Аллен Гинзберг в переводах Михаила Гунина

Haiku

     Drinking my tea Without sugar —
     No difference.
The sparrow shits
     upside down — ah! my brain & eggs
Mayan head in a Pacific driftwood bole — Someday I'll live in N.Y.
Looking over my shoulder my behind was covered with cherry blossoms.
 Winter Haiku
I didn't know the names of the flowers-now my garden is gone.
I slapped the mosquito and missed. What made me do that?
Reading haiku I am unhappy, longing for the Nameless.
A frog floating in the drugstore jar: summer rain on grey pavements.
On the porch in my shorts; auto lights in the rain.
Another year has past-the world is no different.
The first thing I looked for in my old garden was The Cherry Tree.
My old desk: the first thing I looked for in my house.
My early journal: the first thing I found in my old desk.
My mother's ghost: the first thing I found in the living room.
I quit shaving but the eyes that glanced at me remained in the mirror.
The madman emerges from the movies: the street at lunchtime.
Cities of boys are in their graves, and in this town…
Lying on my side in the void: the breath in my nose.
On the fifteenth floor the dog chews a bone- Screech of taxicabs.
A hardon in New York, a boy in San Fransisco.
The moon over the roof, worms in the garden. I rent this house.

Feb. 29, 1958

Last nite I dreamed  of T.S.  Eliot welcoming me to the land of dream  Sofas
couches fog  in England  Tea  in his  digs Chelsea rainbows  curtains on his
windows, fog seeping in the chimney but a nice warm house and an  incredibly
sweet hooknosed  Eliot he loved me,  put me up, gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious asked my opinion on Mayakovsky I  read him
Corso Creeley Kerouac advised Burroughs Olson Huncke the bearded lady in the
Zoo,  the intelligent puma in  Mexico  City 6 chorus boys  from Zanzibar who
chanted in wornout  polygot Swahili,  and the  rippling rhythms of Ma Rainey
and  Rachel  Lindsay. On  the  Isle  of  the Queen  we had a  long evening's
conversation  Then  he tucked me in  my long  red underwear  under a  silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa gave me English dottle and went off sadly to
his bed, Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad to have met a fine young man like you.
At last,  I  woke  ashamed of myself.  Is he  that good and kind? Am  I that
great? What's my motive  dreaming  his manna? What  English Department would
that impress? What failure to be perfect prophet's made up here? I  dream of
my kindness to T.S. Eliot wanting  to be a historical  poet and share in his
finance of Imagery- overambitious dream of eccentric boy. God forbid my evil
dreams come true. Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg. T.S. Eliot would've
been ashamed of me.

Under The World There's A Lot Of Ass A Lot Of Cunt

a lot of mouths and cocks, under the world there's a lot of come, and  a lot
of  saliva  dripping into  brooks, There's a lot of  Shit  under  the world,
flowing beneath cities into rivers, a lot of urine floating under the world,
a lot  of snot in the world's  industrial nostrils, sweat under world's iron
arm, blood gushing out of  the world's breast, endless lakes  of tears, seas
of sick vomit rushing between the hemispheres floating towards Sargasso, old
oily  rags and brake fluids, human gasoline- Under the world there's  pain,
fractured  thighs, napalm burning in black hair, phosphorus eating elbows to
bone  insectiside  contaminating oceantide, plastic  dolls  floating  across
Atlantic, Toy soldiers crowding the Pacific, B-52 bombers choking jungle air
 with vaportrails and brilliant flares
Robot drones careening over rice terraces dropping cluster grenades,
 plastic pellets spray into flesh,
dragontooth mines & jellied fires  fall on  straw roofs and water  buffalos,
perforating  village huts  with  barbed  shrapnel,  trenchpits  filled  with
fuel-gas-poisen'd explosive powders- Under the world there's broken skulls,
crushed feet, cut eyeballs,
 severed fingers, slashed jaws,
Dysentry, homeless millions, tortured hearts, empty souls.

We Rise On Sun Beams And Fall In The Night

Dawn's orb orange-raw shining over Palisades bare  crowded branches bush  up
from marshes- New Jersey with my father riding automobile highway to Newark
Airport- Empire State's spire, horned buildingtops, Manhattan rising as  in
W.  C. Williams'  eyes  between  wire  trestles- trucks  sixwheeled  steady
rolling overpass  beside New York- I am here tiny under sun rising  in vast
white sky, staring thru skeleton new buildings, with pen in hand awake…