Portland Coliseum

From the Penguin Classics: Read the Beatles "Portland Coliseum" by Allen Ginsberg A brown piano in diamond white spotlight Leviathan auditorium iron run wired hanging organs, vox black battery A single whistling sound of ten thousand children's larynxes asinging pierce the ears and following up the belly bliss the moment arrived Apparition, four brown English jacket christhair boys Goofed Ringo battling bright white drums Silent George hair patient Soul horse Short black-skulled Paul with the guitar Lennon the Captain, his mouth a triangular smile, all jump together to End some tearful memory song ancient-two years, The million children the thousand words bounce in their seats, bash each other's sides, press legs together nervous Scream again & claphand become one Animal in the New World Auditorium --hands waving myriad snakes of thought screetch beyond hearing while a line of police with folded arms stands Sentry to contain the red sweatered ecstasy that rises upward to the wired roof.

-August 27, 1965

In The Beatles Diary, sotto la voce 22 agosto 1965, Barry Miles e Chris Charlesworth scrivono a proposito del concerto a Portland, Oregon:<<Allen Ginsberg was in the audience and was greeted by John Lennon from the stage. He wrote a poem called Prtland coliseum>>. Footnote to When the Beats Came Back: That 1956 visit was one of several Ginsberg made to Portland. My Portland Red Guide (Ooligan Press, 2007) notes (p.189) that Ginsberg spent a few months in Portland during the 60s, living in Alice Strongs garden cottage in the West Hills. His Portland State University visit in 1967 caused its president to ban the student paper for running a nude photo of the poet, and his Portland Coliseum was written after attending the Beatles concert in Memorial Coliseum in 1965. The poet Allen Ginsberg attended the same performance I did at Memorial and rendered the experience in his poem ''Portland Coliseum'': The million children the thousand worlds bounce in their seats, bash each other's sides, press legs together nervous Scream again & claphand become one Animal in the New World Auditorium -- hands waving myriad snakes of thought screetch beyond hearing while a line of police with folded arms stands Sentry to contain the red

sweatered ecstasy that rises upward to the wired roof. Ginsberg understood what he was witnessing: mass fervor that great -- especially from the young -has always felt threatening. That's because it can seem unruly, powerful enough to upset traditions and values or to incite dangerous action. There had been small riots at rock 'n' roll concerts in the 1950's -- chairs thrown, fisticuffs -- but the threat implicit in 1960's music was something else: it was about setting things loose, about changing or upending the world. The barricade of policemen I saw that day at the Beatles' show -- the same line Ginsberg had seen -- certainly acted as if they were seeing something more than mania. The scream the Beatles brought forth in America was just too unforeseen and too big. It c

IT'S been a busy old year for Sir Paul McCartney, all things considered. There was the celebratory show at Anfield to mark our status as European Capital Of Culture, and another, more controversial one in Tel Aviv, plus the Ultimate Legend Award presented by Bono at the MTV Awards at the ECHO Arena. Then there was that nasty divorce business. The less said about that the better. More recently, he and long-time collaborator Youth - or Martin Glover to his mates - released Electric Arguments under their Fireman moniker. It's no wonder he's longing for some time off... "I get to a certain point, round about when the kids break up from school, and I think I should break up too," he says. "I don't like the idea of keeping going while they've all stopped," he jokes. "We should all stop and have a break." Electric Arguments is the third album released by Sir Paul and Youth. "We just go in the studio, my studio in Sussex, then if I've got a week spare I might do something, or we might leave it a week and then go in another day," explains Sir Paul. "It's really when we've got time to work on it." The title of the album comes from an Allen Ginsberg poem Kansas City To St Louis. It was Youth who suggested the idea of having vocals on the album, but Sir Paul wasn't so sure. "He knows me well enough now that if he coaxes me a little bit, or just keeps quiet long enough that I'll say 'Go on then, I'll try something' once the idea is in my head," he says. "So I excused myself to everyone in the studio, and explained that it could be a highly embarrassing moment for everyone, but got up and started singing some melodies. "Then we started looking in poetry books," he continues. "We just wanted to find good-looking words, so that's what I went for, inspirational words from people like Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg." The first song on the album to take shape was what became Travelling Light. "I'd been listening to a CD of sea shanties, and Youth runs a folk label called Butterfly," he begins. "They put out these compilations called What The Folk, so he'd sent me them. As a result, Travelling Light is a folky sea shanty, and we took it from there." Next up was raucous opener Nothing Too Much Just Out Of Sight, which sounds like an updated

