Remnants

Extract from Transcription of Organ Music, by Allen Ginsberg

 

[…]

 

I opened my door

 

The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night

still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where

they had arisen

to think at the sun

 

Can I bring back my wounds? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye?

 

The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing amongst them

The privilege to witness my existence- you too must seek the sun…

 

My books piled up before me for my use

waiting in space where I placed them, they haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qualities for me to use – my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.

I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out into the garden crying.

Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were waiting stopped in time for the day sun to come and give them…

Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.

I am so lonely in my glory- except they too out there- I looked up- those red bush blossoms beckoning and peering in the window waiting in blind love, their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky to receive – all creation open to receive- the flat earth itself.

 

The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.

 

[…]

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