Re: whimper for allen ginsberg
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Re: whimper for allen ginsberg         

Group: alt.philosophy · Group Profile
Author: Will Dockery
Date: May 23, 2007 10:32

"Stuart Leichter" wrote:
>Dennis M. Hammes wrote on 5/23/07 5:00 AM:
>
>> The "Beat Movement" started producing pop prose -- both essay and
>> fiction -- as a direct response to the onset of the Depression, and
>> has its roots in the amplified disparities of the Have-Nots even
>> before that.
>> The "Beat" attitude is the direct result of the fact that the
>> Anarchists resulted only in WWI, and the Wobblies resulted only in
>> the Depression.
>> Beat Poetry was a little late to recognise or accept the Movement,
>> because most practising poets were already safely tenured from those
>> world-wide nasties behind the Walls of Ivy.
>> The Modern or PO-wetic or Second Generation Beat attitude is the
>> driect result of the fact that WWII resulted only in the Fuken Bomb
>> and the Cold War.
>>
>> Not oddly, certain poets /did/ respond to these events, but so
>> specifically that they weren't called "Beat Poets" -- whose hallmark

Well most of that "protest" stuff easily becomes dated, and like the Beats I
tend to that, going for something that'll last... as Ginsberg and Kerouac
have (and yours hasn't and won't, but for other reasons, one of which is
you're and imitator and locked into form rather than content).

Gregory Corso (who is/was a better poet than you) did write about "the
bomb", and did it with a sense of humor, even:

http://www.litkicks.com/BeatPages/page.jsp?what=Bomb

Bomb

Budger of history Brake of time You Bomb
Toy of universe Grandest of all snatched sky I cannot hate you
Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt the jawbone of an ass
The bumpy club of One Million B.C. the mace the flail the axe
Catapult Da Vinci tomahawk Cochise flintlock Kidd dagger Rathbone
Ah and the sad desparate gun of Verlaine Pushkin Dillinger Bogart
And hath not St. Michael a burning sword St. George a lance David a
sling
Bomb you are as cruel as man makes you and you're no crueller than
cancer
All Man hates you they'd rather die by car-crash lightning drowning
Falling off a roof electric-chair heart-attack old age old age O
Bomb
They'd rather die by anything but you Death's finger is free-lance
Not up to man whether you boom or not Death has long since distributed
its
categorical blue I sing thee Bomb Death's extravagance Death's
jubilee
Gem of Death's supremest blue The flyer will crash his death will
differ
with the climbor who'll fall to die by cobra is not to die by bad pork
Some die by swamp some by sea and some by the bushy-haired man in the
night
O there are deaths like witches of Arc Scarey deaths like Boris Karloff
No-feeling deaths like birth-death sadless deaths like old pain Bowery
Abandoned deaths like Capital Punishment stately deaths like senators
And unthinkable deaths like Harpo Marx girls on Vogue covers my own
I do not know just how horrible Bombdeath is I can only imagine
Yet no other death I know has so laughable a preview I scope
a city New York City streaming starkeyed subway shelter
Scores and scores A fumble of humanity High heels bend
Hats whelming away Youth forgetting their combs
Ladies not knowing what to do with their shopping bags
Unperturbed gum machines Yet dangerous 3rd rail
Ritz Brothers from the Bronx caught in the A train
The smiling Schenley poster will always smile
Impish death Satyr Bomb Bombdeath
Turtles exploding over Istanbul
The jaguar's flying foot
soon to sink in arctic snow
Penguins plunged against the Sphinx
The top of the Empire state
arrowed in a broccoli field in Sicily
Eiffel shaped like a C in Magnolia Gardens
St. Sophia peeling over Sudan
O athletic Death Sportive Bomb
the temples of ancient times
their grand ruin ceased
Electrons Protons Neutrons
gathering Hersperean hair
walking the dolorous gulf of Arcady
joining marble helmsmen
entering the final ampitheater
with a hymnody feeling of all Troys
heralding cypressean torches
racing plumes and banners
and yet knowing Homer with a step of grace
Lo the visiting team of Present
the home team of Past
Lyre and tube together joined
Hark the hotdog soda olive grape
gala galaxy robed and uniformed
commissary O the happy stands
Ethereal root and cheer and boo
The billioned all-time attendance
The Zeusian pandemonium
Hermes racing Owens
The Spitball of Buddha
Christ striking out
Luther stealing third
Planeterium Death Hosannah Bomb
Gush the final rose O Spring Bomb
Come with thy gown of dynamite green
unmenace Nature's inviolate eye
Before you the wimpled Past
behind you the hallooing Future O Bomb
Bound in the grassy clarion air
like the fox of the tally-ho
thy field the universe thy hedge the geo
Leap Bomb bound Bomb frolic zig and zag
The stars a swarm of bees in thy binging bag
Stick angels on your jubilee feet
wheels of rainlight on your bunky seat
You are due and behold you are due
and the heavens are with you
hosanna incalescent glorious liaison
BOMB O havoc antiphony molten cleft BOOM
Bomb mark infinity a sudden furnace
spread thy multitudinous encompassed Sweep
set forth awful agenda
Carrion stars charnel planets carcass elements
Corpse the universe tee-hee finger-in-the-mouth hop
over its long long dead Nor
From thy nimbled matted spastic eye
exhaust deluges of celestial ghouls
From thy appellational womb
spew birth-gusts of of great worms
Rip open your belly Bomb
from your belly outflock vulturic salutations
Battle forth your spangled hyena finger stumps
along the brink of Paradise
O Bomb O final Pied Piper
both sun and firefly behind your shock waltz
God abandoned mock-nude
beneath His thin false-talc's apocalypse
He cannot hear thy flute's
happy-the-day profanations
He is spilled deaf into the Silencer's warty ear
His Kingdom an eternity of crude wax
Clogged clarions untrumpet Him
Sealed angels unsing Him
A thunderless God A dead God
O Bomb thy BOOM His tomb
That I lean forward on a desk of science
an astrologer dabbling in dragon prose
half-smart about wars bombs especially bombs
That I am unable to hate what is necessary to love
That I can't exist in a world that consents
a child in a park a man dying in an electric-chair
That I am able to laugh at all things
all that I know and do not know thus to conceal my pain
That I say I am a poet and therefore love all man
knowing my words to be the acquainted prophecy of all men
and my unwords no less an acquaintanceship
That I am manifold
a man pursuing the big lies of gold
or a poet roaming in bright ashes
or that which I imagine myself to be
a shark-toothed sleep a man-eater of dreams
I need not then be all-smart about bombs
Happily so for if I felt bombs were caterpillars
I'd doubt not they'd become butterflies
There is a hell for bombs
They're there I see them there
They sit in bits and sing songs
mostly German songs
And two very long American songs
and they wish there were more songs
especially Russian and Chinese songs
and some more very long American songs
Poor little Bomb that'll never be
an Eskimo song I love thee
I want to put a lollipop
in thy furcal mouth
A wig of Goldilocks on thy baldy bean
and have you skip with me Hansel and Gretel
along the Hollywoodian screen
O Bomb in which all lovely things
moral and physical anxiously participate
O fairylike plucked from the
grandest universe tree
O piece of heaven which gives
both mountain and anthill a sun
I am standing before your fantastic lily door
I bring you Midgardian roses Arcadian musk
Reputed cosmetics from the girls of heaven
Welcome me fear not thy opened door
nor thy cold ghost's grey memory
nor the pimps of indefinite weather
their cruel terrestial thaw
Oppenheimer is seated
in the dark pocket of Light
Fermi is dry in Death's Mozambique
Einstein his mythmouth
a barnacled wreath on the moon-squid's head
Let me in Bomb rise from that pregnant-rat corner
nor fear the raised-broom nations of the world
O Bomb I love you
I want to kiss your clank eat your boom
You are a paean an acme of scream
a lyric hat of Mister Thunder
O resound thy tanky knees
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
BOOM ye skies and BOOM ye suns
BOOM BOOM ye moons ye stars BOOM
nights ye BOOM ye days ye BOOM
BOOM BOOM ye winds ye clouds ye rains
go BANG ye lakes ye oceans BING
Barracuda BOOM and cougar BOOM
Ubangi BOOM orangutang
BING BANG BONG BOOM bee bear baboon
ye BANG ye BONG ye BING
the tail the fin the wing
Yes Yes into our midst a bomb will fall
Flowers will leap in joy their roots aching
Fields will kneel proud beneath the halleluyahs of the wind
Pinkbombs will blossom Elkbombs will perk their ears
Ah many a bomb that day will awe the bird a gentle look
Yet not enough to say a bomb will fall
or even contend celestial fire goes out
Know that the earth will madonna the Bomb
that in the hearts of men to come more bombs will be born
magisterial bombs wrapped in ermine all beautiful
and they'll sit plunk on earth's grumpy empires
fierce with moustaches of gold

