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web | The Sun Is but a Morning Star

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
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
              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 desire
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 qualities
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 waiting
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 beckoning
and peering in the window waiting in 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 blossom, 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 ceiling,
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. graciously
took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Provincetown,
age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me
if I wished to enter.

              There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever need them.
              The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
              The telephone sad to relate sits on the
floor I haven't the money to get it connected
              I want people to bow as 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



© Allen Ginsberg
© E-publisher LiterNet, 04.07.2010
The Sun Is but a Morning Star. Anthology of American Literature. Edited by Albena Bakratcheva. Varna: LiterNet, 2008-2010