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  The Poetry of Jack Kerouac

  Scattered Poems, The Scripture of the Golden Eternity, and Old Angel Midnight

  Jack Kerouac

  CONTENTS

  Publisher’s Note on Poetry

  Scattered Poems

  A TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN-LOUIS INCOGNITEAU

  Song: FIE MY FUM

  PULL MY DAISY

  PULL MY DAISY

  He is your friend

  Old buddy aint you gonna stay by me?

  DAYDREAMS FOR GINSBERG

  LUCIEN MIDNIGHT

  Someday you’ll be lying

  I clearly saw

  HYMN

  POEM: I demand that the human race

  THE THRASHING DOVES

  The Buddhist Saints

  HOW TO MEDITATE

  A PUN FOR AL GELPI

  SEPT. 16, 1961

  RIMBAUD

  from OLD ANGEL MIDNIGHT

  MORE OLD ANGEL MIDNIGHT

  Auro Boralis Shomoheen

  LONG DEAD’S LONGEVITY

  SITTING UNDER TREE NUMBER TWO

  A CURSE AT THE DEVIL

  Sight is just dust

  POEM

  TO EDWARD DAHLBERG

  TWO POEMS

  TO ALLEN GINSBERG

  POEM: Jazz killed itself

  TO HARPO MARX

  HITCH HIKER

  FOUR POEMS from “SAN FRANCISCO BLUES”

  from SAN FRANCISCO BLUES

  BLUES: And he sits embrowned

  BLUES: Part of the morning stars

  Hey listen you poetry audiences

  SOME WESTERN HAIKUS (from BOOK OF HAIKU)

  The Scripture of the Golden Eternity

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  53

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  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  Old Angel Midnight

  Dedication

  Old Angel Midnight

  Editor’s Note

  About the Author

  Publisher’s Note

  Long before they were ever written down, poems were organized in lines. Since the invention of the printing press, readers have become increasingly conscious of looking at poems, rather than hearing them, but the function of the poetic line remains primarily sonic. Whether a poem is written in meter or in free verse, the lines introduce some kind of pattern into the ongoing syntax of the poem’s sentences; the lines make us experience those sentences differently. Reading a prose poem, we feel the strategic absence of line.

  But precisely because we’ve become so used to looking at poems, the function of line can be hard to describe. As James Longenbach writes in The Art of the Poetic Line, “Line has no identity except in relation to other elements in the poem, especially the syntax of the poem’s sentences. It is not an abstract concept, and its qualities cannot be described generally or schematically. It cannot be associated reliably with the way we speak or breathe. Nor can its function be understood merely from its visual appearance on the page.” Printed books altered our relationship to poetry by allowing us to see the lines more readily. What new challenges do electronic reading devices pose?

  In a printed book, the width of the page and the size of the type are fixed. Usually, because the page is wide enough and the type small enough, a line of poetry fits comfortably on the page: What you see is what you’re supposed to hear as a unit of sound. Sometimes, however, a long line may exceed the width of the page; the line continues, indented just below the beginning of the line. Readers of printed books have become accustomed to this convention, even if it may on some occasions seem ambiguous—particularly when some of the lines of a poem are already indented from the left-hand margin of the page.

  But unlike a printed book, which is stable, an ebook is a shape-shifter. Electronic type may be reflowed across a galaxy of applications and interfaces, across a variety of screens, from phone to tablet to computer. And because the reader of an ebook is empowered to change the size of the type, a poem’s original lineation may seem to be altered in many different ways. As the size of the type increases, the likelihood of any given line running over increases.

  Our typesetting standard for poetry is designed to register that when a line of poetry exceeds the width of the screen, the resulting run-over line should be indented, as it might be in a printed book. Take a look at John Ashbery’s “Disclaimer” as it appears in two different type sizes.

  Each of these versions of the poem has the same number of lines: the number that Ashbery intended. But if you look at the second, third, and fifth lines of the second stanza in the right-hand version of “Disclaimer,” you’ll see the automatic indent; in the fifth line, for instance, the word ahead drops down and is indented. The automatic indent not only makes poems easier to read electronically; it also helps to retain the rhythmic shape of the line—the unit of sound—as the poet intended it. And to preserve the integrity of the line, words are never broken or hyphenated when the line must run over. Reading “Disclaimer” on the screen, you can be sure that the phrase “you pause before the little bridge, sigh, and turn ahead” is a complete line, while the phrase “you pause before the little bridge, sigh, and turn” is not.

