Bob Dylan once said, " Allen Ginsberg
is both tragic and dynamic, a lyrical genius, a con-man extraordinaire and
probably the single greatest influence on American poetical voice since
Whitman."
Helen Vendler voiced her opinion on
Ginsberg, stating, " Ginsberg is responsible for loosening the breath of
American poetry at mid - century.......
Most of all, he has demonstrated that there is nothing in American
social and erotic reality which cannot find a place. His powerful mixture of Blake, Whitman,
Pound, and Williams, to which he added his own volatile, grotesque, and tender
humor, has assured him a memorable place in modern poetry."
Ginsberg's poems " Mescaline"
and " Lysergic Acid" have several common themes that can be easily
picked up from the surface. Upon further
reading, the reader can find several key underlying themes.
On the surface, the obvious theme that
these poems share is the issue of drug use.
These poems to not take a pro or con view on the issue of drug use. Instead these poems were named after the
drugs that Ginsberg was using when he wrote them. Mescaline and Lysergic Acid (LSD) are both
mind altering hallucinogens, that are said to open one's mind.
Both poems delve into one's psyche and
make one question their own existence, death, and the afterlife. In the fifth stanza of "Mescaline", Ginsberg asked the
unanswerable, eternal question.
I want to know
I want I want
ridiculous to know to know WHAT rotting ginsberg
I want to know
what happens after I rot
because I'm
already rotting
my hair's falling
out I've got a belly I'm sick of sex
my ass drags in
the universe I know too much
and not enough
I want to know
what happens after I die
well I'll find
out soon enough
do I really need
to know now?
is that any use
at all use use use
death death death
death death
god god god god
god god god the Lone Ranger
the rhythm of the
typewriter
In the above passage, Ginsberg plays the
part of the mortal, wondering about the afterlife. In "Lysergic Acid," he talks about
wanting to be God.
I allen Ginsberg
a separate consciousness
I who want to be
God
Both poems share the idea that drug
experimentation can open one's mind so that they may achieve a higher
consciousness, and a better understanding of one's self. It seems to me that Ginsberg's goal in his
poetry is to attain a "oneness" with God. By taking these drugs, I believe that
Ginsberg feels an intense psychedelic reaction, in a sense he can experience a
parallel dimension equivalent to the omniscient, or all knowing theological
"God".
One hidden meaning that I found in
"Mescaline," was the mention of William Carlos Williams. "What can Williams be thinking in
Paterson,......Williams what is death?," refers to William Carlos Williams'
four part poem "Paterson."
"Paterson" is about the idea that a man in himself is a city,
beginning, seeking, achieving, and concluding his life in ways which the
various aspects of a city may embody.
When Ginsberg asks Williams, " Williams what is death?," I
think he is also referring to the fact that Williams was Ginsberg's doctor when
he was a child. Williams encouraged
Ginsberg's poetry as well as other poets such as Gary Snyder, Robert Creeley,
and Robert Lowell. Paterson was also the
name of the town in New Jersey that Ginsberg grew up.
There are homosexual undertones in a lot
of Ginsberg's poems. In
"Mescaline," he says "can't stand boys either anymore,"
which I find as an underlying hint that can be taken in different ways. In "Lysergic Acid," he talks of a
" gay Creator." The Word
"gay" can mean happy, the bulk of Ginsberg's work has similar
innuendo in it.
I believe that the poems are fascinating,
but I find them hard to read. The way in
which they are written is completely open form.
At some points in his work when he repeats certain words there is a
sense of rhythm, but overall there is no set meter or rhythm.
"Mescaline," I believe is about Ginsberg's aging and his self
actualization. After taking these drugs,
he looks into the mirror and sees someone that he does not recognize as
himself. He comes to terms with the
effects of aging such as balding. The
repeated line of "rotting Ginsberg" refers to the aging process
also. He faces the issue of marriage,
and the fact that he thinks he should get married before it is too late. There is even a reference to his aging in
"Lysergic Acid," when he states "My face in the mirror, thin
hair, blood congested in streaks.....I am a Ghost."
"Lysergic Acid" is a interesting
piece of work, because it almost transports you into the mind of a person who
is "tripping" on LSD. The
whole description of the monsters, and of ghosts and of these visions are the
things that Ginsberg experienced while under the influence.
In both poems, he refers to the typewriter
or the eternal typewriter. I believe
that what he means by eternal typewriter, is that whatever he writes will be
around long after he is gone, and he strives to make sure that what he writes
is good. When he says "What can I
do to Heaven by pounding on Typewriter," I believe he is asking what he
can do to have an effect on the world, or to put himself on that Godly level.