-Gregory Corso
>> seems always to have been only that they couldn't say /why/ they were
>> whining -- but Poets of Other Stuff: Owen and Sassoon "against the
>> war," Bishop, Ruckeyeser, Lowell, etc. "against war" and "against the
>> Depression," etc., or Auden against the next generation's war (and
>> stupidty).
>> But jesusfuck, Dockery, you want antiwar poetry, read Suckling,
>> read Herrick, read Kipling, read Whitman. You want antideath poetry,
>> read Donne, read Dickinson, read Housman. You want anti-stupid
>> poetry, read Pope, read Dryden, read Browning, read Frost, read Eliot.
>> And I hereby defy /you/ to trace any sort of Beat Origins in them,
>> let alone call them Beat Poets, because they were literate and you
>> and your goddamned "Beats" are not.
>> Because those masters wrote their stuff facing a /blank/ sheet of
>> paper, alone in an empty room with the door shut, while you and your
>> "Beats" rip a little from here, a little from there, paste it
>> together with your own shit, and /never/ have your lips free of the
>> warmth of your overrated friends.
>>
>> Which is why any one of the masters was far more depressed and
>> depressive -- "Beat" to you, monkey -- than all of their "Beat"
>> successors put together in a cocksucking bunch.
>> One of the finest summations of either Beat Generation was put by
>> a writer probably better (he sure made more money) than all of us:
>> "All they had to worry about was wood alcohol in bootleg liquor."
>>
>> Which, makes you a Beat if ever there
>> was one.
>
> Tsk squared. You mention Whitman, a fave of Ginsberg, but you sound like
> Whitman's 'Learn'd Astronomer". You don't mention William Carlos Williams,
> Ginsberg's absolute fave, and mine too, but it doesn't matter what I think
> cos I don't post much.

Hammes is angry because Ginsberg and Williams (not to mention Whitman, which
is a given) are/were better poets than he is.

And are and will be remembered when he is/will be never known/forgotten.

--
"...there are five native American art forms that we've given to the world:
Jazz, of course. Musical comedy as we know it today. The detective story as
crafted by Poe. The banjo. And comic books."
-Harlan Ellison

"Mirror Twins" by W. Dockery-B. Fowler:
http://www.myspace.com/shadowvilleallstars

"Hasty Pudding" by W. Dockery-H. Conley:
http://www.myspace.com/willdockery
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