After the Cries of the Birds
Narrated by Bill Wolak
New Jersey
Lawrence Ferlinghetti – After the Cries of the Birds
Hurrying thru eternity
after the cries of the birds has stopped
I see the “future of the world”
in a new visionary society
now only dimly recognizable
in folk-rock ballrooms
free-form dancers in ecstatic clothing
their hearts their gurus
every man his own myth
butterflies in amber
caught fucking life
hurrying thru eternity
to a new pastoral era
I see the shadows of that future
in that white island
which is San Francisco
floating in its foreign sea
seen high on a hill
in the Berkeley Rose Garden
looking West at sunset to the Golden Gate
adrift in its Japanese landscape
under Mt. Tamal-Fuji
with its grazing bulls
hurrying thru heaven
the city with its white buildings
“a temple to some unknown god”
(as Voznesensky said)
after the cries of the birds has stopped
I see the sea come in
over South San Francisco
and the island of the city
truly floated free at last
never really a part of America
East East and West West
and the twain met long ago
in “the wish to pursue what lies beyond
the mind”
and with no place to go but In
after Columbus recovered America
and the West Coast captured by some
Spanish Catholics
cagily getting the jump by sea
coveredwagons crawling over lost plains
hung up in Oklahoma
Prairie schooners into Pullmans
while whole tribes of Indians
shake hopeless feather lances
and disappear over the horizon
to reappear centuries later
feet up and smoking wild cigars
at the corner of Hollywood & Vine
hurrying thru eternity
must we wait for the cries of the birds
to be stopped
before we dig In
After centuries of running
up & down the Coast of West
looking for the right place to jump off
further Westward
the Gutenberg Galaxy casts its light no further
the “Westward march of civilization”
comes to a dead stop on the shores of
Big Sur Portland & Santa Monica
and turns upon itself at last
after the cries of the birds has stopped
must we wait for that
to dig a new model
of the universe
with instant communication
a world village
in which every human being is a part of us
though we be still throw-aways
in an evolutionary progression
as Spengler reverses himself
Mark Twain meets Jack London
and turns back to Mississippi
shaking his head
and the Last Frontier
having no place to go but In
can’t face it
and buries its head
Western civilization gone too far West
might suffer a sea-change
into Something Else Eastern
and that won’t do
The Chinese are coming anyway
time we prepared their tea
Gunga Din still with us
Kipling nods & cries I told you so!
the French King hollers Merde!
and abandons his Vietnam bordel
but not us
we love them too much for that
though the Mayflower turned around sets sail again
back to Plymouth England (and the
Piltdown letdown)
misjudging the coast & landing in Loverpool
American poets capture Royal Albert Hall
The Jefferson Airplane takes off
and circles heaven
It all figures
in a new litany
probably pastoral
after the cries of the birds has stopped
Rose petals fall
in the Berkeley Rose Garden
where I sit trying to remember
the lines about rose leaves
in the Four Quartets
Stella kisses her lover in the sunset
under an arbor
A Los Angeles actor nearby goes Zap! Zap!
at the setting sun
It is the end
I drop downhill
into a reception for Anaïs Nin
with a paperbag full of rose leaves
She is autographing her Book
I empty the bag over her head from behind
Her gold lacquered hair sheds the petals
They tumble red & yellow on her
signed book
Girl again she presses them
between the leaves
delightedly
like fallen friends
Her words
flame in my heart
Virginia Woolf under water
she drifts away on the book
a leaf herself blowing skittered
over the horizon
The wish to pursue what lies beyond the mind
lies just beyond
Ask a flower what it does
to move beyond the senses
Our cells hate metal
The tide turns
We shoot holes in the clouds’ trousers
and napalm sears the hillsides
skips a bridge
narrows to a grass hut full of charred bodies
and is later reported looking like
“The eternal flame at Kennedy’s grave”
A tree flowers red It can’t run
Shall we now advance into the 21st century?
I see the lyric future of the world
on the beaches of Big Sur
gurus at Jack’s Flats
nudes swart maidens swimming
in pools of sunlight
Kali on the beach
guitarists with one earring
lovely birds in long dresses and Indian headbands
What does this have to do with Lenin?
Plenty!
Die-hard Maoists lie down together crosswise
and out comes a string
of Chinese firecrackers
and after the cries of the birds
has stopped
Chinese junks show up suddenly
off the coast of Big Sur
filled with more than Chinese philosophers
dreaming they are butterflies
How shall we greet them? Are we ready
to receive them?
Shall we put out koan steppingstones
scrolls & bowls
greet them with agape
Tu Fu and bamboo flutes at midnight?
Big Sur junk meet
Chinese junk?
Will they ride the breakers into Bixby Cove?
Will they bring their women with them
Will we take them on the beach
like Ron Boise’s lovers in Kama Sutra
face them with Zen zazen & tea
made from the dust of the wings
of butterflies dreaming
they’re philosophers?
Or meet them with last war’s tanks
roaring out of Fort Ord
down the highways & canyons
shooting as they come
flame-throwers flaming jelly
into the Chinese rushes
under the bridge at Bixby?
The U.S. owns the highway but is Big Sur
in the USA?
San Francisco floats away
beyond the three-mile limit
of the District of Eternal Revenue
No need to pay your taxes
The seas come in to cover us
Agape we are & agape we’ll be