April doesnt hurt here
Like it does in New England
The ground
Vast and brown
Surrounds dry towns
Located in the dust
Of the coming locust
Live for survival, not for "kicks"
Be a bangtail describer,
like of shrouded traveler
in Textile tenement & the birds fighting in yr ears-like Burroughs exact to describe & gettin $
The Angry Hunger
(hunger is anger)
who fears the
hungry feareth
the angry)
And so I came home
To Golden far away
Twas on the horizon
Every blessed day
As we rolled And we rolled
From Donner tragic Pass
Thru April in Nevada And out Salt City Way Into the dry Nebraskas And sad Wyomings Where young girls And pretty lover boys
With Mickey Mantle eyes
Wander under moons
Sawing in lost cradle
And Judge O Fasterc
Passes whiggling by To ask of young love: ,,Was it the same wind Of April Plains eve that ruffled the dress
Of my lost love
Louanna
In the Western
Far off night
Lost as the whistle
Of the passing Train
Everywhere West
Roams moaning
The deep basso
- Vom! Vom!
- Was it the same love
Notified my bones As mortify yrs now
Children of the soft
Wyoming April night?
Couldna been!
But was! But was!"
And on the prairie
The wildflower blows
In the night For bees & birds And sleeping hidden Animals of life.
The Chicago
Spitters in the spotty street
Cheap beans, loop, Girls made eyes at me And I had 35 Cents in my jeans -
Then Toledo
Springtime starry
Lover night Of hot rod boys And cool girls A wandering
A wandering
In search of April pain A plash of rain
Will not dispel This fumigatin hell Of lover lane This park of roses Blue as bees
In former airy poses
In aerial O Way hoses
No tamarand And figancine Can the musterand Be less kind
Sol -
Sol -
Bring forth yr Ah Sunflower - Ah me Montana
Phosphorescent Rose
And bridge in
fairly land
I'd understand it all -
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From guest john (contact)
Can someone explain to me what this poem exactly means. I dont quite understand it. -
Love it, the fragmented, all-at-once outpouring, as if it has to be said NOW, and words won't wait in line but insist on arriving, maybe out of sync (though Kerouac did nothing casually). I like the internal rhymes that echo the sound of a train, a recurring motif in the poem, and echo through the open spaces that he remembers, the circling back as a thought can be emphasissed after another has added to its meaning - I just like the rush of this, the exuberance, balanced by the thoughtful stops with images of potency, like the 'phosphorescent rose'
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marvelous, the use of line breaks here adds dimensions, verses take on so many roles..extending, modifying, underscoring thoughts, always the urgent sense of the writer pouring his thoughts the subject always strays to the feelings, like riding across the plains and seeing so many thought evoking things, the mind moves in and out of a focus to the thoughts inspired by sights, sounds, events... a wonderful writing here...PK
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Unfortunately, I don't. To me poetry has to have some rhythm and even so-called "free verse" sometimes reads like poetry. This is prose, chopped up, and that done poorly too.
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