Recitation of poetry is deeply regarded for expressing your true feelings. It has been observed that Urdu poets in the past used to say poetry that depicts the social, cultural surroundings of their era. Last Updated on Sunday, October 14 2018 ... Read more

My Sad Self - Poem by Allen Ginsberg | Urdu Poetry

Poet : allen-ginsberg
My Sad Self - Poem by Allen Ginsberg
To Frank O’Hara

Sometimes when my eyes are red 
I go up on top of the RCA Building 
and gaze at my world, Manhattan— 
my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in, 
lofts, beds, coldwater flats 
—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind, 
its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men 
walking the size of specks of wool— 
Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine, 
sun go down over New Jersey where I was born 
& Paterson where I played with ants— 
my later loves on 15th Street, 
my greater loves of Lower East Side, 
my once fabulous amours in the Bronx 
faraway— 
paths crossing in these hidden streets, 
my history summed up, my absences 
and ecstasies in Harlem— 
—sun shining down on all I own 
in one eyeblink to the horizon 
in my last eternity— 
matter is water. 


Sad, 
I take the elevator and go 
down, pondering, 
and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s 
plateglass, faces, 
questioning after who loves, 
and stop, bemused 
in front of an automobile shopwindow 
standing lost in calm thought, 
traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me 
waiting for a moment when ... 


Time to go home & cook supper & listen to 
the romantic war news on the radio 
... all movement stops 
& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence, 
tenderness flowing thru the buildings, 
my fingertips touching reality’s face, 
my own face streaked with tears in the mirror 
of some window—at dusk— 
where I have no desire— 
for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese 
lampshades of intellection— 


Confused by the spectacle around me, 
Man struggling up the street 
with packages, newspapers, 
ties, beautiful suits 
toward his desire 
Man, woman, streaming over the pavements 
red lights clocking hurried watches & 
movements at the curb— 


And all these streets leading 
so crosswise, honking, lengthily, 
by avenues 
stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums 
thru such halting traffic 
screaming cars and engines 
so painfully to this 
countryside, this graveyard 
this stillness 
on deathbed or mountain 
once seen 
never regained or desired 
in the mind to come 
where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear. 
Allen Ginsberg

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