Written by
Allen Ginsberg |
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 for 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 de-
sire 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 qual-
ities 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 to the garden crying.
Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing 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 beckon-
ing and peering in the window waiting in the 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 blssom, 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 ceil-
ing, 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. gra-
ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-
incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me
if I wished to enter.
There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever needed them.
The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
The telephone--sad to relate--sits on the
floor--I haven't had the money to get it connected--
I want people to bow when 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.
Berkeley, September 8, 1955
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXCVII. Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno. HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS. Strange, passing strange adventure! when from oneOf the two brightest eyes which ever were,Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.I had return'd, to break the weary fastOf seeing her, my sole care in this world,Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'enIf all their other gifts together join'd,When from the right eye—rather the right sun—Of my dear Lady to my right eye cameThe ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;As if it intellect possess'd and wingsIt pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:Nature and pity then pursued their course. Anon.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XVIII. Qual più diversa e nova. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ALL THAT IS MOST STRANGE IN CREATION. Whate'er most wild and newWas ever found in any foreign land,If viewed and valued true,Most likens me 'neath Love's transforming hand.Whence the bright day breaks through,Alone and consortless, a bird there flies,Who voluntary dies,To live again regenerate and entire:So ever my desire,Alone, itself repairs, and on the crestOf its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun,There melts and is undone,And sinking to its first state of unrest,So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes,And, Phœnix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms. Where Indian billows sweep,A wondrous stone there is, before whose strengthStout navies, weak to keepTheir binding iron, sink engulf'd at length:So prove I, in this deepOf bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride,That fair rock knew to guideWhere now my life in wreck and ruin drives:Thus too the soul deprives,By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was,It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed:For mine, O fate accurst!A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws,Whom still i' the flesh a magnet living, sweet,Drags to the fatal shore a certain doom to meet. Neath the far Ethiop skiesA beast is found, most mild and meek of air,Which seems, yet in her eyesDanger and dool and death she still does bear:[Pg 134]Much needs he to be wiseTo look on hers whoever turns his mien:Although her eyes unseen,All else securely may be viewed at willBut I to mine own illRun ever in rash grief, though well I knowMy sufferings past and future, still my mindIts eager, deaf and blindDesire o'ermasters and unhinges so,That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face,Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace. In the rich South there flowsA fountain from the sun its name that wins,This marvel still that shows,Boiling at night, but chill when day begins;Cold, yet more cold it growsAs the sun's mounting car we nearer see:So happens it with me(Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat),When the bright light and sweet,My only sun retires, and lone and drearMy eyes are left, in night's obscurest reign,I burn, but if againThe gold rays of the living sun appear,My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange;Within me and without I feel the frozen change! Another fount of fameSprings in Epirus, which, as bards have told,Kindles the lurking flame,And the live quenches, while itself is cold.My soul, that, uncontroll'd,And scathless from love's fire till now had pass'd,Carelessly left at lastNear the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh,Was kindled instantly:Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night,A heart of marble had to mercy shamed.Which first her charms inflamedHer fair and frozen virtue quenched the light;That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire,Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire. [Pg 135]Beyond our earth's known brinks,In the famed Islands of the Blest, there beTwo founts: of this who drinksDies smiling: who of that to live is free.A kindred fate Heaven linksTo my sad life, who, smilingly, could dieFor like o'erflowing joy,But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay.Love! still who guidest my way,Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites,Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour,Ever with larger powerO'erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites;So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet,But in that season most when I my Lady met. Should any ask, my Song!Or how or where I am, to such reply:Where the tall mountain throwsIts shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows,He roams, where never eyeSave Love's, who leaves him not a step, is by,And one dear image who his peace destroys,Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies. Macgregor.
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Written by
John Milton |
III
Qual in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera
L'avezza giovinetta pastorella
Va bagnando l'herbetta strana e bella
Che mal si spande a disusata spera
Fuor di sua natia alma primavera,
Cosi Amor meco insu la lingua snella
Desta il fior novo di strania favella,
Mentre io di te, vezzosamente altera,
Canto, dal mio buon popol non inteso
E'l bel Tamigi cangio col bel Arno
Amor lo volse, ed io a l'altrui peso
Seppi ch' Amor cosa mai volse indarno.
