

S?dihem mire, mos me trazo

Amerika kur do te jesh engjellore?

Kur do ta shohesh veten tende permes varrit

Amerika pse biblotekat e tua jane plot?

Jam I semure nga kerkesat e tua te cmendura

Ti me ben mua te jem I shenjte

Refuzoj te heq dore nga mania ime fikse

Amerika mos me tundo, e di se c?po bej

Amerika, lulet e kumbulles po bien

Ti duhet te me kesh pare duke lexuar Marksin

Psikoanalisti im mendos se jam krejtesisht ne rregull

S?dua te them lutjet e Krishtrit

Une kam vizione mistike dhe vibrime kozmike.



Maredheniet ne te cilat une mendoj realitetin



Realiteti eshte nje ceshtje
Qe te kuptosh sa reale

Bota eshte tashme



Koha eshte perjetesi

Skajore dhe e palevizshme

C?dokush nje engjell



Eshte misteri i qiellit

I ndryshimit te se perfektes

Perjetesi absolute



Ndryshime! Veturat gjithmone

Shkojne poshte rruges

Dritat fiken e ndizen



Burri jeton si nje kurve

E palumtur ne River Street qe

Ne perjetesine e saj gjen veten



Nje cift dollaresh dhe shume

Vertejtje te rreme ne kthim

Per kerkimin e dashurise fizike.



Poshte botes ka plot *****, e plot pidha.



Plot goje dhe ***

Poshte botes ka shume sperme, shume peshtyme, qe

Bashkohen ne perrenj

Ka shume *** poshte botes, qe derdhet poshte

Qyteteve ne lumenj

Shume urine rrjedh nen bote,

Shume qyrre nen flegrat e botes industriale, djerse

Poshte krahut te hekurt te botes, gjak

Qe shkulmon jashte kraharorit t botes,

Liqene te pamate lotesh, dete te vjellurash te semura

Qe vershojne permes hemisferave

Qe pluskojne drejt Sargaseve, rrecka te vjetra me vaj

Dhe alkol frenash, nafte humane

Poshte botes ka dhimbje, kofshe te thyera, napalmi

Digjet ne floket e zinj

Insekticitdete qe ndotin zbaticat oqeanore, lodra

Plastike notojne permes Atlantikut

Ushtare kukulla popullojne Paqesorin, bombarduesit

B-52 i marrin frymen ajrit te xhungles

Me vazhdat e tymit dhe brezat e shndritshem

Gumezhitje robotesh qe vrullojne mbi tarracat orizore

Duke hedhur tufa granatash, sazcme

Plastike te shperndara ne mish, mina dhembe dragoi

& flake xhelatinoze

qe bie ne catite prej kashte dhe buajve te ujit,

duke shpuar kasollet prej kashte me cifela shrapneli,

transhete mbushur me gaz helmues luftarak te

pluhurave eksplozive

poshte botes ka kafka te thyera, kembe te copetuara,

kokerdhoke te prere

gishta te prere, nofulla fertile,

dizanteri, miliona te pastrehe, zemra te torturuara,

shpirtera te zbrazur...



Ode diellit qe perendon


Lidnja plot indjiane prej tymi e hekuri

Perreth nje kurore te thyer

Harketari i llumit te Jersey-t

Zhveshur, me nje mantel te pluhurosur

Hekurudha zvarritet drejt nje flake

Ku dielli mishtor shkon poshte.



Shkelqimi I Apollonit, hija e kocise

Rrenqethje ne pragvdekje

Brigjet e qelibarta mbi livadhe

Ku pajtonet jane braktisur

Veniten ne nje dritehije te erret

Fantazma e mengjesit qe digjet.



Drejt perendimit te veshtrimit te shtrember te botes

Ne funeralin e reve te shiut,

qielli i ftohte, i palevizshem digjet flake,

lindur prej nje turme qe vdes,

agimi ne fund te diteve,

drite e pergjakur nen qefin.



Ne dominimin prej varrit te nates

Shume profeci mblidhen

Derisa perandorite e defrimit zbresin

Trupat e tyre zgjohen ndersa ne enderrojme

Dhe veshin petkun tone qe shkelqen

Kurora, ende ndrit me madheshti dhe shkelqen.