  Open Road has adopted an electronic typesetting standard for poetry that ensures the clearest possible marking of both line breaks and stanza breaks, while at the same time handling the built-in function for resizing and reflowing text that all ereading devices possess. The first step is the appropriate semantic markup of the text, in which the formal elements distinguishing a poem, including lines, stanzas, and degrees of indentation, are tagged. Next, a style sheet that reads these tags must be designed, so that the formal elements of the poems are always displayed consistently. For instance, the style sheet reads the tags marking lines that the author himself has indented; should that indented line exceed the character capacity of a screen, the run-over part of the line will be indented further, and all such runovers will look the same. This combination of appropriate coding choices and style sheets makes it easy to display poems with complex indentations, no matter if the lines are metered or free, end-stopped or enjambed.

  Ultimately, there may be no way to account for every single variation in the way in which the lines of a poem are disposed visually on an electronic reading device, just as rare variations may challenge the
conventions of the printed page, but with rigorous quality assessment and scrupulous proofreading, nearly every poem can be set electronically in accordance with its author’s intention. And in some regards, electronic typesetting increases our capacity to transcribe a poem accurately: In a printed book, there may be no way to distinguish a stanza break from a page break, but with an ereader, one has only to resize the text in question to discover if a break at the bottom of a page is intentional or accidental.

  Our goal in bringing out poetry in fully reflowable digital editions is to honor the sanctity of line and stanza as meticulously as possible—to allow readers to feel assured that the way the lines appear on the screen is an accurate embodiment of the way the author wants the lines to sound. Ever since poems began to be written down, the manner in which they ought to be written down has seemed equivocal; ambiguities have always resulted. By taking advantage of the technologies available in our time, our goal is to deliver the most satisfying reading experience possible.

  Scattered Poems

  The new American poetry as typified by the SF Renaissance (which means Ginsberg, me, Rexroth, Ferlinghetti, McClure, Corso, Gary Snyder, Philip Lamantia, Philip Whalen, I guess) is a kind of new-old Zen Lunacy poetry, writing whatever comes into your head as it comes, poetry returned to its origin, in the bardic child, truly ORAL as Ferling said, instead of gray faced Academic quibbling. Poetry & prose had for long time fallen into the false hands of the false. These new pure poets confess forth for the sheer joy of confession. They are CHILDREN. They are also childlike graybeard Homers singing in the street. They SING, they SWING. It is diametrically opposed to the Eliot shot, who so dismally advises his dreary negative rules like the objective correlative, etc. which is just a lot of constipation and ultimately emasculation of the pure masculine urge to freely sing. In spite of the dry rules he set down his poetry is itself sublime. I could say lots more but aint got time or sense. But SF is the poetry of a new Holy Lunacy like that of ancient times (Li Po, Hanshan, Tom O Bedlam, Kit Smart, Blake) yet it also has that mental discipline typified by the haiku (Basho, Buson), that is, the discipline of pointing out things directly, purely, concretely, no abstractions or explanations, wham wham the true blue song of man.

  Jack Kerouac—THE ORIGINS OF JOY IN POETRY

  A TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN-LOUIS INCOGNITEAU*

  My beloved who wills not to love me:

  My life which cannot love me:

  I seduce both.

  She with my round kisses …

  (In the smile of my beloved the approbation of the cosmos)

  Life is my art …

  (Shield before death)

  Thus without sanction I live.

  (What unhappy theodicy!)

  One knows not—

  One desires—

  Which is the sum.

  Allen Ginsberg

  *(Kerouac translated by Ginsberg)

  1945

  Song: FIE MY FUM

  Pull my daisy,

  Tip my cup,

  Cut my thoughts

  For coconuts,

  Start my arden

  Gate my shades,

  Silk my garden

  Rose my days,

  Say my oops,

  Ope my shell,

  Roll my bones,

  Ring my bell,

  Pope my parts,

  Pop my pot,

  Poke my pap,

  Pit my plum.