Deh! foss' il mio cuor lento e'l duro seno
A chi pianta dal ciel si buon terreno.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 225] SONNET CCXXIII. Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama. THE EYES OF LAURA ARE THE SCHOOL OF VIRTUE. Feels any fair the glorious wish to gainOf sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise?On those bright eyes attentive let her gazeOf her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe.Honour to gain, with love of God to glow,Virtue more bright how native grace displays,May there be learn'd; and by what surest waysTo heaven, that for her coming pants, to go.The converse sweet, beyond what poets write,Is there; the winning silence, and the meekAnd saint-like manners man would paint in vain.The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight,Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seekBy art, what by kind chance alone we gain.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 153] SONNET CXXVI. In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea. HE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURA. Say from what part of heaven 'twas Nature drew,From what idea, that so perfect mouldTo form such features, bidding us behold,In charms below, what she above could do?What fountain-nymph, what dryad-maid e'er threwUpon the wind such tresses of pure gold?What heart such numerous virtues can unfold?Although the chiefest all my fond hopes slew.He for celestial charms may look in vain,Who has not seen my fair one's radiant eyes,And felt their glances pleasingly beguile.How Love can heal his wounds, then wound again,He only knows, who knows how sweet her sighs,How sweet her converse, and how sweet her smile. Nott. In what celestial sphere—what realm of thought,Dwelt the bright model from which Nature drewThat fair and beauteous face, in which we viewHer utmost power, on earth, divinely wrought?What sylvan queen—what nymph by fountain sought,Upon the breeze such golden tresses threw?When did such virtues one sole breast imbue?Though with my death her chief perfection's fraught.For heavenly beauty he in vain inquires,Who ne'er beheld her eyes' celestial stain,Where'er she turns around their brilliant fires:He knows not how Love wounds, and heals again,Who knows not how she sweetly smiles, respiresThe sweetest sighs, and speaks in sweetest strain! Anon.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXX. Deh qual pietà, qual angel fu sì presto. HIS PRAYER IS HEARD. What angel of compassion, hovering near,Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore,Whence now I feel descending as of yoreMy lady, in that bearing chaste and dear,My lone and melancholy heart to cheer,So free from pride, of humbleness such store,In fine, so perfect, though at death's own door,I live, and life no more is dull and drear.Blessèd is she who so can others blessWith her fair sight, or with that tender speechTo whose full meaning love alone can reach."Dear friend," she says, "thy pangs my soul distress;But for our good I did thy homage shun"—In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXXIX. Sennuccio, i' vo' che sappi in qual maniera. HE RELATES TO HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO HIS UNHAPPINESS, AND THE VARIED MOOD OF LAURA. To thee, Sennuccio, fain would I declare,To sadden life, what wrongs, what woes I find:Still glow my wonted flames; and, though resign'dTo Laura's fickle will, no change I bear.All humble now, then haughty is my fair;Now meek, then proud; now pitying, then unkind:Softness and tenderness now sway her mind;Then do her looks disdain and anger wear.Here would she sweetly sing, there sit awhile,Here bend her step, and there her step retard;Here her bright eyes my easy heart ensnared;There would she speak fond words, here lovely smile;There frown contempt;—such wayward cares I proveBy night, by day; so wills our tyrant Love! Anon. 1777. [Pg 105] Alas, Sennuccio! would thy mind could frameWhat now I suffer! what my life's drear reign;Consumed beneath my heart's continued pain,At will she guides me—yet am I the same.Now humble—then doth pride her soul inflame;Now harsh—then gentle; cruel—kind again;Now all reserve—then borne on frolic's vein;Disdain alternates with a milder claim.Here once she sat, and there so sweetly sang;Here turn'd to look on me, and lingering stood;There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole:And here she smiled, and there her accents rang,Her speaking face here told another mood.Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control. Wollaston.
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Written by
John Milton |
II
Donna leggiadra il cui bel nome honora
L'herbosa val di Rheno, e il nobil varco,
Ben e colui d'ogni valore scarco
Qual tuo spirto gentil non innamora,
Che dolcemente mostra si di fuora
De suoi atti soavi giamai parco,
E i don', che son d'amor saette ed arco,
La onde l' alta tua virtu s'infiora.
Quando tu vaga parli, O lieta canti
Che mover possa duro alpestre legno,
Guardi ciascun a gli occhi ed a gli orecchi
L'entrata, chi di te si truova indegno;
Gratia sola di su gli vaglia, inanti
Che'l disio amoroso al cuor s'invecchi.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CCXI. Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente. MELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGES. O Laura! when my tortured mindThe sad remembrance bearsOf that ill-omen'd day,When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears,I left my soul behind,That soul that could not from its partner stray;In nightly visions to my longing eyesThy form oft seems to rise,As ever thou wert seen,Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen,[Pg 218]But loosely in the wind,Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair,That late with studious care,I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined:On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears;Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears;Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief,As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief!Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deignTo hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain! Woodhouselee. What dread I feel when I revolve the dayI left my mistress, sad, without repose,My heart too with her: and my fond thought knowsNought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay.Again my fancy doth her form portrayMeek among beauty's train, like to some roseMidst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows;Not with misfortune prest but with dismay.Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness,Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire,Her song, her laughter, and her mild address;Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love:Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings direRaise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove! Nott.
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