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John Giorno

WELCOMING THE FLOWERS

  • 1 EVERYONE GETS LIGHTER | Translations: de
  • 2 WELCOMING THE FLOWERS | Translations: de
  • 3 JUST SAY NO TO FAMILY VALUES | Translations: deru
  • 4 THE DEATH OF WILLIAM BURROUGHS | Translations: de
  • 5 LA SAGGEZZA DELLE STREGHE
    WISDOM OF THE WITCHES
    | Translations: de
  • 6 THERE WAS A BAD TREE | Translations: de
  • 7 THANX 4 NOTHING
Language: english
Translations: german (WILLKOMMEN IHR BLUMEN)
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WELCOMING THE FLOWERS

I am standing on the corner of Stanton and Chrystie,
waiting for the traffic light to change.
A man is sitting on the steps of a building
holding his young son on his lap.
He is eating fried chicken
from Chico’s take-out on Houston.
He chews on the wings
and feeds bits of the breast to his son.

The man finishes eating
and puts the leftover chicken and bones,
french fries and soda can in a paper bag
and leaves it on the sidewalk.
A brown dog from a neighboring building,
snoops around
gets his nose in the bag,
chews on the bones
and makes a mess.
The man hits the dog with a newspaper,
and it yelps and runs away.
A black cat sitting in a window,
watches wide-eyed,
staring down at the dog,
chicken bones and gristle.

I see their past and present lives.
The man eats the chicken
and the chicken
was his mother,
who had died of cancer two years ago;

the dog chewing on the bones
was his father,
who had died of a heart attack five years ago;
and the cat in the window
was his grandmother;
and his young son, whom he holds so tenderly,
was the man who killed him in his previous life.
His wife comes home with groceries
and takes the boy into the building.
She had been his lover in many past lives,
and was his mother for the first time in this one.
The world just makes me laugh.

Fill what is empty,
empty what is full,
light
as body,
light
as breath.

Welcoming the flowers:
daffodils
baptized in butter,
lilacs lasciviously licking the air,
necklaces of wisteria
bowing to magnolia mamas,
the cherry blossoms are razor blades,
the snow dahlias are sharp as cat piss,
the lilies of the valley are
lilies of fur,
lilies of feather,
lilies of fin,
lilies of skin,
the almost Miss America rose,
the orchids are fat licking tongues,
and they all smell so good
and I am sucked into their meaty earthy goodness.

You make
my heart
feel warm,
I lay my head on your chest
and feel free,
filling
what is empty,
emptying
what is full,
filling what is
empty, emptying
what is full,
filling what is empty, emptying what is full,
filling what is empty, emptying what is full,
the gods
we know
we are,
the gods
we knew
we were.

I smell you
with my eyes,
see you
with my ears,
feel you
with my mouth,
taste you
with my nose,
hear you
with my tongue,
I want you to sit
in my heart,
and smile.

Words come from sound,
sound comes from wisdom,
wisdom comes from emptiness,
deep relaxation
of great perfection.

Welcoming the flowers:
armfuls of honey suckle
and columbine,
red-tipped knives of Indian paint brush,
the fields of daisies are the people
who betrayed me
and the lupine were self-serving and unkind,
the voluminous and voluptuous bougainvillea
are licking fire loving what it cannot burn,
the big bunch of one thousand red roses
are all the people I made love to,
hit my nose with stem of a rose,
the poppies have pockets packed with narcotic treats,
the chrysanthemums are a garland of skulls.

I go to death
willingly,
with the same comfort and bliss
as when I lay my head
on my lover’s chest.

Welcoming the flowers:
the third bouquet is a crown of blue bells,
a carillon of foxglove,
a sunflower snuggles its head on my lap
and gazes up at the sky,
may all the tiny black insects
crawling on the peony petals
be my sons and daughters in future lives,
great balls of light
radiating white, red, blue
concentric dazzle,
yellow, green
great exaltation,
the world just makes me laugh.

May sound and light
not rise up and appear as enemies,
may I know all sound as my own sound,
may I know all light as my own light,
may I spontaneously know all phenomena as myself,
may I realize original nature,
not fabricated by mind,
empty
naked awareness.

