The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
. kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
. kindly stayed open waiting or me, its owner.
I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
. to music, my misery, that’s why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence
. of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
. ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
. me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door
. The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had
arisen
. to think at the sun.
. Can I bring back the words? Will thought of
transcription haze my mental open eye?
. The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire
to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them
. The privilege to witness my existence – you too
must seek the sun…
. My books piled up before me for my use
. waiting in space where I placed them, they
haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qualities
for me to use – my words piled up, my texts, my
manuscripts, my loves.
. I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out the garden crying.
. Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were
waiting stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
them....
. Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
. I am so lonely in my glory – except they too out
there – I looked up – those red bush blossoms beckoning
and peering in the window waiting in blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive – all creation open to receive – the
flat earth itself.
. The music descends, as does the tall bending
stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
. The world knows the love that’s in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
. The Father is merciful.
. The light socket is crudely attached to the ceiling,
after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now…
. The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
. The kitchen has no door, the hole there will
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
. I remember when I first got laid, H.P. graciously
took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Provincetown,
age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me
if I wished to enter.
. There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever need them.
. The kitchen window is open, to admit air…
. The telephone – sad to relate – sits on the
floor – I haven’t the money to get it connected –
. I want people to bow as they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator.
. And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.
. Allen Ginsberg
. Berkley, September 8, 1955
. kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
. kindly stayed open waiting or me, its owner.
I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
. to music, my misery, that’s why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence
. of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
. ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
. me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door
. The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had
arisen
. to think at the sun.
. Can I bring back the words? Will thought of
transcription haze my mental open eye?
. The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire
to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them
. The privilege to witness my existence – you too
must seek the sun…
. My books piled up before me for my use
. waiting in space where I placed them, they
haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qualities
for me to use – my words piled up, my texts, my
manuscripts, my loves.
. I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out the garden crying.
. Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were
waiting stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
them....
. Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
. I am so lonely in my glory – except they too out
there – I looked up – those red bush blossoms beckoning
and peering in the window waiting in blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive – all creation open to receive – the
flat earth itself.
. The music descends, as does the tall bending
stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
. The world knows the love that’s in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
. The Father is merciful.
. The light socket is crudely attached to the ceiling,
after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now…
. The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
. The kitchen has no door, the hole there will
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
. I remember when I first got laid, H.P. graciously
took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Provincetown,
age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me
if I wished to enter.
. There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever need them.
. The kitchen window is open, to admit air…
. The telephone – sad to relate – sits on the
floor – I haven’t the money to get it connected –
. I want people to bow as they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator.
. And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.
. Allen Ginsberg
. Berkley, September 8, 1955