version of Helter Skelter from The Beatles 'White' album. "It was something an old friend of mine in the 60s, Jimmy Scott, used to say," Sir Paul says. "People were always saying things like 'It's too much, man, too much,' and Jimmy would come back with 'Nothing too much just out of sight'. I told that to Youth, and he said 'Great, let's have it'." It's not the first song Jimmy sparked off, either. "I'd meet Jimmy and say hi, and he'd say 'Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, man, life goes on,' so he was the inspiration for that song too," he says, referring to The Beatles' 1968 track. But why The Fireman? Why not just Sir Paul McCartney and Youth? It seems that surname can be something of mixed blessing. "It can get in the way sometimes," he says. "Your reputation walks ahead of you. "Think of Sgt Pepper, that was the idea behind that album, too" Sir Paul has a habit of doing this. Just as you've gotten over the fact that he's a quarter of The Beatles, and the most successful musician and composer of all time, he throws in a reference to knock you off your feet. Despite having passed the 64 years he once mused upon in a Beatles song, Sir Paul has no intention of slowing down. Next year, he plans to start work on a feature-length animation of High In The Clouds, the children's tale he wrote with Rupert/Frog Song collaborator Geoff Dunbar and is currently in talks with an American studio to see that happen. He's also got a guitar concerto on the back burner, and of course, there's always the issue of getting The Beatles catalogue onto iTunes. The Fab Four's work isn't available online due to legal wrangling between the two companies concerned - Apple Inc, those behind iTunes and the iPod, and Apple Corps, the company Sir Paul set up with the rest of The Beatles in 1968 to look after their affairs and recordings. "I hope it happens," he says. "It's out of our hands, really. It's a business thing and there's some gridlock somewhere. "It's the usual thing, when it's a Beatles deal, it's a big deal - it's not like we're just some new act. "And when you're talking about iTunes, obviously we've got to get a great deal," he continues. "I think we're right, because we're The Beatles! "It's being held up, but I definitely hope it comes through because a lot of people are interested and it's about time it happened. We've been goofing around enough, so if you're reading this, whoever's holding it up, stop it!" Improvisation in Beijing by Allen Ginsberg I write poetry because the English word Inspiration comes from Latin Spiritus, breath, and I want to breathe freely. I write poetry because Walt Whitman gave world permission to speak with candor. I write poetry because Walt Whitman opened up poetrys verse-line for unobstructed breath. I write poetry because Ezra Pound saw an ivory tower, bet on one wrong horse, gave poets permission to write spoken vernacular idiom. I write poetry because Pound pointed young Western poets to look at Chinese writing word pictures. I write poetry because W.C. Williams living in Rutherford wrote New Jerseyesque I kick yuh eye, asking, how measure that in iambic pentameter? I write poetry because my father was a poet my mother from Russia spoke Communist, died in a mad house. I write poetry because young friend Gary Snyder sat to look at his thoughts as part of external phenomenal world just like a 1984 conference table. I write poetry because I suffer, born to die, kidneystones and high blood pressure, everybody suffers.

I write poetry because I suffer confusion not knowing what other people think. I write because poetry can reveal my thoughts, cure my paranoia also other peoples paranoia. I write poetry because my mind wanders subject to sex politics Buddhadharma meditation. I write poetry to make accurate picture my own mind. I write poetry because I took Bodhisattvas Four Vows: Sentient creatures to liberate are numberless in the universe, my own greed anger ignorance to cut thrus infinite, situations I find myself in are countless as the sky okay, while awakened mind paths endless. I write poetry because this morning I woke trembling with fear what could I say in China? I write poetry because Russian poets Mayakovsky and Yesenin committed suicide, somebody else has to talk. I write poetry because my father reciting Shelley English poet & Vachel Lindsay American poet out loud gave example - big wind inspiration breath. I write poetry because writing sexual matters was censored in United States. I write poetry because millionaires East and West ride Rolls-Royce limousines, poor people dont have enough money to fix their teeth. I write poetry because my genes and chromosomes fall in love with young men not young women. I write poetry because I have no dogmatic responsibility one day to the next. I write poetry because I want to be alone and want to talk to people. I write poetry to talk back to Whitman, young people in ten years, talk to old aunts and uncles still living near Newark, New Jersey. I write poetry because I listened to black Blues on 1939 radio, Leadbelly and Ma Rainey. I write poetry inspired by youthful cheerful Beatles songs grown old. I write poetry because Chuang-tzu couldnt tell whether he was butterfly or man, Lao-tzu said water flows downhill, Counfucius said honor elders, I wanted to honor Whitman. I write poetry because overgrazing sheep and cattle Mongolia to U.S. Wild West destroys new grass & erosion creates deserts. I write poetry wearing animal shoes. I write poetry First thought, best thought always. I write poetry because no ideas are comprehensible except as manifested in minute particulars: No ideas but in things. I write poetry because the Tibetan Lama guru says, Things are symbols of themselves. I write poetry because newspapers headline a black hole at our galaxy-center, were free to notice it. I write poetry because World War I, World War II, nuclear bomb, and World War III if we want it, I dont need it. I write poetry because first poem Howl not meant to be published was prosecuted by the police. I write poetry because my second long poem Kaddish honored my mothers parinivana in mental hospital. I write poetry because Hitler killed six million Jews, Im Jewish. I write poetry because Moscow said Stalin exiled 20 million Jews and intellectuals to Siberia, 15 million never came back to the Stray Dog Caf, St. Petersburg. I write poetry because I sing when Im lonesome. I write poetry because Walt Whitman said, Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself (I am large, I contain multitudes.) I write poetry because my mind contradicts itself, one minute in New York, next minute the Dinaric Alps. I write poetry because my head contains 10,000 thoughts. I write poetry because no reason no because. I write poetry because its the best way to say everything in mind within 6 minutes or a lifetime. -------------