When it comes to picking which one I think
has more literary value or which is more satisfying poetry I can only say that
it really depends on the mood. Both of
these poems can take you to places that most people are to afraid to go, into
one's own mind. Ginsberg makes
observations about life and how just when you think that your perception of
something is right, it can change in an instant.
The language used in these poems is very
strong. Ginsberg often uses
traditionally "bad" words like fuck and cocksucker. He says what he wants and puts no boundaries on
himself. The images that are evoked when
reading Ginsberg can be delightful and disturbing all at once, such as "it
floats outward like a corpse filled with music." Ginsberg uses many images that are considered
"scary," such as skulls, corpses, spiders, etc... This lends itself to the overall darkness of
his writing.
The psychic weight can only be truly
understood by someone who has actually experienced what is discussed in the
poems. But readers can read into these
poems and take what they want out of them.
What I see when I read these poems can be entirely different from what someone
else sees. That is what makes his
writing so interesting to me, the idea that you can put a little of yourself
into the reading.
Allen Ginsberg is an innovator and an
influence of many of today's writers and artists. He continues to write powerful poetry that
sparks the imagination and carries it's readers to a higher level.
Lysergic Acid
It is a multiple
million eyed monster
it is hidden in
all its elephants and selves
it hummeth in the
electric typewriter
it is electricity
connected to itself, if it hath wires
it is a vast
Spiderweb
and I am on the
last millionth infinite tentacle of the spiderweb, a worrier
lost, separated,
a worm, a thought, a self
one of the
millions of skeletons of China
one of the
particular mistakes
I allen Ginsberg
a separate consciousness
I who want to be
God
I who want to
hear the infinite minutest vibration of eternal harmony
I who wait
trembling my destruction by that aethereal music in the fire
I who hat God and
give him a name
I who make mistakes
on the eternal typewriter
I who am doomed
But at the far
end of the universe the million eyed Spyder that hath no name
spinneth of
itself endlessly
the monster that
is no monster approaches with apples, perfume, railroads,
Televisions, skulls
a universe that
eats and drinks itself
blood from my
skull
Tibetan creature
with hairy breast and Zodiac on my stomach
this sacrificial
victim unable to have a good time
My face in the
mirror, thin hair, blood congested in streaks down beneath
My eyes, cocksucker, a decay, a
talking lust
a snaeap, a
snarl, a tic of consciousness in infinity
a creep in the
eyes of all Universes
trying to escape
my Being, unable to pass on to the Eye
I vomit, I am in
a trance, my body is seized in convulsion, my stomach
crawls, water from my mouth, I am
here in Inferno
dry bones of
myriad lifeless mummies naked on the web, the Ghosts, I am
A Ghost
I cry out where I
am in the music, to the room, to whomever near, you, Are
You God?
No, do you want
me to be God?
Is there no
answer?
Must there always
be an Answer? you reply,
and were it up to
me to say Yes or No -
Thank God I am
not God! Thank God I am not God!
But that I long
for a Yes of Harmony to penetrate
to every corner
of the universe, under every condition whatsoever
a Yes there is...
a Yes I am...a Yes You are... a We
A We
and that must be
an It, and a They, and a Thing with No Answer
It creepeth, it
waiteth, it is still, it is begun, it is the Horns of Battle it is
Multiple Sclerosis
it is not my hope
it is not my
death at Eternity
it is not my
word, not poetry
beware my Word
It is a Ghost
Trap, woven by priest in Sikkim or Tibet
a crossframe on
which a thousand threads of different color
are strung, a
spiritual tennis racket
in which when I
look I see aethereal lightwaves radiate
bright energy
passing round on the threads as for billions of years
the thread-bands
magically changing hues one transformed to another as if
the
Ghost Trap
were an image of
the Universe in miniature
conscious
sentient part of the interrelated machine
making waves
outward in Time to the Beholder
displaying its
own image in miniature once for all
repeated minutely
downward with endless variations throughout all of itself
it being all the
same in every part
This image or
energy which reproduces itself at the depths of space from the
very Beginning
in what might be
an O or an Aum
and trailing
variations made of the same Word circles round itself in the same
pattern as its original Appearence
creating a larger
Image of itself throughout the depths of Time
outward circling
thru bands of faroff Nebulae & vast Astrologies
contained, to be
true to itself, in a Mandala painted on an Elephant's hide,
or in a
photograph of a painting on the side of an imaginary Elephant which
smiles, tho how the Elephant looks is an
irrelevent joke -
it might be a
Sign held by a Flaming Demon, or Ogre of Transcience,
or in a
photograph of my own belly in the void
or in my eye
or in the eye of
the monk who made the Sign
or in its own Eye
that stares on Itself at least and dies