Poshte botes eshte nje sy

Hapur ne nje shpelle te verber

Dhe nje kafke ne perjetesi

I zbulon indiferencen varrit;

toka rrotullohet dhe dita mund te vdese,

dhe deti i pranon valet.



Kockat e mia po barten me tren

Drejt perendimit ku dielli ka shkuar

Nata eshte erresuar tej ne shi

Dhe ylbei i dites u zhduk

Qytetet e plakura permbi rrafshinen

Dhe tymi ngrihet siper, jashte nga guri.



Kali i hekurt


Karma

E akumuluar duke bombarduar Vietnamin

Trupi i Kalmes me napalm djegu

      Mosbesimi i Karmes...

Karma e plumbave prapa kokes

Karma e foshnjeve... shkaterruar duke klithur

Karma e popullatave qe leviz nga qendra ne qender

Te arrestit

Karma e rryshfeteve, Karma e parave te gjakut.



LSD (lloj droge halucinative)


Eshte nje perbindesh me miliona sy te shumefishte

Eshte i fshehur ne te tera, eshte elefanti dhe uni

Gumezhin ne makinen e shkrimit elektrike

Eshte elektricitet I lidhur me veten, nese ka

Percjellesa

Eshte nje rrjete e pamate merimange

Por ne fundin e larget te Universit merimanga

Symillioneshe nuk ka emer

Rrotullohet rreth vetes pafundesisht

Perbindeshi qe nuk eshte perbindesh afrohet

Me mollet, parfumin, herkurudhat,

Televizionin, kafkat

Nje Univers qe ha dhe pi vetveten

Gjak nga kafka ime



Krijese tibetione me gjoks leshator dhe Zodioku

Ne stomakun tim

Kjo viktimi sakrifimi e paafte te shijoje pakez kohe te mire

Fytyra ime ne pasqyre, floket e holle, gjak qe tejmbush

Damaret poshte suve te mi, rubinete thithese, nje dekompozim,

duke biseduar per epshin

nje kafshim, nje hungerime, nje kontraktim i ndegjegjshem

ne pafundesi

nje ngjethje ne syte e tere Universit

Duke u munduar t?i arratisem qenies time, 

I paafte t?I shpetoj syrit



Jo, a do ti qe une te behem Zot?

A ka ndonje pergjigje?

Gjithmone duhet te kete nje pergjigje?

Pergjigjesh ti.

Dhe atje ku mua me vjen mbare te them; PO ose JO

Faleminderit Zot une s?jam Zot.

Faleminderit Zot une s?jam Zot.

