Аллен Гинзберг в переводах Михаила Гунина

O dear sweet rosy

unattainable desire

. .how sad, no way

to change the mad

cultivated asphodel, the

visible reality. .

and skin's appalling

petals- how inspired

to be so Iying in the living

room drunk naked

and dreaming, in the absence

of electricity. .

over and over eating the low root

of the asphodel,

gray fate. .

rolling in generation

on the flowery couch

as on a bank in Arden —

my only rose tonite's the treat

of my own nudity.

The weight of the world

is love.

Under the burden

of solitude,

under the burden

of dissatisfaction

the weight,

the weight we carry

is love.

Who can deny?

In dreams

it touches

the body,

in thought

constructs

a miracle,

in imagination

anguishes

till born

in human —

looks out of the heart

burning with purity —

for the burden of life

is love,

but we carry the weight

wearily,

and so must rest

in the arms of love

at last,

must rest in the arms

of love.

No rest

without love,

no sleep

without dreams

of love —

be mad or chill

obsessed with angels

or machines,

the final wish

is love

— cannot be bitter,

cannot deny,

cannot withhold

if denied:

the weight is too heavy

— must give

for no return

as thought

is given

in solitude

in all the excellence

of its excess.

The warm bodies

shine together

in the darkness,

the hand moves

to the center

of the flesh,

the skin trembles

in happiness

and the soul comes

joyful to the eye —

yes, yes,

that's what

I wanted,

I always wanted,

I always wanted,

to return

to the body

where I was born.

Drinking my tea Without sugar —

No difference.

The sparrow shits

upside down — ah! my brain & eggs

Mayan head in a Pacific driftwood bole — Someday I'll live in N.Y.

Looking over my shoulder my behind was covered with cherry blossoms.

Winter Haiku

I didn't know the names of the flowers-now my garden is gone.

I slapped the mosquito and missed. What made me do that?

Reading haiku I am unhappy, longing for the Nameless.

A frog floating in the drugstore jar: summer rain on grey pavements.

On the porch in my shorts; auto lights in the rain.

Another year has past-the world is no different.

The first thing I looked for in my old garden was The Cherry Tree.

My old desk: the first thing I looked for in my house.

My early journal: the first thing I found in my old desk.

My mother's ghost: the first thing I found in the living room.

I quit shaving but the eyes that glanced at me remained in the mirror.

The madman emerges from the movies: the street at lunchtime.

Cities of boys are in their graves, and in this town…

Lying on my side in the void: the breath in my nose.

On the fifteenth floor the dog chews a bone- Screech of taxicabs.

A hardon in New York, a boy in San Fransisco.

The moon over the roof, worms in the garden. I rent this house.

Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot welcoming me to the land of dream Sofas

couches fog in England Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows curtains on his

windows, fog seeping in the chimney but a nice warm house and an incredibly

sweet hooknosed Eliot he loved me, put me up, gave me a couch to sleep on,

conversed kindly, took me serious asked my opinion on Mayakovsky I read him

Corso Creeley Kerouac advised Burroughs Olson Huncke the bearded lady in the

Zoo, the intelligent puma in Mexico City 6 chorus boys from Zanzibar who

chanted in wornout polygot Swahili, and the rippling rhythms of Ma Rainey

and Rachel Lindsay. On the Isle of the Queen we had a long evening's

conversation Then he tucked me in my long red underwear under a silken

blanket by the fire on the sofa gave me English dottle and went off sadly to

his bed, Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad to have met a fine young man like you.

At last, I woke ashamed of myself. Is he that good and kind? Am I that

great? What's my motive dreaming his manna? What English Department would

that impress? What failure to be perfect prophet's made up here? I dream of

my kindness to T.S. Eliot wanting to be a historical poet and share in his

finance of Imagery- overambitious dream of eccentric boy. God forbid my evil

dreams come true. Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg. T.S. Eliot would've

been ashamed of me.