                                                                                                   2004

© John Giorno / Published by permission of the author
From: Subduing Demons in America: Selected Poems 1962-2007
New York: Soft Skull Press, 2008
Audio production: 2008 Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Translations:

Language: german

WILLKOMMEN IHR BLUMEN

Ich stehe Stanton Ecke Chrystie,
warte, dass die Ampel grün wird.
Ein Mann sitzt auf den Stufen eines Hauses,
seinen kleinen Jungen auf dem Schoß.
Er isst Brathähnchen
von Chicos Imbiss in der Houston.
Er nagt an den Flügeln
und füttert seinen Sohn mit Brustbröckchen.

Der Mann hat fertig gegessen
und stopft die Hühnerreste und Knochen,
Pommes und Coladose in eine Papiertüte
und lässt sie auf dem Bürgersteig liegen.
Ein brauner Hund aus einem Nachbarhaus
schnüffelt rum,
steckt die Schnauze in die Tüte,
kaut an den Knochen rum
und veranstaltet eine Schweinerei.
Der Mann schlägt den Hund mit einer Zeitung,
der jault und rennt weg.
Eine schwarze Katze sitzt in einem Fenster
beobachtet mit aufgerissenen Augen,
stiert den Hund an,
die Hühnerknochen und Knorpel.

Ich sehe ihre früheren und jetzigen Leben.
Der Mann isst das Huhn,
und das Huhn
war seine Mutter,
die vor zwei Jahren an Krebs gestorben war;
der Hund, der die Knochen kaut,
war sein Vater,
der vor fünf Jahren am Herzinfarkt gestorben war;
und die Katze im Fenster
war seine Großmutter;
und sein kleiner Junge, den er so zärtlich festhält,
war der Mann, der ihn im vorigen Leben umgebracht hat.
Seine Frau kommt mit dem Einkauf nach Hause
und nimmt den Jungen mit ins Haus.
Sie war seine Geliebte gewesen in vielen vergangenen Leben,
und war zum ersten Mal seine Mutter in diesem.
Die Welt bringt mich zum Lachen.

Füllen was leer ist,
leeren was voll ist,
leicht
wie Körper,
leicht
wie Atem.

Willkommen ihr Blumen:
Narzissen
in Butter gebadet,  
Lilien lecken lasziv die Luft,
Glyziniengirlanden
verneigen sich vor Magnolienmüttern,
die Kirschblüten sind Rasierklingen,
die Schneedahlien sind scharf wie Katzenpisse,
die Maiglöckchen sind
Fellglöckchen,
Federglöckchen,
Lederglöckchen,
Hautglöckchen,
die Beinahe-Miss-America-Rose,
die Orchideen sind dicke leckende Zungen,
und alle riechen so gut,
und ich bin aufgesogen in ihre fleischige erdige Güte.

Du machst dass
mein Herz
sich warm fühlt,
ich lege meinen Kopf auf deine Brust
und fühle mich frei,
füllen
was leer ist,
leeren
was voll ist,
füllen was
leer ist, leeren
was voll ist,
füllen was leer ist, leeren was voll ist,
füllen was leer ist, leeren was voll ist,
die Götter,
die wir kennen,
sind wir,
die Götter,
die wir kannten,
waren wir.

Ich rieche dich
mit meinen Augen,
sehe dich
mit meinen Ohren,
fühle dich
mit meinem Mund,
schmecke dich
mit meiner Nase,
höre dich
mit meiner Zunge,
ich möchte, dass du
in meinem Herzen sitzt
und lächelst.

Worte kommen aus dem Klang,
Klang kommt aus der Weisheit,
Weisheit kommt aus der Leerheit,
tiefe Entspannung
von großer Vollkommenheit.

Willkommen ihr Blumen:
Arme voll Geißblatt
und Akelei,
rotspitzige Messer der scharlachroten Kastillie
die Gänseblümchenwiesen sind die Leute,
die mich verrieten,
und die Lupinen waren selbstsüchtig und unfreundlich,
die schwellenden und schwülen Bougainvillea
sind züngelndes Feuer, das liebt, was nicht brennen kann,
der große Strauß von tausend roten Rosen
sind all die Leute, mit denen ich geschlafen habe,
triff meine Nase mit dem Stiel einer Rose,
der Mohn hat Taschen prall von kleinen berauschenden Geschenken,
die Chrysanthemen sind ein Kranz aus Schädeln.

