A BLOG FOR CREATIVE WRITING STUDENTS AT TEMPLE UNIVERSITY
"A Supermarket In California"-Allen GinsbergWhat thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, forI walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headacheself-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I wentinto the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole familiesshopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in theavocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, whatwere you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the groceryboys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed thepork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cansfollowing you, and followed in my imagination by the storedetective. We strode down the open corridors together in oursolitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozendelicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close inan hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in thesupermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? Thetrees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both belonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of lovepast blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry andyou got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boatdisappear on the black waters of Lethe?Berkeley, 1955
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"A Supermarket In California"
ReplyDelete-Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955