Happy, Happy 100th
Birthday Poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti-Max Daddy Of Famed “City Lights Bookstore” In
“Beat” San Francisco When It Counted And Muse Of His Generation’s Poets
By Liam Leahy
When the deal went down the
hell with street ruffian and gangster of words and thefts Gregory Corso, the
hell with Zen Buddha lotus flowers sulks Gary Snyder, the hell with bright
lights in the headlights like some virgin Bambi Mike McClure, double the hell
with clear the coffeehouses and jazz bars out with his primal wailing to Keil,
devil servant, Phil Larkin, ditto double the hell with trying to hit that high
white note that only jazz boys and girls can aspire to MaJohn Dupree, back to single
hells for Dante boys all choir practice glow bum-tucked like Kenneth Rexforth
(and don’t forget Rexforth’s daughter who everybody took a run at and why not
even gay boys like Ginsberg), to hell as well the drag queen artless Tim Riley
before he fanned the flames of Miss Judy Garland’s hem and made bluegrass green
in ocean spray to the China seas bays filled with oil tankers and sodomites
sing his naughty boy praises. And in the end, the bookend three hot dog fucks
like Miss Julie Johnson in some Joe and Nemo alley.
More retrospective, more circumspect
rumbling fullback out of some Merrimack estuary looking hot dog hungry, looking
like some holy goof displaced out of European DP camps and he only Icelandic run
bound dropping to the titanic seas. So
Jack, Jack, Kerouac, the fuck with that Jack stuff Ti Jean of ten million Allan
Ginsberg dreams and Neal Cassidy lost father’s gets some play, okay Very much more circumspect and there is no way
around it this time Moloch of modern times stripping poor Tom Eliot of everything
but his shoddy bedding and his lost in the hills and trenches of Eastern France
cursive language as wave after wave fell to complete one square yard Carl
Solomon’s dear friend and his mother howler in the dust for all the good it did
him, or her, Allan Ginsberg. Yeah, the beat down, beat around, beat sound,
beatitude beat to hear holy goof Jack tell it in his Tanqueray funks, crowd that
took up plenty of air come 1950s in the states come desolation row time.
Then there was the glue,
the guy who kept the torch bright, the guy who had enough knowledge of business
which almost to a man (or woman of that matter), beats heating squares up like
toast, scorned except come poetry reading time some foggy and rainy nights,
book signing when Random House said piss off, putting money in the bucket for
the Thunderbird struck nights, back room shacking up to keep from the coldest
days in August world. Yeah, Happy Birthday Baby, Buddha in cowboy boots and
tepid wrangler jeans Lawrence Ferlinghetti on the magic 100 years. Connection, brother, connection.
Click on the heading to link to the William Blake Archives to view some of his illustrations and other artwork for which he was also famous.
Markin comment:
Okay, here is the chain of thought to this entry. I recently posted some work by the "beat" poet (and San Fransisco City Lights Bookstore creator)Lawrence Ferlinghetti (from Coney Island Of The Mind). And that made me think once again of fellow "beat' poet Allen Ginsberg. And if you think of Allen Ginsberg you have to think of mad poet Walt Whitman (singer of 19th century America as Ginsberg sang of the 20th century). And if you think of Whitman you have to go back to the "max daddy", mad, mad William Blake. Simple, right?
Milton [excerpt]
by William Blake
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
A Divine Image
by William Blake
Cruelty has a Human heart
And Jealousy a Human Face,
Terror, the Human Form Divine,
And Secrecy, the Human Dress.
The Human Dress is forgéd Iron,
The Human Form, a fiery Forge,
The Human Face, a Furnace seal'd,
The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.
Proverbs of Hell
by William Blake
From "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"
In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The cut worm forgives the plow.
Dip him in the river who loves water.
A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.
All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap.
Bring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
A dead body, revenges not injuries.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Folly is the cloke of knavery.
Shame is Prides cloke.
~
Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the
destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.
The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.
The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen frowning fool, shall be both thought wise, that
they may be a rod.
What is now proved was once, only imagin'd.
The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit: watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse,
the elephant, watch the fruits.
The cistern contains; the fountain overflows.
One thought, fills immensity.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow.
~
The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you.
As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
Expect poison from the standing water.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
Listen to the fools reproach! it is a kingly title!
The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse,
how he shall take his prey.
The thankful reciever bears a plentiful harvest.
If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil'd.
When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius, lift up thy head!
As the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest
lays his curse on the fairest joys.
To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
Damn, braces: Bless relaxes.
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
Prayers plow not! Praises reap not!
Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!
~
The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands &
feet Proportion.
As the air to a bird of the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white.
Exuberance is Beauty.
If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.
Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement,
are roads of Genius.
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd.
Enough! or Too much!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
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