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Kenneth Rexroth

…I lie alone in an alien Bed in a strange house and morning More cruel than any midnight Pours its brightness through the window – Cherry branches with the flowers Fading, and behind them the gold Stately baubles of the maple, And behind them the pure immense April sky and a white frayed cloud, And… Continue reading Kenneth Rexroth

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Jack Spicer

Psychoanalysis: An Elegy What are you thinking about? I am thinking of an early summer. I am thinking of wet hills in the rain Pouring water. Shedding it Down empty acres of oak and manzanita Down to the old green brush tangled in the sun, Greasewood, sage, and spring mustard. Or the hot wind coming… Continue reading Jack Spicer

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American Counterculture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Poetry · The Beat Generation · The San Francisco Renaissance

Jack Spicer

Whispers– Eurydice’s head is missing Whispers– Get out of hell– Whispers– You big poet We soldiers from hell’s country Here Safe as you are You write poetry For dead persons. — Jack Spicer, “Elegy,” The Heads of the Town up to the Aether. (Auerhahn Society; First edition 1962)

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American Counterculture · American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry · The Beat Generation · The San Francisco Renaissance

Kenneth Rexroth

Now I know surely and forever, However much I have blotted our Waking love, its memory is still There. And I know the web, the net, The blind and crippled bird. For then, for One brief instant it was not blind, nor Trapped, nor crippled. For one heart beat the Heart was free and moved… Continue reading Kenneth Rexroth

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Jack Kerouac

Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize “The stars are words” and all the innumerable worlds in the Milky Way are words, and so is this world too. And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of… Continue reading Jack Kerouac

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Jack Kerouac

In winter night Massachusetts Street is dismal, the ground’s frozen cold, the ruts and pock holes have ice, thin snow slides over the jagged black cracks. The river is frozen to stolidity, waits; hung on a shore with remnant show-off boughs of June– Ice skaters, Swedes, Irish girls, yellers and singers–they throng on the white… Continue reading Jack Kerouac

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Allen Ginsberg

The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction the weight,the weight we carry is love. — Allen Ginsberg, from “Song,” Collected Poems 1947-1980. (Harper Perennial; Reprint edition June 7, 1988)

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