When he’s not writing about big cocks and homosexual exploits while stoned out of his mind, Allen Ginsberg’s surreal poetry is as enchanting as magical cake. Cross-country traveler, all-encompassing pantheist, anti-imperialist radical, extremely eccentric metaphorical associations. Ginsberg and I come from the same planet, and it’s probably not Earth. Right now, he might be my favorite poet, but I haven’t read much poetry, so that’s likely to change.
About the poems: let me say that while Howl was deeply moving and spoke for an entire generation, I think Wichita Vortex Sutra- a powerful critique against the storms of industrialization and the Viet Nam War, using the Great Plains of Middle America as an allegorical backdrop for the vortex of Kali Yuga- earns an equal stake as masterpiece. Contrary to a lot of opinions that suggest his work in the 50s was the best, I think in the late 60s he really hit his stride, mostly due to world events and the cultural gravitation to his personality traits. Most of his poems from the early 60s and late 70s are highly homoerotic. It seemed like he couldn’t write a poem without at least one reference to his dick. Plus, they didn’t flow very well, possibly due to a high amount of puffin’ the magic dragon.
My top Ginsberg beats:
Psalm II
Hymn
After Dead Souls
Siesta In Xbalba
Howl
Sunflower Sutra
Europe! Europe!
Lysergic Acid
Man’s Glory
Wichita Vortex Sutra
Bayonne Entering NYC
A Vow
Holy Ghost on the Nod Over the Body of Bliss
An Open Window on Chicago
Wales Visitation
Pentagon Exorcism
Chicago To Salt Lake by Air
Past Silver Durango Over Mexic Sierra-Wrinkles
Friday The Thirteenth
Thoughts Sitting Breathing
Mind Breaths
Plutonian Ode
No comments:
Post a Comment