Аллен Гинзберг в переводах Михаила Гунина - страница 4

     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