My Sad Self poem – Allen Ginsberg – The Poetry Monster

To Frank O’Hara

Sometimes when my eyes are red

I go up on top of the RCA Building

and gaze at my world, Manhattan-

my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,

lofts, beds, coldwater flats

-on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,

its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men

walking the size of specks of wool-

Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,

sun go down over New Jersey where I was born

& Paterson where I played with ants-

my later loves on 15th Street,

my greater loves of Lower East Side,

my once fabulous amours in the Bronx

faraway-

paths crossing in these hidden streets,

my history summed up, my absences

and ecstasies in Harlem-

-sun shining down on all I own

in one eyeblink to the horizon

in my last eternity-

matter is water.

Sad,

I take the elevator and go

down, pondering,

and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s

plateglass, faces,

questioning after who loves,

and stop, bemused

in front of an automobile shopwindow

standing lost in calm thought,

traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me

waiting for a moment when …

Time to go home & cook supper & listen to

the romantic war news on the radio

… all movement stops

& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,

tenderness flowing thru the buildings,

my fingertips touching reality’s face,

my own face streaked with tears in the mirror

of some window-at dusk-

where I have no desire-

for bonbons-or to own the dresses or Japanese

lampshades of intellection-

Confused by the spectacle around me,

Man struggling up the street

with packages, newspapers,

ties, beautiful suits

toward his desire

Man, woman, streaming over the pavements

red lights clocking hurried watches &

movements at the curb-

And all these streets leading

so crosswise, honking, lengthily,

by avenues

stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums

thru such halting traffic

screaming cars and engines

so painfully to this

countryside, this graveyard

this stillness

on deathbed or mountain

once seen

never regained or desired

in the mind to come

where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.

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Poems in English

To His Honour the Lieutenant-Governor by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To Captain H—–d, of the 65th Regiment by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To A Lady On The Death Of The Three Relations by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To A Lady On The Death Of Her Husband by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To a Lady on Her Remarkable Preservation by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To a Lady on Her Coming to North-America by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To a Lady and Her Children by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To a Gentleman on His Voyage to Great-Britain by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To a Gentleman and Lady on the Death of the Lady’s Brother and Sister by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
To A Clergyman On The Death Of His Lady by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
Thoughts On The Works Of Providence by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
One Being Brought From Africa To America by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On Virtue by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On the Death of the Rev. Dr. Sewell by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On The Death Of Rev. Mr. George Whitefield by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On The Death Of J. C. An Infant by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On The Death Of Dr. Samuel Marshall by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On The Death Of A Young Lady Of Five Years Of Age by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On the Death of a Young Gentleman by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
On Recollection by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley

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