Flèche

Allen Ginsberg for Naomi Ginsberg, (1894 -1956) I 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 Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, 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, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability —while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? [...]

- رابطه‌ی من با شعر بسیار مازوخیستیکه. از اینکه با کلمات به خودم آسیب می‌زنم لذت می‌برم.

متوجه شدم اگه اضطراب نداشته باشم تقریبا دیگه هیچ کاری نمی‌کنم.

No. 2,

Mais, vrai, J'ai trop pleure! Les aubes sont navrantes. No. 1,

It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight. Charlotte Perkins Gilman_

فلوبر!

- چیزی که از دستش دادم یه جور enthusiasm عه. هیچی اونقدر منو به وجد نمیاره. احساساتم منو به جای عمیق‌تری نمی‌برن و ارتباطم با ابژه‌هایی که شدیدا بهشون باور داشتم تاریک‌تر از اون شده که به یاد بیارم چطور می‌تونم بازم لمسشون کنم.

- چیزی که از دستش دادم یه جور enthusiasm عه. هیچی اونقدر منو به وجد نمیاره. احساساتم منو به جای عمیق‌تری نمی‌برن و ارتباطم با ابژه‌هایی که شدیدا بهشون باور داشتم تاریک‌تر از اون شده که به یاد بیارم چطور می‌تونم بازم لمسشون کنم.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out ‌ ‌ ‌of doors by somebody I do not know. John Keats_