My help comes from ADONAI, the maker of heaven and earth. within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. O mother
Is Elanor happy? As a religion primarily focused on life, Judaism has a set way to cope with death. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— Share this quote: Like Quote. with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots withered—cheek of crone— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— He has me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside the still waters. IV And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Blessed be Death on us All! Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? O mother Naomi! COVID-19 tip: If you chose to use a virtual Jewish funeral using a service like GatheringUs, you can still recite prayers with your online guests. with your eyes I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see I ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, "0 Lord, what is man that You regard him, or the son of man that You take account of him? And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks She Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty Strange Prophecies anew!
Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— One of the issues with a Western approach to grief is speed. 21 quotes from Merrit Malloy: 'When I die Give what’s left of me away To children And old men that wait to die. with your eyes of Russia Page
/ You can love me most by letting / Hands touch hands, and / Souls touch souls.
farewell Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees—
Louis! Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— "When I die / If you need to weep / Cry for someone / Walking the street beside you. It is considered one of Ginsberg's finest poems, with some scholars holding that it is his best. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. This link will open in a new window. or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, A Lord in the Void?Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream?Adonoi at last, with you?Beyond my remembrance! He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Judaism doesn’t despair and wish the world was different. "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894—1956 I have a vision to write like this, only if god would bless me enough to.ah. Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. with your eyes of no money the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— with Communist Party and a broken stocking Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, Even as a religion passed down by word of mouth, many prayers have survived. with your eyes alone Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Best be your stroke! for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, with your eyes of starving India ‘I cooked supper for him. With prayers, compassion, and rituals, it serves as a guide through tragic times.
Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, with your eyes Blessed be He in the Book! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance One of the issues with a Western approach to grief is speed. with your sagging belly caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty—