Subject: RE: Kaddish
From: Malcolm Lawrence (Malcolm@wolfenet.com)
Date: Sat Apr 05 1997 - 18:36:16 GMT
>>(in preparation):
>>
>>Hamakom yenachem etchem betoch shih-ar availay tziyon vi-yirushalayim.
>
>>"Hashem natan, veHashem lakach, yehi shem Hashem mevorach."
>>
>>Boruch dayan ha-emet.
>>
>>
>>-
>To follow up...Ginsberg died this morning (2:39) of liver cancer and
>heart failure.
*sigh*
We lost a titan. A very gentle titan. Still, as my high school humanities
teacher said, "He had a full life." And even up until the end he was still
writing poetry and seeing friends on the last day he'd be conscious. ``He
was very energetic,'' Bill Morgan said. ``He wore himself out (Thursday)
talking to friends and writing poems.'' He wrote about a dozen short poems
on Wednesday. One of the last was titled ``On Fame and Death''; others ran
the gamut from nursery rhymes to
politics.
"The funeral will be private. In lieu of flowers, donations should be sent
to
Jewel Heart Buddhist Center in Ann Arbor, Mich."
I also noticed that he died on April 5, the same day Kurt Cobain died.
I was lucky enough to see him read here in town (only once though) at the
Elliot Bay Book Company back in 94 and got him to sign my copy of "Howl"
afterwards.
For all you hard-core Dylan fans, remember the scene in Renaldo & Clara
where he and Dylan go to Kerouac's grave?
Seems strange that he should leave before Burroughs. Then again, I
personally don't believe Burroughs or Keith Richards will ever die. I mean,
if they're still alive after all they've been through already, then can't
help but live to see 100.
Sorry if I'm just babbling. I just think Allen was one of the most
necessary poets we've ever had, who had a giant fucking heart and was
absolutely fearless.
Eliot was right..."April is the cruelest month."
*raising my glass*
Props to Allen,
Love,
Malcolm
http://www.levity.com/corduroy/ginsberg.htm
Allen Ginsberg
(1926 - 1997)
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?
A Supermarket in California
-
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