A Vow

Allen Ginsberg

 I will haunt these States
 with beard bald head
 eyes staring out plane window
 hair hanging out in Greyhound bus midnight
 leaning over taxicab seat to admonish
 an angry cursing driver
 hand lifted to calm
 his outraged vehicle
 that I pass with the Green Light of common law.

 Common sense, Common law, common tenderness
 and common tranquility
 our means in America to control the money munching
 war machine, bright lit industry
 everywhere digesting forests & excreting soft pyramids
 of newsprint, Redwood and Ponderosa patriarchs
 silent in Meditation murdered & regurgitated as smoke,
 sawdust, screaming ceilings of Soap Opera,
 thick dead Lifes, slick Advertisements
 for Gubernatorial big guns
 burping Napalm on palm rice tropic greenery.

 Dynamite in forests,
 boughs fly slow motion
 thunder down ravine,
 Helicopters roar over National Park, Mekong swamp,
 Dynamite fire blasts thru Model Villages,
 Violence screams at Police, Mayors get mad over radio,
 Drop the Bomb on Niggers!
 drop Fire on the gook China
 Frankenstein Dragon
 waving its tail over Bayonne's domed Aluminium oil reservoir!

 I'll haunt these states all year
 gazing bleakly out train windows, blue airfield
 red TV network on evening plains,
 decoding radar Provincial editorial paper message,
 deciphering Iron Pipe laborer's curses as
 clanging hammers they raise steamshovel claws
 over Puerto Rican agony lawyers screams in slums.

Commentary

Watching the images from Iraq on CNN this is the poem I keep coming back to - not because it’s my favourite war poem, but because it expresses better than anything else this frustrated sense of rage I feel for the arrogance of America. I love it because it brings out so beautifully the contradiction, the hypocrisy at the heart of the American way - the freedom it arrogates to itself and then, drunk on its power, denies to others; the deliberate placidity of a world where an angry taxi driver is the most dangerous thing you have to worry about while the rest of the world burns to ashes to feed your industries.

Ghost of Ginsberg, it’s time.

— Aseem Kaul


The Wondering Minstrels, poem #1223 · 12 April 2003

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul

Fair use