Droje

Dhe duhet te jete nje ai nje ata dhe nje gje pa pergjigje

Zvarritet, prêt eshte e qete, po fillon

Eshte trumpeta e luftes, eshte Skleroze e

Shumefishte

Nuk eshte shpresa ime

Nuk eshte vdekja ime ne perjetesi

Nuk eshte fjala ime, jo poezia

Dhe une kam bere nje imazh te perbindeshit ketu

E do te bej edhe nje tjeter

Te ndjehet si Kriptozoid

Te zvarritet e te valezoje ne det

Te vije te nenshtroje qytetin

Te pushtoje heshturazio c?do Vetedije

Te jete delikat si Universi

Te me beje te vjell

Sepse kam frike se s?do ia shoh fytyren

Te shfaqet ne c?do rast

Te shfaqet kudo ne pasqyre

Te shpelahet nga pasqyra si deti

Te jete miriada valezimesh

Te shpelahet nga pasqyra e te mbyse shikuesin

Te permbyte boten kur bota te mbytet

Te vetmbytet

Te pluskoje jashte si nje kufome e mbushur me muzike

Zhurmat e luftes ne koken e tij

Nje foshnje qesh ne barkun e tij

Nje klithme agonie ne detin e erret

Nje buzeqeshje ne buzet e statujes se verber

      Ishte atje, nuk ishte e imja

Dua t?a perdor ate per veten time

Per tu bere heroik

Por nuk shitet per kete vetedije

Shkon sipas udhes se vet gjithmone

Te kompletoje gjithe krijesat

Verjani veshin fjales sime

Eshte nje kurth fantazem nga prifti ne Sikim ose Tibet

Kurth Fantazme

Ku imazhi I universit ne miniature

Ndihet pjese e ndergjeshme e makines se nderthurur

Duke bere dallge, tej jashte ne kohe per spektatorin

Ky imazh energjie qe riprodhon veten ne

Thellesite e kozmosit qe prej fillimit

Ku mund te ishte nje O ose nje Aum

Dhe variantet gjurmuase, te perbera nga te njejtat

Rrathe boterore periferike

Ajo vete ne te njejtin model si Dukja e tij origjinale

Duke krijuar nje imazh me te madh te vetes permes

Humnerave te Kohes

Rrotullohen jashte permes mjegullnajes se larget
-         & Astrologji me shtrirje te gjere 
-         Permbajtja, te jete e vertete ne nje Mandala 
-         Te pikturuar ne lekuren e elefantit 


Me jep nje arsye te shendoshe

Me jep nje arsye te egzistoj

Me jep nje pergjigje te pafundme

Nje ndergjegje per t?u ndare dhenje ndergjegje per t?u pare

Une jam percaktuar te jem njeri, ose

Te tjeret te thone se une jam

Te dy dhe asnjeri

Mund te kujdeset per veten, pa mua

Eshte dyfish pa pergjigje (nuk I pergjigjem atij emri)

Gumezhin me makinen elektrike te shkrimit

Ajo shtyp nje fjale fragmentare, qe eshte

Nje fjale Fragmentare.



-         MANDALA 


Zoti kercen mbi trupat e tyre

Lule te reja celin duke harruar vdekjen

Sy qiellore pertej zemerplasjes se iluzionit

Shoh Krijuesin shend e vere

Banda ngrihet lart ne himnin e botes

Flamuj e banderola valviten ne kufijte mendor

Nje imazh ne fund mbetet, nje miriade sysh ne

Perjetesi!

Kjo eshte puna! Kjo eshte njohuria! Ky eshte fundi I njeriut.



Prezence e tmerrshme


Luan qe ha mendjen time tani,

Per nje dekade duke ditur vetem 

-         Urine tende 
Jo harene e kenaqesine tende

O ulerime e Universit,

Si une jam zgjedhur

Ne kete jete kam degjuar premtimin tend,

Jam gati te vdes 

-         I kam sherbyer o Lord 
Prezences tende te lashte e te vdekur urie,

Pres ne dhomen time te meshires tende



Nje rreth pambarim I mundesive perleshur ne Agjsesi

Me c?do gabim ne shkrimet e pashmangshme qe prej fillim te kohes.



O Fantazme qe mendja ime ndjek nga viti ne vit?

Gjigand jashte kohes?

Kale I pakapshem qe kaleron jashte varrezes?

Pikellues? Qesh pa goje, 

Zemer qe kurre s?pati epsh per te vdekur

Premtim qe nuk u be?



Ngushellues? Shkaterrues I Botes? Krijues I

Iluzioneve gjoksore.



Shenime per Hungerimen


E shenjte! E shenjte! E shenjte!

Bota eshte e shenjte! Shpirti eshte I shenjte!

Lekura eshte e shenjte!

Hunda eshte e shenjte! Gjuha dhe **** dhe dora dhe

Vrima e bythes, te shenjta!

C?do gje eshte e shenjte! C?dokush eshte I shenjte!

Kudo eshte shenjteria! Cdo dite eshte ne perjetesi!

C?do njeri eshte engjell!

Pavleftesia po aq hyjnore sa sublimja!

I cmenduri eshte I shenjte sa ti shpirti im je I shenjte!

E shenjte nena ime ne azilin cmendine!

Te shenjte karat e gjysherve te Kansasit!

E shenjte vetmia e gradacelave dhe dyshemeve!

Te shenjta kafete mbushur me miliona!

Te shenjte lumejte misterioze te loteve nen rruge!

E shenjte Koha ne perjetesi, e shenjte perjetesia ne Kohe,

Te shenjte oret ne Kozmos, I shenjte dimensioni I katert, e shenjte internacionalje e peste.

E shenjte falje! Meshira! Feja! Te shenjtat! Tonat!

Trupat! Vuajtjet! Shpirtmadhesia!

E shenjte miresia intilidhente, ekstra briliante,

Supernatyrale

E shpirtit.

----------

