Beat Poets (& the women who love them)

(Photo: Gregory Corso, Beat Poet, from his Wikipedia page.)

I've been infatuated with the Beat Generation since I was introduced to them in seventh grade.  So much so, that I even wrote my first ever research paper about the entire movement.  Back then, before Wikipedia was invented - I had to use the card catalogue to search for Burroughs and Kerouac in the Cordell Library.  Not a lot of information was available to me - but, that was all the more fuel for my fascination.

Yesterday, as I was deciding how I wanted to spend recess - I stumbled upon a pocket version of poems called "Beat Poets" that was on my bookshelf.  Something I'd undoubtedly purchased years before - and hadn't looked at in ages.  As I settled into the sun on the back porch with my Sprite - I began to read the poems to myself, outloud.  After all, Beat Poetry is meant to be spoken - it INSISTS on being spoken.  The jazzy verbs leap off the page, transmuting the sound of my own voice into a Siren Song for the disillusioned.  Thirty pages into the volume - I found a piece that currently acts as a mirror, for me - reflecting my own innermost of thoughts and desires.  I'd like to share that piece with you, now.

WRIT ON THE EVE OF MY 32nd BIRTHDAY (a slow thoughtful spontaneous poem)

I am 32 years old

and finally I look my age, if not more.

It is a good face what's no more a boy's face?

It seems fatter.  And my hair,

it's stopped being curly.  Is my nose big?

The lips are the same.

And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time.

32 and no wife, no baby; no baby hurts,

     but there's lots of time.

I don't act silly any more.

And because of it I have to hear from so-called friends:

"You've changed.  You used to be so crazy so great."

They are not comfortable with me when I'm serious.

Let them go to the Radio City Music Hall.

32; saw all of Europe, met millions of people;

     was great for some, terrible for others.

I remember my 31st year when I cried:

"To think I may have to go another 31 years!"

I don't feel that way this birthday.

I feel I want to be wise with white hair in a tall library

     in a deep chair by a fireplace.

Another year in which I stole nothing.

8 years now and haven't stole a thing!

I stopped stealing!

But I still lie at times,

and still am shameless yet ashamed when it comes

     to asking for money.

32 years old and four hard real funny sad bad

     wonderful books of poetry

-the world owes me a million dollars.

I think I had a pretty weird 32 years.

And it weren't up to me, none of it.

No choice of two roads; if it were,

     I don't doubt I'd have chosen both.

I like to think chance had it I play the bell.

The clue, perhaps, is in my unabashed declaration:

"I'm a good example there's such a thing as called soul."

I love poetry because it makes me love

     and presents me life.

And of all the fires that die in me,

there's one burns like the sun;

it might not make day my personal life, 

     my association with people,

     or my behavior toward society,

but it does tell me my soul has a shadow.

     -Gregory Corso

Lovely.  Just lovely, Gregory.