and tho an eye
can die
and tho my eye
can die
the billion-eyed
monster, the Nameless, the Answerless, the Hidden-From
me, the endless Being
one creature that
gives birth to itself
thrills in its
minutest particular, sees out of all eyes differently at once
One and not One
moves on its own ways
I cannot follow
And I have made
an image of the monster here
and I will make
another
it feels like
Cryptozoids
it creeps an
undulates beneath the sea
it is coming to
take over the city
it invades
beneath every Consciousness
it is delicate as
the Universe
it makes me vomit
becaude I am
afraid I will miss its appearance
it appears anyway
it appears anyway
in the mirror
it washes out of
the mirror like the sea
it is myriad
undulations
it washes out of
the mirror and drowns the behodler
it drowns the
world when it drowns the world
it drowns itself
it floats outward
like a corpse filled with music
the noise of war
in its head
a babe laugh in
its belly
a scream og agony
in the dark sea
a smile on the
lips of a blind statue
it was there
it was not mine
I wanted to use
it for myself
to be heroic
but it is not for
sale to this consciousness
it goes its own
way forever
it will complete
all creatures
it will be the
radio of the future
it will hear
itself in time
it wants a rest
it is tired of
hearing and seeing itself
it wants another
form another victim
it wants me
it gives me good
reason
it gives me
reason to exist
it gives me
endless answers
a consciousness
to be separate and a consciousness to see
I am beckoned to
be One or the other, to say I am both and be neither
it can take care
of itself without me
it is Both
Answerless ( it answers not to that name )
it hummeth on the
elecric typewriter
it types a
fragmentary word which is
a fragmentary
word,
MANDALA
Gods dance on
thier own bodies
New flowers open forgetting
Death
Celestial eyes
beyond the heartbreak of illusion
I see the gay
Creator
Bands rise up in
anthem to the worlds
Flags and banners
waving in transcendence
One image in the
end remains myriad-eyed in Eternity
This is the
Work! This is the knowledge! This is the End of man!
Palo Alto, June 2, 1959
Mescaline
Rotting Ginsberg,
I stared in the mirror naked today
I noticed the old
skull, I'm getting balder
my pate gleams in
the kitchen light under thin hair
like the skull of
some monk in the old catacombs lighted by
a guard with
flashlight
followed by a mob
of tourists
so there is death
my kitten mews,
and looks into the closet
Boito sings on
the phonograph tonight his ancient song of angels
Antinous bust in
a brown photograph still gazing down from my wall
a light burst
from God's delicate hand sends down a wooden dove to the calm
virgin
Beato Angelicos
universe
the cat's gone
mad and scraowls around the floor
What happens when
the death gong hits rotting ginsburg on the head
what universe do
I enter
death death death
death death the cat's at rest
are we ever free
of - rotting ginsburg
Then let it
decay, thank God I know
thank you
thank you
Thank you, O
lord, beyond my eye
the path must
lead somewhere
the path
the path
thru the rotting
shit dump, thru the Angelico orgies
Beep, emit a
burst of babe and begone
perhaps that's
the answer, wouldn't know till you had a kid
I dunno, never
had a kid never will at the rate I'm going
Yes, I should be
good, I should get married
fing out what
it's all about
but I can't stand
these women all over me
smell of Naomi
erk, I'm stuck
with this familiar rotting ginsberg
can't stand boys
even anymore
can't stand
can't stand
and who wants to
get fucked up the ass, really?
Immense seas
passing over
the flow of time
and who wants to
be famous and sign autographs like a movie star
I want to know
I want I want
ridiculous to know to know WHAT rotting ginsberg
I want to know
what happens after I rot
because I am
already rotting
my hair's falling
out I've got a belly I'm sick of sex
my ass drags in
the universe I know too much
and not enough
I want to know
what happens after I die
well I'll find
out soon enough
do I really need
to know now?
Is that any use
at all use use use
death death death
death death
god god god god
god god god the Lone Ranger
the rhythm of the
typewriter
What can I do to
Heaven by pounding on Typewriter
I'm stuck change
the record Gregory ah excellent he's doing just that
and I am too
conscious of a million ears
at present creepy
ears, making commerce
too many pictures
in the newspapers
faded yellow
press clippings
I'm going away
from the poem to be drak contemplative
trash of the mind
trash of the
world
man is half trash
all trash in the
grave
What can Williams
be thinking in Paterson, death so much on him
so soon so soon
Williams what is
death?
Do you face the
great question now each moment
or do you forget
at breakfast looking at your old ugly love in the face
are you prepared
to be reborn
to give release
to this world and enter heaven
or give release,
give release
and all be done -
and see a lifetime - all eternity - gone over
into naught, a
trick question proposed by the moon to the answerless earth
No Glory for
man! No Glory for man! No glory for me! No me!
No point writing
when the spirit doth not lead
New York, 1959
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