Allen Ginsberg - Sunflower Sutra

One of my favorite recordings of the poem.
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves
rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays
obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the
railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.

[@wolfluman1366]

I love you for coming here with your mind like that and opening your self to the poetry.

[@wazl]

I love you, man

[@ctt544]

@@k.sikkema309 certainly not. I am as hollow as anyone.

[@descartesdonkey4291]

And I love you for loving me

[@sniffableandirresistble]

Cool poem shut up weirdo

[@LorxusIsAFox]

That man's premature applause has been captured for the ages.

[@pajamawilliams9847]

His red ears burning like the sunflower sunset tin can locomotive of all eternity

[@pollinseclectic8254]

Beautiful poem read by a great poet . I was lucky to see Ginsberg perform, in Israel, around 1986 or 1987. Unforgettable

[@tonorwaymylove]

ginsberg is incredible. we've all forgotten that we are sunflowers...

[@AppreciateMuch]

Truth

[@ronnieedmondson1345]

After I first read this poem I give the Sunflower the attention it deserves

[@glowpunk]

Learning this bad boy off by heart for a project. The more I read it and reread it, the more I get out of it. Must have read it a thousand times at this point and still revealing new images, ideas and thoughts...so full of meaning, not a word wasted. Bravo!

[@bedeo10]

The good thing about ginsberg poetry is the more you understand him and yourself the more you can instantly and easily interoperate his poetry

[@avodiablackheart6131]

Youll never get enuf..... and then theres Jack. Dont stop now baby.. Theyre all calling to you in the old, new hip time called now.. ♡☆☆☆☆☆♡

[@allanwesaquate6774]

hi allen ginsberg, thanks for being the greatest poet.you make things easier for other Allan's like me

[@cuppalentilsoop]

Ah God, that beautiful, generous man... tears...

[@petelarose998]

Allen Ginsberg was such a great poet and a great singer and a great man. I wish I could have known him could I wish I could have known some of the other beat writers especially Jack Kerouac

[@SheenHunter-SeattleFreeze]

This is too much for me to appreciate

[@gregmeiners5166]

All that lives is Holy.

[@sohrosune29]

A beautiful read of one of my favorite poems ever

[@caballosinnombre3981]

Sunflower I Miss you so

[@txelcat]

Is that Alan Watts laughter in the back?

[@geezerpoet]

A slow read of this great poem by Ginzy that has its advantages. Enjoy!

[@anuparnachaudhary94]

This is so so so beautiful

[@1scousers]

Fuckin marvellous.

[@wogglebugs]

Thanks for sharing this.

[@thetabicat]

Ohmygodwow. So RAVISHING.

[@user-jt7og3yj5l]

Amazing.!Thanks for sharing this.

[@veronikanagevica9094]

Amazing

[@mybad6813]

Do we have any knowledge on the time of this reading? The location? Any knowledge past the distinct, succinct sound of Mr Ginsberg's voice?

[@domofalltradez]

This goes hard.

[@DeliDen]

Sunflower Sutra BY ALLEN GINSBERG I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily. Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust- -I rushed up enchanted-it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake-my visions-Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past- and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye- corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then! The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt-industrial-modern-all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown- and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos-all these entangled in your mummied roots-and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen, -We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision. Berkeley, 1955

[@christianhitrancis5380]

nice..

[@leonthonen5389]

Hit the road jack!

[@goldenultra]

Interesting sutra, but not as good as the Lotus Sutra. That is my best sutra. His influence extends wide even to The Clash.

[@sarahdavidson8803]

Deep

[@nayankab1774]

oh my my

[@BushyHairedStranger]

5:39,,…

[@rohansnibs9585]

bookmarks for me lol 4:16 4:44

[@SrimanJohn1]

Dedicated to Marjorie

[@awwlive]

my brother recited this.

[@poetryjones7946]

Your preceding ads are probably the worst on KZbin. And Ginsberg is screaming in his grave dust knowing you play Trump endorsements before sharing his poetry.

[@r.marian6277]

The KZbin channel owners don't pick the ads that are featured on their videos.

[@excelsior999]

If this guy was a real Buddhist then I'm a real Zoroastrian.

[@curtrod]

congratulations, anyone can be Buddhists without being in the monastic orders, there are many different ways to live a Buddhist life, theravadan, small boat, big boat, seems like you missed the boat, you're still loved tho'

[@excelsior999]

@@curtrod Fine - as long as you'e aware that Buddhism is a Belief System and not a religion since it dos not profess belief in God or a Supreme Being.and since its Ultimate Goal is Annihilation of the Self, or IOW, Ontological Suicide.

[@petelarose998]

I just want to say that the Lord Jesus Christ loves you very much and died on the cross at Calvary for you. You can accept Jesus as your savior anytime you want. God and goddess bless you.

[@hugom8881]

ill pass thanks the unholy is unimaginably more fun

[@punchjudy]

Nah, I'd rather be a sunflower. You can have your Jesus locomotive.

[@drdocy]

A great poet but a not so good poem speaker