appartenir à la beat generation...

... c'est écrire comme ça...

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at
dawn looking for an angryfix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient
heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the
machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and
high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness
of cold-water flats floating across the tops of
cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El
and saw Mohammedan angels
staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool
eyes hallucinating Arkan-
sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of
war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy
& publishing obscene odeson the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning
their money in
wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through
the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning
through Laredo with a belt 
of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine
in Paradise Alley, death, or
purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares,
alcohol and cock and 
endless balls, (...).

Haro à Ginsberg, The howl, pour cela.
Les poètes de la beat generation, c'est un souffle,
mais celui du neant, du manque, ils sont nés au début
des années 30, ont été élevés pendant la grande
dépression, ont grandi pendant la guerre. ils
n'attendent plus grand chose de quoi que ce soit.
ils sont résignés, pragmatiques, ils cherchent à
survivre, et à agrémenter la torpeur de ce quotidien
où toute foi, tout mysticisme a disparu, de quelque 
paradis artificiels.
mais leur souffle est puissant, je trouve, leur
émotion crue, mise à nue, et j'ai beau être derrière
Bishop la plupart
du temps, les beat, tout de même, je les aime.

un petit dernier, un peu plus personnel, pour se faire
une idée :

December at Yase



You said, that October,

In the tall dry grass by the orchard

When you chose to be free,

"Again someday, maybe ten years."



After college I saw you

One time. You were strange.

And I was obsessed with a plan.



Now ten years and more have

Gone by: I've always known

 where you were--

I might have gone to you

Hoping to win your love back.

You still are single.



I didn't.

I thought I must make it alone. I

Have done that.



Only in dream, like this dawn,

Does the grave, awed intensity

Of our young love

Return to my mind, to my flesh.



We had what the others

All crave and seek for;

We left it behind at nineteen.



I feel ancient, as though I had

Lived many lives.

And may never now know

If I am a fool

Or have done what my

karma demands.

c'est le dernier des "four poems for Robin" de Snyder.
il est de ces poèmes qu'on pourrait prendre pour...
comment dire... symbole.
Reverdy considère que la poésie est là
pour nommer ce qui échappe, trouver les mots
qu'on cherche depuis longtemps, jusqu'à se lire en
ceux-ci et sentir une affinité profonde, une
épiphanie...