Rm 127

I remember looking out this place long ago

watching the sun set salmon on the buildings across the way;

the wrought iron sunflowers still grow

time passes so fast and so slow.

The old radiators still clank

I’m still pissing in the sink

won’t be writing Sad Eyed or Stella Blue

just sitting here wondering if I ever loved you.

I remember staying up all night long

watching pretty girls on the side of crosstown busses

a Hermes Rocket the hotel glass

and a pile of writing stacking up like bills.

I felt alone, I couldn’t take it,

I’d fill my heart lines and fake it;

Walt Whitman’s trunk in the flood

he got outta here– like I should.

Chelsea Hotel

this isn’t heaven

and this ain’t hell.

I remember looking out this place long ago

watching the sun set salmon on the buildings across the way;

the wrought iron sunflowers still grow

time passes so fast and so slow.

Why do you want
to solve life’s riddle?
Rest in the bosom
of the mystery
a woman you love
more than you
understand
a woman
more than you
will ever
understand.

out of the shower where i rejoiced
the bath of the cleansing
of the whole day coming
through the holes in this handed-down
decrepit crown
which is my prayer and respect
like those to the grass i smoke
i make it my own and proud–
but then all washed away
my own gone on the dirt
of the day down the drain
to the sewer and locked
in a room not locked
door closed and hand and pen
fuck
maybe they won’t talk again
for sometime
like this the nostalgia
will grow like each day
on every living or dead skin
on fat flesh muscle on bone
bound by the veins of your heart
of your brain
until you summon it
–for after all the days fallen back to yourself again–
you summon her and she comes
and you deal with her
fold her up into the hide-a-bed
naked with your best friend
so your mother
if she visits
will feel at home
on the puffed-up cushions
things will grow fuzzy
the nostalgia gone like the sun
my hair grows long again
it takes time to dry
but i am newly awakened
by the water of my shower
so a new day when resurfaced
after submerged in a new moaning baptism
kicks and bubbles and the current of dying
My grandfather looks for Atlantis
in the vaginal oceans of naked crystal sucking
bodies of the ’70’s
on the deck of this rebirth-long vessel

1993

Peter Orlovsky, poet, Lower East Side kid, high-school-drop-out-supporter of his impoverished Russian immigrant family, many odd jobs, orderly, Korean War Veteran, medic, artist’s model, teacher, and lover/partner of Allen Ginsberg. Say hi to the rest of the gang when you get there– we’ll miss your energy here on this ailing earth!  Please read Anne Waldman’s piece below:

Death of Peter Orlovsky

“The Shellean farmer astride hid Pegasusian tractor” as Gregory Corso once knighted him passed on today, May 30 2010 to the elysian fields, a bardo of becoming. First glance hour earlier Peter was resting with “trach” in throat in orange sheets at the kind Vt Respite Center in Williston, Vermont ( but no extra tubes/ heroic measures for this advanced cancer on his lung!), a copy of the Songs of Saraha by his pillow, photo of beloved Allen Ginsberg companion of many years on the wall, other Buddhist images, iPod of music he loved including chants by Buddhist nuns, cards from friends and out the window a bird feeder with finch and red-winged blackbirds landing/taking off. Chuck and Judith Lief, faithful guardians and friends at his side. He had been moved less than 48 hours earlier from intensive care at a hospital in Boston, finally to hospice. His body we were touching we noticed suddenly turned cold like death was in the room. We got the nurse. Judy and I stepped out when suddenly Chuck called us back. Peter had opened his eyes. Chuck said “It might be the last time”. By his side now, looking into his eyes told out love, I thanked him for his presence in our lives, his poetry his care and love for Allen,  his work at Naropa. Ah,  I thought a flash of recognition shivering through! slight movement of mouth,  light coming in on his handsome face through the window now, and  Judy singing om a hum vajra guua padma siddhi hum in crystal voice said “don’t be afraid”. Joined in. Last breathes, one coming late, staggered: his heart/breath stopt.  Poet Christina Lovin  in  room with nurse gave gentle witness who checked the clock 11:39 I think or so a.m. Earlier we’d played recording of Peter singing his Raspberry Song with great heart-soaring yodel and  “how sweet you are”. “Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired and handsome felt” ( “The Snail”). Tibetan Book of the Dead readings, in full final repose arranged with blue shirt, hands folded, consciousness a joyful gardener sprite? no fear, no fear working its way out…

Anne Waldman  5.30.2010

Vt Studio Center

heart of green

closed caption music…
a bunch of notes
i read on the screen
deaf to yer beauty
when first i heard your moon sing
and your crescent smile shine
through your sunny skin
now this plasma scream
abyss
not to dis your beautiful blacks
but its time i turn my back
follow the dream in my ears
ringing the prelude of deafness
everybody has ambition
like a number tattoo.

The Times Literary Supplement is one of my favorite book reviews. They do a poem every week, often from their archives. This first appeared in the TLS in 1971 and is translated by Max Hayward and Jon Stallworthy. The poem is introduced by Andrew McCulloch; to read his introduction, go here.

A Poem

I drink to Hussars’ epaulettes, and to all the rumours about me:
to astrakhan coats, and to asthma, to St. Petersburg ennui,
to the music of Savoyard pines, and the fumes of the Champs-Elysées,
to Parisian oils, and to roses on the seat of a Rolls coupé.
I drink to a jug of Swiss cream, and to Biscay’s sparkling wave,
to the hauteur of red-headed memsahibs, and quinine from the White Man’s Grave.
I drink, but I have not yet decided for which I should clap
my hands: ebullient Asti Spumante, or Chateauneuf du Pape.

OSIP MANDELSTAM (1931)