My audiences increase to mobs, tyranical, ignorant mobs. Last night I gave them my best in
reciting, all from the Selected Poems, that is all my principal poems but The Congo and
Booth, the most forceful ideas I have added in comment, and many new and old poems. I sat
down having recited two hours, my best–8:30 to 10:30 P.M. Then the chairman, by
the Politest methods (not horrible bullying as in Asheville) started them mobbing
me for "The Congo" before I left the hall and I recited it politely resolving to
beat them yet. The Courtesy here is perfect and I have had a good time. But I am not going
to die like Edwin Markham, reciting in the provinces One poem written as a boy. I
wrote The Congo in 1913 and was through reciting it FOREVER, by 1920. And here they not
only ignore it as a Christian Missionary message–welcome it only as a stunt–liking only
the first section and enduring the rest), but I am the agonized prisoner of my 34th
year, no matter if I am 51. I want to say do and be the things a real artist of 51
would do. I am simply bursting with new ideas, new plans pour into my brain
every morning for songs, new creative force comes to me and I am the prisoner of a stunt
with all creative force thwarted . . . .
They accept the Congo and Booth about which I am hectored beyond all human endurance,
only as STUNTS and curiousities. I know they would not cross the street to help a nigger
of The Salvation Army as a result of this dress-suit heckling. . . . Please read
the Building of Springfield and swear by Heaven that henceforth you will build my
publicity round it.
Allen Ginsberg, Kaddish 44:
TO LINDSAY
Vachel, the stars are out
dusk has fallen on the Colorado road
a car crawls slowly across the plain
in the dim light the radio blares its jazz
the heartbroken salesman lights another cigarette
In another city 27 years ago
I see your shadow on the wall
you’re sitting in your suspenders on the bed
the shadow hand lifts up a Lysol bottle to your head
your shade falls over on the floor