a lot of mouths and cocks, under the world there's a lot of come, and a lot

of saliva dripping into brooks, There's a lot of Shit under the world,

flowing beneath cities into rivers, a lot of urine floating under the world,

a lot of snot in the world's industrial nostrils, sweat under world's iron

arm, blood gushing out of the world's breast, endless lakes of tears, seas

of sick vomit rushing between the hemispheres floating towards Sargasso, old

oily rags and brake fluids, human gasoline- Under the world there's pain,

fractured thighs, napalm burning in black hair, phosphorus eating elbows to

bone insectiside contaminating oceantide, plastic dolls floating across

Atlantic, Toy soldiers crowding the Pacific, B-52 bombers choking jungle air

with vaportrails and brilliant flares

Robot drones careening over rice terraces dropping cluster grenades,

plastic pellets spray into flesh,

dragontooth mines & jellied fires fall on straw roofs and water buffalos,

perforating village huts with barbed shrapnel, trenchpits filled with

fuel-gas-poisen'd explosive powders- Under the world there's broken skulls,

crushed feet, cut eyeballs,

severed fingers, slashed jaws,

Dysentry, homeless millions, tortured hearts, empty souls.

We Rise On Sun Beams And Fall In The Night

Dawn's orb orange-raw shining over Palisades bare crowded branches bush up

from marshes- New Jersey with my father riding automobile highway to Newark

Airport- Empire State's spire, horned buildingtops, Manhattan rising as in

W. C. Williams' eyes between wire trestles- trucks sixwheeled steady

rolling overpass beside New York- I am here tiny under sun rising in vast

white sky, staring thru skeleton new buildings, with pen in hand awake…

Whom bomb? We bomb them! Whom bomb? We bomb them! Whom bomb? We bomb them!

Whom bomb? We bomb them!

Whom bomb? You bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb you!

Whom bomb? You bomb you!

What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do?

Who do we bomb? What do we do? Who do we bomb?

What do we do? You bomb! You bomb them! What do we do? You bomb! You bomb

them! What do we do? We bomb! We bomb them! What do we do? We bomb! We bomb

them!

Whom bomb? We bomb you! Whom bomb? We bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb you!

Whom bomb? You bomb you!

At 66, just learning how to take care of my body Wake cheerful 8 a.m. &

write in a notebook rising from my bed side naked leaving a naked boy asleep

by the wall mix miso mushroom leeks & winter squash breakfast, Check

bloodsugar, clean teeth exactly, brush, toothpick, floss, mouthwash oil my

feet, put on white shirt white pants white sox sit solitary by the sink a

moment before brushing my hair, happy not yet to be a corpse.

When I die

I don't care what happens to my body

throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River

bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery

But l want a big funeral

St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in

Manhattan

First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt

Honey from old Newark,

Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-in-law

blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren,

companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan —

Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, there

Sakyong

Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami

Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri &

Suzuki Roshi's phantoms

Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama

Tarchen — —

Then, most important, lovers over half-century

Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich

young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other,

innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories

"He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand day

retreat — "

"I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me"

"I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone"

"We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly

arms round each other"

"I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies

would be on the floor"

"Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master"

"We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then sleep in

his captain's bed."

"He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy"

"I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my

stomach

shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips- "

"All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth &

fingers along my waist"

"He gave great head"

So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commingling

with flesh and youthful blood of 1997

and surprise — "You too? But I thought you were straight!"

"I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me."

"I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and

affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,

my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my prick, tickled

with his

tongue my behind"

"l loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged

chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow — "

Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear

"I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his

walk-up flat,

seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again

never wanted to… "

"He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made sure I

came first"

This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor —

Then poets & musicians — college boys' grunge bands — age-old rock star

Beatles,

faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical conductors, unknown high Jazz

music composers, funky trumpeters, bowed bass & french horn black

geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin

autoharp pennywhistles & kazoos

Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, Late

fauve

Tuscan painter-poets, Classicdraftsman Massachusets surreal jackanapes

with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from

American provinces

Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate bibliophiles,

sex liberation troops nay

armies, ladies of either sex

"I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway,

true artist"

"Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide

hospitals"

"Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a

week

in Budapest"

Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois"

"I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet- "

"He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City"

"Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City"

"Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982"

"I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like

me out there"

Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures

Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photography

aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to

witness the historic funeral

Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph-hunters,

distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers

Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased

who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive