Endless Life: Selected Poems (Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

Posted: July 7, 2016 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I was in the bookshop, looking for poems. I wanted to feel something more intense than I was getting from the fiction I’ve been reading recently. The title of this one really appeals to me, and I know Ferlinghetti’s name from his publishing Beat poets like Ginsberg. I’d read a couple, “Constantly Risking Absurdity” and “Underwear,” and remembered liking them. And anyway, “Selected Poems” is just poetry talk for “Greatest Hits,” and we all love greatest hits albums.

I’m not quite certain what to say about his work, though. Strongly influenced by the Romantics, Wordsworth and Keats and Browning and Ginsberg, though most strongly by Whitman. This book covers the mid-1950s to 1980; for most of this time Ferlinghetti is a distinctly urban poet, catching the phrases and themes of the nature-lovers and applying them to San Francisco. In the late ‘70s he finally starts writing about nature, though still in the mostly mental, intellectual fashion he’s accustomed to. But unlike all these others, Ferlinghetti’s lines rarely begin at the left margin, which makes them a pain to try to reproduce in WordPress, so I’m only choosing selections from the poems that actually are left-justified.

I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am waiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder

This is what I’ve really appreciated about Ferlinghetti’s poetry: the sense of wonder. As he ages, he gets more political, and a little more jaded, but the sense of wonder, the love for life, remains. I think this is profoundly, monumentally important: the love for life. Happiness comes from loving what we do and what we see around us (sometimes whom we do, whom we see) – to me, living well seems synonymous with loving the life being lived. For a long time, I haven’t been pleased with my life; now that I’m making a life with someone, I’m happier than I was before. I can live by myself for years at a time, but I seldom make an effort to make my life good unless that life involves someone else. It’s not that I can’t survive without a relationship; it’s that I just survive. I’m making my life better now because I’m sharing it with him.

For there is no end to the hopeful choices
still to be chosen
the dark minds lighted
the paths of glory
the green giants of chance
the fish-hooks of hope in the sloughs of despond
the hills in the distance the birds in the bush
hidden streams of light and unheard melodies
sessions of sweet silent thought
stately pleasure domes decreed
and the happy deaths of the heart every day
the cocks of clay
the feet in running shoes
upon the quai
And there is no end
to the doors of perception still to be opened
and the jet-streams of light
in the upper air of the spirit of man
in the outer space inside us
in the Amsterdams of yin & yang
Endless rubaiyats and endless beatitudes
endless shangri-las endless nirvanas
sutras and mantras
satoris and sensaras
Bodhiramas and Boddhisatvas
karmas and karmapas!
Endless singing Shivas dancing
on the smoking wombs of ecstasy!
Shining! Transcendent!

It does feel a lot like Ginsberg’s Howl, which I find a pleasant association. Howling is generally caused by pain, but there’s something so catalog-ish, Whitmanian, complete as life in its totality is complete, that makes Ginsberg’s work beautiful and uplifting. Ferlinghetti is similarly edifying, a turn of phrase I like. When I say poetry is edifying, I’m saying that these are the words I have used to build my soul.

Good poetry touches me in places that are too deep for language. I’d like to express what it means to me, what Ferlinghetti and his predecessors and contemporaries and descendants have all meant to me, but I don’t have the words for it. I would say Love, but the word has developed too many meanings, too many associations, it has become too elaborately baroque to use for a feeling that I find simple and profound. But in the cathedral of my heart, Ferlinghetti has acquired a chapel where I light a candle and commune with a soul as world-loving as my own.

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