Bereitwillig
gehe ich auf den Tod zu,
so selbstverständlich und selig,
wie wenn ich meinen Kopf
auf die Brust meines Geliebten lege.

Willkommen ihr Blumen:
das dritte Bouquet ist eine Krone aus Glockenblumen,
ein Glockenspiel aus Fingerhut,
eine Sonnenblume kuschelt ihren Kopf in meinem Schoß
und starrt hinauf in den Himmel,
mögen all die winzigen schwarzen Insekten,
die auf den Blütenblättern der Pfingstrose krabbeln,
in zukünftigen Leben meine Söhne und Töchter sein,
große Kugeln von Licht,
die konzentrisch blendendes
Weiß, Rot, Blau ausstrahlen,
gelbe, grüne
große Begeisterung,
die Welt bringt mich zum Lachen.

Mögen Klang und Licht
sich nicht erheben und erscheinen als ein Feind,
möge ich allen Klang als meinen eigenen Klang kennen,
möge ich alles Licht als mein eigenes Licht kennen,
möge ich spontan alle Erscheinungen als mich selbst kennen,
möge ich die ursprüngliche Natur verwirklichen,
von keinem Verstand erfunden,
leeres
nacktes Bewusstsein.

                                                                                                   2004

Aus dem Amerikanischen von Thomas Marquard
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John Giorno

photo © gezett.de
* 04.12.1936, New York City, United States
† 11.10.2019, New York City, United States

John Giorno, born in New York in 1936, was a highly innovative and influential figure; with a career spanning over 50 years, he is often considered to be one of the originators of Performance Poetry.

A key figure in the Factory art scene, John Giorno was a friend and contemporary of many of the most significant 1960s writers and artists, including Ginsberg, Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns, and was the subject of Andy Warhol’s experimental 1963 film Sleep.

 photo © gezett.de
In 1965 he founded the artist collective and record label Giorno Poetry Systems, which pioneered multimedia poetry, releasing over forty poetry LPs and CDs, as well as videos of live performances, by artists such as William Burroughs, John Ashbery, Patti Smith, Philip Glass and Laurie Anderson. Giorno also initiated the 1968 communication experiment Dial-A-Poem, which allowed callers to dial a number and listen to a recording of a live poetry performance. These innovative uses of modern technology brought poetry to new audiences, and were influential on later poetic movements, such as Spoken Word and Slam Poetry.

Giorno was also a pioneering Aids campaigner, and om 1984 founded the Aids Treatment Project, an organization which was effective in raising the public’s awareness of Aids long before it became an issue often addressed in public.

John Giorno’s latest book was the anthology, Subduing Demons in America: Selected Poems 1962-2007, published in 2008.

John Giorno died of a heart attack at age 82 on October 11, 2019, at his home in Lower Manhattan..

Publications
  • Poems by John Giorno

    New York: Mother Press, 1967

  • Johnny Guitar

    New York: Angel Hair Books (today United Artists Books), 1969

  • Balling Buddha

    New York: Kulchur Foundation, 1970

  • Birds

    New York: Angel Hair Books (today United Artists Books), 1971

  • Cancer in my left ball: Poems, 1970-1972

    New York: Something Else Press, 1973

  • Shit, Piss, Blood & Brains

    Philadelphia: The Painted Bride Press, 1977

  • Grasping at emptiness

    New York: Kulchur Foundation, 1985

  • Du Musst Brennen Um Zu Strahlen

    [Deutsch]

    Berlin: Stop Over Press, 1985

  • You Got to Burn to Shine: New and Selected Writings

    New York: Serpent's Tail Publishing Ltd, 1993

  • Jeder wird leichter

    [englisch-deutsch]

    Berlin: Stadtlichter Presse, 2007

  • Subduing Demons in America: Selected Poems 1962-2007

    New York: Soft Skull Press, 2008

Links
  • John Giorno @ PennSound

    incl. the two 'S Press' tapes: Johnny Guitar (1969–1972) + Balling Buddha (1975)

    Website
  • John Giorno @ UbuWeb

    Mp3s of John Giorno's early work, including Giorno Poetry Systems and Dial-A-Poem

    Website (en)
  • John Giorno @ Wikipedia

    Website (en)

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