  Allen Ginsberg & Jack Kerouac

  1950

  PULL MY DAISY

  Pull my daisy

  tip my cup

  all my doors are open

  Cut my thoughts

  for coconuts

  all my eggs are broken

  Jack my Arden

  gate my shades

  woe my road is spoken

  Silk my garden

  rose my days

  now my prayers awaken

  Bone my shadow

  dove my dream

  start my halo bleeding

  Milk my mind &

  make me cream

  drink me when you’re ready

  Hop my heart on

  harp my height

  seraphs hold me steady

  Hip my angel

  hype my light

  lay it on the needy

  Heal the raindrop

  sow the eye

  bust my dust again

  Woe the worm

  work the wise

  dig my spade the same

  Stop the hoax

  what’s the hex

  where’s the wake

  how’s the hicks

  take my golden beam

  Rob my locker

  lick my rocks

  leap my cock in school

  Rack my lacks

  lark my looks

  jump right up my hole

  Whore my door

  beat my boor

  eat my snake of fool

  Craze my hair

  bare my poor

  asshole shorn of wool

  say my oops

  ope my shell

  Bite my naked nut

  Roll my bones

  ring my bell

  call my worm to sup

  Pope my parts

  pop my pot

  raise my daisy up

  Poke my pap

  pit my plum

  let my gap be shut

  Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady

  1948-1950?

  1961

  PULL MY DAISY

  Pull my daisy

  Tip my cup

  Cut my thoughts

  for coconuts

  Jack my Arden

  Gate my shades

  Silk my garden

  Rose my days

  Bone my shadow

  Dove my dream

  Milk my mind &

  Make me cream

  Hop my heart on

  Harp my height

  Hip my angel

  Hype my light

  Heal the raindrop

  Sow the eye

  Woe the worm

  Work the wise

  Stop the hoax

  Where’s the wake

  What’s the box

  How’s the Hicks

  Rob my locker

  Lick my rocks

  Rack my lacks

  Lark my looks

  Whore my door

  Beat my beer

  Craze my hair

  Bare my poor

  Say my oops

  Ope my shell

  Roll my bones

  Ring my bell

  Pope my parts

  Pop my pet

  Poke my pap

  Pit my plum

  Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady

  1951, 1958?

  1961

  He is your friend, let him dream;

  He’s not your brother, he’s not yr. father,

  He’s not St. Michael he’s a guy.

  He’s married, he works, go on sleeping

  On the other side of the world,

  Go thinking in the Great European Night

  I’m explaining him to you my way not yours,

  Child, Dog,—listen: go find your soul,

  Go smell the wind, go far.

  Life is a pity. Close the book, go on,

  Write no more on the wall, on the moon,

  At the Dog’s, in the sea in the snowing bottom.

  Go find God in the nights, the clouds too.

  When can it stop this big circle at the skull

  oh Neal; there are men, things outside to do.

  Great huge tombs of Activity

  in the desert of Africa of the heart,

  The black angels, the women in bed

  with their beautiful arms open for you

  in their youth, some tenderness

  Begging in the same shroud.

  The big clouds of new continents,

  O foot tired in climes so mysterious,

  Don�
��t go down the otherside for nothing.

  1952?

  Old buddy aint you gonna stay by me?

  Didnt we say I’d die by a lonesome tree

  And you come and dont cut me down

  But I’m lying as I be

  Under a deathsome tree

  Under a headache cross

  Under a powerful boss

  Under a hoss

  (my kingdom for a hoss

  a hoss

  fork a hoss and head

  for ole Mexico)

  Joe, aint you my buddy thee?

  And stay by me, when I fall & die

  In the apricot field

  And you, blue moon, what you doon

  Shining in the sky

  With a glass of port wine

  In your eye

  —Ladies, let fall your drapes

  and we’ll have an evening

  of interesting rapes

  inneresting rapes

  1956?

  DAYDREAMS FOR GINSBERG

  I lie on my back at midnight

  hearing the marvelous strange chime

  of the clocks, and know it’s mid-

  night and in that instant the whole

  world swims into sight for me

  in the form of beautiful swarm-

  ing m u t t a worlds—

  everything is happening, shining

  Buhudda-lands, bhuti

  blazing in faith, I know I’m

  forever right & all’s I got to

  do (as I hear the ordinary

  extant voices of ladies talking

  in some kitchen at midnight

  oilcloth cups of cocoa

  cardore to mump the

  rinnegain in his

  darlin drain—) i will write

  it, all the talk of the world

  everywhere in this morning, leav-

  ing open parentheses sections

  for my own accompanying inner

  thoughts—with roars of me

  all brain—all world

  roaring—vibrating—I put

  it down, swiftly, 1,000 words

  (of pages) compressed into one second

  of time—I’ll be long

  robed & long gold haired in

  the famous Greek afternoon

  of some Greek City

  Fame Immortal & they’ll

  have to find me where they find

  the t h n u p f t of my

  shroud bags flying

  flag yagging Lucien

  Midnight back in their

  mouths—Gore Vidal’ll

  be amazed, annoyed—

  my words’ll be writ in gold

  & preserved in libraries like