Відео

Interesting sutra, but not as good as the Lotus Sutra. That is my best sutra. His influence extends wide even to The Clash.

Sunflower Sutra BY ALLEN GINSBERG I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily. Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust- -I rushed up enchanted-it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake-my visions-Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past- and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye- corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then! The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt-industrial-modern-all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown- and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos-all these entangled in your mummied roots-and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen, -We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision. Berkeley, 1955

A beautiful read of one of my favorite poems ever

5:39,,…

After I first read this poem I give the Sunflower the attention it deserves

Sunflower I Miss you so

A great poet but a not so good poem speaker

If this guy was a real Buddhist then I'm a real Zoroastrian.

Beautiful poem read by a great poet . I was lucky to see Ginsberg perform, in Israel, around 1986 or 1987. Unforgettable

God damn you Allen Ginsberg. Your poem makes me want to throw my pen on the sidewalk, and stomp it into unrecognizable shards. Then burn my notebooks. You and your pal Kerouac, both of you as dead as that fucking sunflower that you plucked, in your beautiful, filthy, manic ecstasy. But now, what more is there to be said, at the end of these brief peaceful years after the death of the USSR, which flowered on a pile of sawdust and industrial waste even greater than in your Frisco rail yard-old, dead USSR, a more powerful locomotive than you and Jack took shade from- -except that when you wrote this thing you call a sutra, your dead sunflower-that dusty, stained, poisoned, tall proud flower-had already left its seeds to slumber in their polluted bed. They were just waiting for winter to pass, for a soaking rain to filter through the tincan wreckage and debris, to roust those obstinate seeds, with their irrepressible will to sprout, and their immutable faith that spring and sunshine will return. Yes, the USSR choked on its own excrement and debris, but it left plenty of seeds, asleep in soil manured with tank cars of blood, and boxcars of dusty bones. In vast, level fields grow oceans of sunflowers, the likes of which you and Kerouac may never have even imagined. They too are nourished with blood and bones. But until today, they stretched unimpeded for the sun, and freely drank the rain until their thirst was quenched. Dear Allen, forgive me for cursing you. But I ask of you, in your loving, knowing innocence, what should we make of these other sunflowers, with their petals of bullets and seeds of rockets? What prayer could we recite, what poem could we write, that might help us? Or do we just howl?

bookmarks for me lol 4:16 4:44

This is so so so beautiful

I just want to say that the Lord Jesus Christ loves you very much and died on the cross at Calvary for you. You can accept Jesus as your savior anytime you want. God and goddess bless you.

Allen Ginsberg was such a great poet and a great singer and a great man. I wish I could have known him could I wish I could have known some of the other beat writers especially Jack Kerouac

This is too much for me to appreciate

This goes hard.

Your preceding ads are probably the worst on UA-cam. And Ginsberg is screaming in his grave dust knowing you play Trump endorsements before sharing his poetry.

Deep

hi allen ginsberg, thanks for being the greatest poet.you make things easier for other Allan's like me

Do we have any knowledge on the time of this reading? The location? Any knowledge past the distinct, succinct sound of Mr Ginsberg's voice?

my brother recited this.

Amazing.!Thanks for sharing this.

The air was cold and the ground was wet I was just as muddy as a man could get Hadn’t any light but a little oil lantern Got you in so tight that you know you can’t turn back I was slippin' round on my belly an' knees I could feel my fingertips about to freeze I could almost see where the prisoner lay Just about t' holler when I heard him pray Oh my lord, have mercy on my soul Don’t let me die alone in this dark hole And when my savior is at hand I’ll be sure to meet him on top of the land I won’t go diggin' round in the hollows and holes I’ma leave it up to the hogs and moles Never set another foot inside a cave If I make it out of this lonesome grave And there he remains all alone In a cold Kentucky hillside There he remains all alone In a cold Kentucky hillside He was layin' still like he was dead Water drippin' down on top his head Seven whole days he hadn’t had a crumb His eyes were sunk and wearisome He swallowed what I had right outta my hand Then he took some coffee from an old tin can I told we would soon dig him outta this place And a little smile goes across his face He said boy, thank god that you are here Now I know my rescue is near And when my time comes to die I’ll be sure to do it where I can see the sky I won’t go diggin' round in the hollows and holes I’ma leave it up to the hogs and moles Never set another foot inside a cave If I make it out of this lonesome grave And there he remains all alone In a cold Kentucky hillside There he remains all alone In a cold Kentucky hillside

Hit the road jack!

Is that Alan Watts laughter in the back?

Amazing

oh my my

nice..

All that lives is Holy.

Fuckin marvellous.

Learning this bad boy off by heart for a project. The more I read it and reread it, the more I get out of it. Must have read it a thousand times at this point and still revealing new images, ideas and thoughts...so full of meaning, not a word wasted. Bravo!

Dedicated to Marjorie

A slow read of this great poem by Ginzy that has its advantages. Enjoy!

I love you for coming here with your mind like that and opening your self to the poetry.

That man's premature applause has been captured for the ages.

Is there tabs for this I'd love to perform it at my school.

Thanks for sharing this.

Ohmygodwow. So RAVISHING.

Ah God, that beautiful, generous man... tears...

ginsberg is incredible. we've all forgotten that we are sunflowers...

Floyd Collins is one of the most beautiful shows I've ever seen.