Death & Fame

When I die I don't care what happens to my body throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery But l want a big funeral St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark, Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sisterin-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren, companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan-Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchen -Then, most important, lovers over half-century Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories "He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand day retreat --" "I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me" "I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone" "We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly arms round each other" "I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies would be on the floor" "Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master" "We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then sleep in his captain's bed." "He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy" "I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my stomach shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- " "All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth & fingers along my waist" "He gave great head" So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commingling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997 and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!" "I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me." "I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head, my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my prick,

tickled with his tongue my behind" "I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow --" Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear "I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his walk-up flat, seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again never wanted to... " "He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made sure I came first" This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor-Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical conductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trumpeters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin autoharp pennywhistles & kazoos Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massachusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate bibliophiles, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex "I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist" "Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals" "Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a week in Budapest" Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois" "I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- " "He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City" "Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City" "Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982" "I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like me out there" Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photography aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autographhunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive February 22, 1997 Allen Ginsberg

"Allen Ginsberg Dying,"

the poem written by Lawrence Ferlinghetti on Tuesday, April 8, 1997 Allen Ginsberg is dying It's on all the papers It's in 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 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 high tide 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 I am reading Greek poetry 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 Online Source

Kurt Vonnegut
From Robert Weide: "On Saturday, June 21st, a public tribute/celebration honoring Allen Ginsberg was held at the Wadsworth Theater in Los Angeles for an audience of approximately 1,500 people. Vonnegut was asked to speak, but had plans to be out of the country on that date. He did agree to write an original piece for the ocassion, provided that someone else could read it at the event. I was asked to perform that honor, which I gladly accepted." Please, please, please. Nobody else die! Allen Ginsberg and I were inducted into the American Institute of Arts and Letters in 1973. A reporter from Newsweek telephoned me at that time, and asked me what I thought about two such outsiders being absorbed by the Establishment. I replied, "If we aren't the Establishment, I don't know who is." Allen was inducted nominally as a poet, but had in fact become world-famous for the radiant love and innocence of his person, from head to toe. Let us be frank, and admit that the greatest poetry satisfies few deep appetites in modern times. But the appearance in our industrialized midst of a man without guile or political goals or congregation, who was doing his utmost to become wise and holy, was for many of us a surprising, anachronistic feast for our souls. Allen and I met at a dinner given in Cambridge by the Harvard Lampoon in 1970. We would hold hands during the ensuing entertainment. I had returned from witnessing the end of a civil war in southern Nigeria. The losing side, the rebellious Ibos, had been blockaded for more than a year. There had been widespread starvation. I was there with my fellow novelist Vance Bourjailly. We arrived on a blockade-running Catholic relief DC-3. We were surrounded at once by starving children begging for mercy. They had distended bellies, everted rectums, hair turned yellow, running sores, that sort of thing. They were also dirty. We were afraid to touch them, least we get an infection to take back home. But Vance was ashamed of his squeamishness. He said that if Allen Ginsberg had been with us, Allen would have hugged the children, and gone down on his knees and played with them. I told this story at the Lampoon dinner, and then said directly to Allen: "We have not met before, sir, but such is your reputation."

Online Source