[EP 67] Dead Poets! In this episode I read a poem about one great poet to honor the passing of another. Don't let the word "poem" scare you, just listen! (transcription included below)
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Hey everybody! You'r listening to Unexpected English! This is episode 67 and I'm doing this episode for a special reason. That is that today I learned that the writer and poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti died, passed away. And that's OK! He was 101 years old! But it reminded me of his poetry, which I like, and I found a good one to read for you. And it's good because it's about another great poet: Allen Ginsberg. I'm sure you've heard of Allen Ginsberg. If you haven't heard about Lawrence Ferlinghetti, you might want to look for some of his poems. But Ferlinghetti wrote this poem for Ginsberg, who was dying at the time, and I thought it was appropriate. And it's quite a good poem, so I decided to read it for you. I hope you enjoy it. Here we go!
Allen Ginsberg is dying
It's in all the papers
It's on the evening news
A great poet is dying
But his voice
won't die
His voice is on the land
In Lower Manhattan
in his own bed
he is dying
There is nothing
to do about it
He is dying the death that everyone dies
He is dying the death of the poet
He has a telephone in his hand
and he calls everyone
from his bed in Lower Manhattan
All around the world
late at night
the telephone is ringing
This is Allen
the voice says
Allen Ginsberg calling
How many times have they heard it
over the long great years
He doesn't have to say Ginsberg
All around the world
in the world of poets
there is only one Allen
I wanted to tell you he says
He tells them what's happening
what's coming down
on him
Death the dark lover
going down on him
His voice goes by satellite
over the land
over the Sea of Japan
where he once stood naked
trident in hand
like a young Neptune
a young man with black beard
standing on a stone beach
It is hightide and the seabirds cry
The waves break over him now
and the seabirds cry
on the San Francisco waterfront
There is a high wind
There are great whitecaps
lashing the Embarcadero
Allen is on the telephone
His voice is on the waves
I am reading Greek poetry
The sea is in it
Horses weep in it
The horses of Achilles
weep in it
here by the sea
in San Francisco
where the waves weep
They make a sibilant sound
a sibylline sound
Allen
they whisper
Allen
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