Here’s something by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (I should be finishing mapping out where I’m going and studying the maps, but well…) about Allen Ginsberg dying. I wanted to post something I liked by Kerouac or Ginsberg, but nothing particularly struck me (except for “Song” by Ginsberg – that came the closest, but still its not a favorite poem). Both poets are striving for the metaphysical – Ginsberg keeps refering to Blake in his poetry, who I also hold a love/hate relationship. What stands out the most in their poetry and writing (I’m also in the middle of “On the Road” by Kerouac) is how misdirected were their passions. They want to burn like Roman Candles, yet they are not sure who or what they want to burn for. If they could have found a calling in which they could burn, then they would have been even more remarkable. As it is, their writings and lives still do stand out, even with heavy weight of lostness. As technology develops more and more, youth will have more freedom to choose and thus be all the more lost in sea of options. It is this feeling that is growing and which most people can share in with Kerouac and Ginsberg. Because Ginsberg (and this is from a light/medium knowledge of his work and life) never acheived or showed a calling that he living out (besides searching the metaphsycial universe and writing poetry that everyone can share in), I do not see him as “great.” And that is why this poem stands out to me, because of its eulogistic nature and thus nobilizing the life and person of Ginsberg. Yes, Ginsberg was famous and did write some lyrics, but what else has he really done? Just think of what he could have done if he only had more direction.
Allen Ginsburg Dying
by Lawerence Ferlinghetti
Allen Ginsburg is dying
It’s all in the papers
It’s on the evening news
A great poet is dying
But his voice
won’t die
His voice is on the land
In Lower Manhattan
in his own bed
he is dying
There is nothing
to do about it
He is dying the death that everyone dies
He is dying the death of a poet
He has a telephone in his hand
and he calls everyone
from his bed in Lower Manhattan
All around the world
late at night
the telephone is ringing
“This is Allen”
The voice says
“Allen Ginsburg calling”
How many times have they heard it
over the long great years
He doesn’t have to say Ginsburg
All around the world
in the world of poets
There is only one Allen
“I wanted to tell you” he says
He tells them what’s happening
what’s coming down
on him
Death the dark lover
going down on him
His voice goes by satellite
over the land
over the Sea of Japam
where he once stood naked
trident in hand
like a young Neptune
a young man with black beard
standing on a stone beach
It is high tide and the seabirds cry
The waves break over him now
and the seabirds cry
on the San Francisco waterfront
There is a high wind
There are great white caps
lashing the Embarcadero
Allen is on the telephone
His voice is on the waves
I am reading Greek poetry
The sea is in it
Horses weep in it
The horses of Achilles
weep in it
here by the sea
in San Francisco
where the waves weep
they make a sibilant sound
a sibylline sound
Allen
they whisper
Allen
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, April 4,1997
the mama fox 