Iron Curtain Journals: January-May 1965 by Allen Ginsberg

Author:Allen Ginsberg [Ginsberg, Allen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literary Collections, Diaries & Journals, Poetry, American, General
ISBN: 9780816699599
Google: -V6ltQEACAAJ
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 39732314
Publisher: Univ Of Minnesota Press
Published: 2018-11-06T00:00:00+00:00

young trees,

a few car lights on the huge

bridge entrance

the white arcades of Gum’s lit

up for display to the ghosts

of midnight—

my behind is chill in the

cold dirty snow,

but at last my backbone

leans against the

Kremlin Wall.

11:30- p.m. on Moskooskaya Bridge

ramp, over the road by a corner

round turret of the wall—

the lights of house in the

Bucharest Hotel,

a great square apartment

sitting on the water, familys awake

At rows of yellow windows,

yellow windows and streetlight

in the clear night air, wavering in the

Soviet Union

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215

black water, row after row

—the upper stories deep orange,

trembling at the bottom of the river

six stories down.

Tues. March 30, 1965

In a small room at the Musical Institute with pillared white columns

behind an iron gate—the old delicate voiced fat teacher at one huge

brown piano, the young student in a brown suit sucking in his lips at

another keyboard—the clang of Beethovenian Woes ring out and the

answering tremble of heavenly European Soprano notes—on 3 chairs

by the wall one girl and 2 other boys wait their student turns at 10 a.m.

They go over the music phrase by phrase exploring and explaining—

“This is pathos”—“There should be more melody, keep on with the

movement of the previous part”—he raises his hand thumb & forefin-

gers circled & looks thru his glasses—“The poolse! Pulse!”—He has a set

voice like Jan Zabrana, they’re playing Chopin 3’d Scherzo C Mol, trill

by trill. The teacher bounces his ass to the rhythm & slaps his hand on

piano in & out of time—what you can’t hardly teach—old Schuman &

Chopin and they sound like silent movie music, that sweet & sad—

“Alyosha, you must appeal to your own heart—and even if you have no

romantic feelings in yr soul this music can give rise to it”—The next stu-

dent has a red nose & white shirt & tie, & looks stiff & self-conscious—

playing with only his hands not his body—Mr. Guttman the teacher

smiles & appeals & bounces with his body on the floor & smokes a pa-

pier-russo. “To be the artist means to live in the Image”—as he explains

a contrasting passage. “Here the hollows instead of eyeballs, like a skele-

ton”—and the boys two students at the side play with each other’s piano

fingers and hold hands & watch the lesson.

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T H E R E D U N I V E R S E

The Communist Party like a giant snake eating

its own tail

its teeth are microphones, loudspeaker eyes,

television scales

Lunch with F. L. at writer’s union—Random conversation—I keep

wanting to talk about Stalinism & rise euphemistic “cult of personality”

talk—She keeps saying “you don’t understand our struggle . . . and the

war . . . and our faith . . . Yevtushenko would agree . . . you have much to

learn. . . .” I listen & occasionally ask questions.

Then meeting with 20 professors translators and students, read a

piece of Kaddish & Sunflower18 & Organ Music19 and N.Y. rooftop

sketch, answered questions & sang Hari Om Ram Shiva. Nina said I

sang too long—but F. L. asked me to. Meeting ended with Professor giv-

ing formal speech about poesy appealing

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