The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
All these books are published in Heaven.
I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
Ultimately Warhol's private moral reference was to the supreme kitsch of the Catholic church.
Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.
No monster vibration, no snake universe hallucinations. Many tiny jeweled violet flowers along the path of a living brook that looked like Blake's illustration for a canal in grassy Eden huge Pacific watery shore, Orlovsky dancing naked like Shiva long-haired before giant green waves, titanic cliffs that Wordsworth mentioned in his own Sublime, great yellow sun veiled with mist hanging over the planet's oceanic horizon. No harm.
Poets are Damned... but See with the Eyes of Angels.
How many grandmothers turning to ghost?
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Where are the President's Armies of Gold?
The world knows the love that's in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
What should I care for the love of my loins?
You should have seen me reading Marx.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.
America, how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does.
Millions of children alone in the rain!
Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine, Jiggling yr knees blankeyed in the rain, When it snows in yr nose you catch cold in yr brain.
It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now.
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone!
America when will we end the human war?
More Allen Ginsberg Quotations (Based on Topics)
America - World - Literature - Mind - Love - Poetry - Madness - War & Peace - Children - Flowers - Night - Dreams - Pain - Art - Poets - Experience - Miracles - Democracy - Communities - View All Allen Ginsberg Quotations
More Allen Ginsberg Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Howl and Other Poems
William Blake - Shel Silverstein - Rabindranath Tagore - John Keats - Alexander Pope - Aeschylus - William Somerville - Robert Browning - Edward Young - Edgar Guest