Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— with your belly of strikes and smokestacks Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty I’ll see him soon. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Man is like a breath, his days are like a passing shadow … So teach us to treasure our days that we may get a wise heart. Another Psalm, this one talks about God’s role as a guardian.

In Jewish thought, souls go to paradise after death. Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— with your eyes of America taking a fall

with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina

By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore.

I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad.

She went to the backroom to lie down in bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper—

I know where you’ve gone, it’s good.

Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor.

Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? Blest be your failure!

First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street—

Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy—

O strange Naomi!

Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion.

When a close relative passes away, a Kaddish is recited by mourners for eleven months. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish—

Blessed are those who comfort the mourners.". with your eyes of stroke / You can love me most by /Letting me live in your eyes / And not on your mind.".

Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless,Father in death.Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I'mhymnless, I'm Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, notlight or darkness, Dayless Eternity-- Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, someof my Time, now given to Nothing--to praise Thee--But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won-derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping--page beyond Psalm--Last change of mine and Naomi--to God's perfectDarkness--Death, stay thy phantoms!II Over and over--refrain--of the Hospitals--still haven't written yourhistory--leave it abstract--a few images run thru the mind--like the saxophone chorus of houses and years--remembrance of electrical shocks. only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter—

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Blessed be Death! with your arms of fat Paterson porches To go where?

‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— It preserves emotions, history, and cultural elements. For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894—1956 I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville—

staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor,

This link will open in a new window. Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images

or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—)

“Birth is a beginning and death a destination; / But life is a journey. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— In the madhouse Blessed is He! He was a lonely old man with a white beard. May the Holy One, blessed be He, reign in His sovereignty and glory, during your life ring your days.”. O mother

Louis! El Maleh Rachamim (Jewish Prayer of the Dead), 10.

The Psalms are a cornerstone of the Jewish liturgy and faith. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals.

His first published work, 'Howl and Other Poems' (1956), sparked the San Francisco Renaissance and defined the generation of the '50s with an authority and vision that had not occurred in the United States since T. S. Eliot captured the anxiety of the 1920s in The Waste Land.

for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat.

I wanted to be President, or Senator. Cake's blog posts contain affiliate links and we earn commission from purchases made through these links. Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Mentioning how ‘strong’ someone is, or how ‘well they’re holding up’ is common in Western culture.

with your eyes of Aunt Elanor

Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu.

The Kaddish provides hope.

The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— V

with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots

toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! 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 phonographthe 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 An- swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca- lypse,the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American citya 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, worship- ping each other,worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it lasts, a Vision--anything more?It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul- dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and the sky above--an old blue place.or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side --where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward Newark--toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater--and the place of povertyyou knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on the street, firs escapes old as you--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever every time--That's good!That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end--Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability.Ai!