「My Sad Self by Allen Ginsberg」

My Sad Self BY ALLEN GINSBERG To Frank O’Hara Sometimes when my eyes are red I go up on top of the RCA Building           and gaze at my world, Manhattan—                      my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,                            lofts, beds, coldwater flats —on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,           its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men                walking the size of specks of wool—    Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,           sun go down over New Jersey where I was born              & Paterson where I played with ants—    my later loves on 15th Street,           my greater loves of Lower East Side,              my once fabulous amours in the Bronx                                            faraway—    paths crossing in these hidden streets,       my history summed up, my absences                 and ecstasies in Harlem—       —sun shining down on all I own        in one eyeblink to the horizon                in my last eternity—                                      matter is water. Sad,       I take the elevator and go              down, pondering, and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s                                            plateglass, faces,              questioning after who loves,       and stop, bemused              in front of an automobile shopwindow       standing lost in calm thought,              traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me                          waiting for a moment when ... Time to go home & cook supper & listen to                       the romantic war news on the radio                                         ... all movement stops & I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,          tenderness flowing thru the buildings,              my fingertips touching reality’s face,       my own face streaked with tears in the mirror                 of some window—at dusk—                                      where I have no desire—       for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese                          lampshades of intellection— Confused by the spectacle around me,           Man struggling up the street                      with packages, newspapers,                                            ties, beautiful suits                         toward his desire           Man, woman, streaming over the pavements                         red lights clocking hurried watches &                                movements at the curb— And all these streets leading           so crosswise, honking, lengthily,                             by avenues           stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums                             thru such halting traffic                                            screaming cars and engines    so painfully to this           countryside, this graveyard                      this stillness                                            on deathbed or mountain              once seen                             never regained or desired                                            in the mind to come where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.    New York, October 1958 读得比较匆忙，因为有人在睡觉就不能一直录几十遍啦。非常喜欢金斯堡，今天在偷偷抄他的诗，因为原版诗集太贵了。:-(