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Poetry of the Beatniks. By Reid Harris. Influences. William Shakespeare Ezra Pound T.S. Eliot E.E. Cummings Arthur Rimbaud. Arthur Rimbaud. A Season in Hell O nce, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.
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Poetry of the Beatniks By Reid Harris
Influences • William Shakespeare • Ezra Pound • T.S. Eliot • E.E. Cummings • Arthur Rimbaud
Arthur Rimbaud A Season in Hell Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed. One evening I seated Beauty on my knees. And I found her bitter. And I cursed her. I armed myself against justice. I fled. O Witches, O Misery, O Hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted! I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope. On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the stealth of a wild beast. I called to the executioner that I might gnaw their rifle-butts while dying. I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand. Misfortune was my God. I laid myself down in the mud. I dried myself in the air of crime. I played sly tricks on madness.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti • Lawrence Ferlinghetti created the City Lights Bookstore in 1953. The City Lights bookstore, located in San Francisco, is famously known for publishing Allen Ginsberg’s Howl poem and obscenity trial that followed it. Recently City Lights has published Howl on Trial which was a book that fought for the freedom of expression.
Jack Kerouac • Known as the King of the Beats. His novel On The Road put the beatniks on the map with his spontaneous prose and is the most influential writers in American history.
On The Roada poem by Jack Kerouac • I left New York in 1949To go across the country without a bad blame dimeMontana in the cold cold fallFound my father in the gambling hall • Father, Father where you been?I've been out in the world and I'm only tenFather, Father where you been?I've been out in the world and I'm only ten • Don't worry about me if I should die of pleurisy • Across to Mississippi, across to TennesseeAcross the Niagara, home I'll never beHome in ol' Medora, home in Ol' TruckeeApalachicola, home I'll never be • Better or for worse, thick and thinLike being married to the Little poor man • God he loves me (God he loves me)Just like I love him (just like I love him)I want you to do (I want you to do)Just the same for him (just the same for him, yeah) • Well the worms eat away but don't worry watch the windSo I left Monatana on an old freight train (on an old freight train)The night my father died in the cold cold rain (in the cold cold rain) • Road to Opelousas, road to Wounded KneeRoad to Ogallala home I'll never beRoad to Oklahoma, road to El CahonRoad to Tahachapi, road to San Antone • Hey, hey • Road to Opelousas, road to Wounded KneeRoad to Ogallala, home I'll never beRoad to Oklahoma, road to El CahonRoad to Tahachapi, road to San Antone • Home I'll never be, home I'll never beHome I'll never be, home I'll never beHome I'll never be, home I'll never be
The rest of the Beats William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Alan Ansen, and Gregory Corso
San Francisco Renaissance • The San Francisco Renaissance was the equivalent of the New York Beats (such as Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Corso). Along with Lawrence Ferlinghetti, other poets in this group were Frank O’Hara and Gary Snyder. The Renaissance is only attached to the city that these poets lived and wrote about.
Frank O’HaraMusic • If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian pausing for a liver sausage sandwich in the Mayflower Shoppe, that angel seems to be leading the horse into Bergdorf’s and I am naked as a table cloth, my nerves humming. Close to the fear of the war and the stars which have disappeared. I have in my hand only 25 cents, it’s so meaningless to eat! and gusts of water spray over the basins of leaves like the hammers of a glass pianoforte. If I seem to you to have lavender lips under the leaves of the world, I must tighten my belt. It’s like a locomotive on the march, the season of distress and clarity and my door is open to the evenings of midwinter’s lightly falling snow over the newspapers. Clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear, trumpet of early afternoon! In the foggy autumn. As they’re putting up the Christmas trees on Park Avenue.
A definition of a Beat as told by Ginsberg • The Beats were more than just a group of poets, it was a generation. A generation “destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the streets at dawn looking for an angry fix.” – Allen Ginsberg, Howl