My Sad Self poem – Allen Ginsberg

To Frank O’Hara

Sometimes when my eyes are red

I go up on top of the RCA Building

and gaze at my world, Manhattan-

my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,

lofts, beds, coldwater flats

-on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,

its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men

walking the size of specks of wool-

Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,

sun go down over New Jersey where I was born

& Paterson where I played with ants-

my later loves on 15th Street,

my greater loves of Lower East Side,

my once fabulous amours in the Bronx

faraway-

paths crossing in these hidden streets,

my history summed up, my absences

and ecstasies in Harlem-

-sun shining down on all I own

in one eyeblink to the horizon

in my last eternity-

matter is water.

Sad,

I take the elevator and go

down, pondering,

and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s

plateglass, faces,

questioning after who loves,

and stop, bemused

in front of an automobile shopwindow

standing lost in calm thought,

traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me

waiting for a moment when …

Time to go home & cook supper & listen to

the romantic war news on the radio

… all movement stops

& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,

tenderness flowing thru the buildings,

my fingertips touching reality’s face,

my own face streaked with tears in the mirror

of some window-at dusk-

where I have no desire-

for bonbons-or to own the dresses or Japanese

lampshades of intellection-

Confused by the spectacle around me,

Man struggling up the street

with packages, newspapers,

ties, beautiful suits

toward his desire

Man, woman, streaming over the pavements

red lights clocking hurried watches &

movements at the curb-

And all these streets leading

so crosswise, honking, lengthily,

by avenues

stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums

thru such halting traffic

screaming cars and engines

so painfully to this

countryside, this graveyard

this stillness

on deathbed or mountain

once seen

never regained or desired

in the mind to come

where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.

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Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: The Captain’s Lady: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Sweet Tibbie Dunbar: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: I Love My Love In Secret: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Jamie, Come Try Me: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Banks Of Nith: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Young Jockie Was The Blythest Lad: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On A Bank Of Flowers: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Gard’ner Wi’ His Paidle: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Delia, An Ode : “To the Editor of The Star.-Mr. Printer-If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from-Yours, &c., R. Burns. Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.” by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Wounded Hare: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Sketch In Verse: Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock: On the Thanksgiving-Day for His Majesty’s Recovery. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Ode On The Departed Regency Bill: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Beware O’ Bonie Ann: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To Miss Cruickshank, a very Young Lady : Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her by the Author. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Caledonia -A Ballad : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Lines To John M’Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig: Sent with some of the Author’s Poems. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell: On Returning a Newspaper. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: She’s Fair And Fause: by Robert Burns

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