{"id":210,"date":"2021-02-24T10:07:47","date_gmt":"2021-02-24T10:07:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/jimclarke.net\/?p=210"},"modified":"2021-02-24T10:09:56","modified_gmt":"2021-02-24T10:09:56","slug":"canticle-for-lawrence-ferlinghetti","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jimclarke.net\/index.php\/2021\/02\/24\/canticle-for-lawrence-ferlinghetti\/","title":{"rendered":"Canticle for Lawrence Ferlinghetti"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I met him once, at City Lights, of course. He was a stone cold gentleman. He let me go smoke weed on the roof of the store, because of course he did, and he gave me a book they’d published of the same poem, entitled ‘Irish’ translated into English from the German by 30 different poets. Rest in power, Lawrence.<\/em>
Alas WordPress won’t accommodate the line lengths and spacing of the original. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

There is a bookshop in the memory of America
A shop of books and everyone’s uncle
singing Woodie Guthrie
and speaking poems from memory
in a bookshop in the memoryof America.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Among everyone’s favourite places,
in the secret speakeasies
with the best cocktails,
over dumplings at the family-run restaurant
by California and Grant,
swanking at the Tonga Room,
dancing at the party in Cole Valley Heights
that everyone called the Haight, stoned, laughing,
is a private place, a lovesong, a melody
of verse, all the bookpages turning,
those dangerous books about fucking
in the memory of America.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In a private place
belonging to everyone
in the memory of America,
everyone’s adopted granddad
might hand you a book, say
\u201cRead this\u201d and you would,
or quote Yeats,
or clasp your hand,
cold but warm, thank
you for coming, thank you for listening,
thank you for being there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who now will remember the poems
for us, who will be the memory of America,
a century long, now you’ve joined i genitori perduti<\/em>,
Allen,
Bill,
Jack,
as the world sighs by
cowering
like frightened lost kids on a road none of us recognise any longer.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I met him once, at City Lights, of course. He was a stone cold gentleman. He let me go smoke weed on the roof of the store, because of course he did, and he gave me a book they’d published of the same poem, entitled ‘Irish’ translated into English from the German by 30 different … <\/p>\n

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