I had to write a paper about this poem a few months back. I initially didn't like this, not a big fan of Kerouac, but after spending so much time with it, it's grown on me. This video is a very respectful and apt presentation of the Kerouac and his generation.
Have you actually READ Kerouac? He philosophized constantly! While he partied constantly, he also had a concept of himself as a Buddhist and that there should be some point to life. When he didn't find such a "point," he drank himself to death.
❤️Women with red banjos On their handbags And arts handicrafty Slow shuffling Art-ers of Washington Square Passing in what they think Is a happy June afternoon Good God the Sorrow They dont even listen to me when I try to tell them they will die They say "Of course I know I'll die, Why should you mention It now - Why should I worry About it - It 'll happen It' ll happen - Now I want a good time - Excuse me - It's a beautiful happy June Afternoon I want to walk in -
Oh thats right!.. I remember reading about that el' line. I know there was once one on Allen st. in LES, I wonder if it was connected.... either way, trust me, I'm from queens and lived in the LES for the past 5 years.... I've seen the worst transformation of this city in the past 10 years, I feel like it barely has a soul anymore.
I am not out to be critical here, not howling into cyber space so that someone never intended can read it, but for crying out loud, in all the "goofy, foolish human parade", why leave some of these comments. I was espeacially takenaback by whatever smart ass was hiding behind the sudanymn "paper back novel" who comment is "He's dead, they're all dead." He then adds, "most probably", as though he, in all his post post post modernism has gotten postal fever paranoia, and come to fear in the last fleeting moment before bravely hitting curser that, alas, some still living memeber of the beats (or just mid century working class Madhatten American life) will come back into his or her world through the white existential screne of the internet and announce his still vibrant pulse with all he brown and holy power of The Hudson saying, "You little shit, I exist, what do y'know?! Put'em up! Put up yer dukes! Put'em up!" What is his point? Hark the pigeon of empty fire escapes!? Yet he entails a dangling allowence of possiblity to the absolution of his thoughtless nihilistic graffiti. What then was the concern? A survivor? Perhaps some base ball totting boy, all lean muscle and freckled irish with his shirt sleeves rolled and brothers 1940s lop sided yankees cap on his head, playing with the lean negro and hispanic boy and jewish kids in summer t-shirts and wife beaters fully soaked in the wild reliefe of freshly opened fire hydrant will emerge upon his door step as strongly grandpas and beat him against his keyboard if he fails to be chronologically correct with all he places fatally and without meaning upon the screne with all the arrogance and dismal detatchement of men who must have pissed on cave art of the first artist, long ago! To you, I say, I'd love to take you up to misses Filasissimo's, 2nd story, apartment B, and she the old man shake his sandy head... Whats that you say? Anh? You still didbn't understand hunh? Well up to Mrs O'Brian then, for a good washin' with soap. The sooap, she calls it. Buys it down below and down a few doors down on the street below. Bough speacial sented ivory as her husband liked. Likes, she says. Pat was a fine one, she'll say, handsome too. A shoe repairman, never rich but hard workin, save on Sundays and certain Saturdays. A bit of a poet, Pat was. She even has a few scraps of this in the drawer her mother brought over from the old country as a bit of a dowery. She gets into a scrubbin' for a minute, Miss O'Brian, miss O'Leary too, if you let her get ahold of ye... A hard pair a thumb and index fingers for red ears, but ye have to earn it. For we myust remember the lord was patient. Saints preserve us, child, have some respect for a nice thing like poetry. Ye can't go takin like that. You'll find respect if I have to put it in ya! Out into the street with ye now. Lord help me Angela, in this heat to be the watcher of other's children!"
The one and only Kerouac. I could listen to him read all day. Thanks for posting!
Brilliant atmosphere with the visuals of this video & Kerouac's poetry.
I had to write a paper about this poem a few months back. I initially didn't like this, not a big fan of Kerouac, but after spending so much time with it, it's grown on me. This video is a very respectful and apt presentation of the Kerouac and his generation.
This is a GREAT post from that era of collaboration with Steve Allen’s unsung piano. Thank you so much!🎶
Jack lived life and experienced things rather than philosophise what it is or should be. He expressed
his feelings in a clear and simple way.
live your life? no! love your life. that way, when they come and stone you, you won't have a glass house. just your glassy flesh.
Have you actually READ Kerouac? He philosophized constantly! While he partied constantly, he also had a concept of himself as a Buddhist and that there should be some point to life. When he didn't find such a "point," he drank himself to death.
So beautiful. With perception and soul.
"no one believes there is nothing to believe" -- genius
Beautiful poetry 😊
I read this a few days ago in his Book Of Blues, simply amazing
its wonderful and I do love Jack, and Allen and Bill, you did a great job my friend hope you got a fine grade
FANTASTIC ....... a million thank yous
Ok now I see more about why people loved the beat poets. That was great. Had some rap too.
❤️Women with red banjos
On their handbags
And arts handicrafty
Slow shuffling
Art-ers of Washington Square
Passing in what they think
Is a happy June afternoon
Good God the Sorrow
They dont even listen to me when
I try to tell them they will die
They say "Of course I know
I'll die, Why should you mention
It now - Why should I worry
About it - It 'll happen
It' ll happen - Now
I want a good time -
Excuse me -
It's a beautiful happy June
Afternoon I want to walk in -
No great wonder that Greenwich Village is so famous; just walking down and around its streets inspire.
Thank you,I enjoyed 🎶🍀
Exactly right. They're not any more dead than they ever were. They're just not here . . .
WRU beautiful people
Thank You for upload.greetings
Pozdrawiam serdecznie
He wrote his vision of America and he wrote truth..
Great job. Thanks for posting.
SINCERE in trees. even more powerful.
great vid!!!
Love the piano 3
There ain't no jelly doughnut on the other side of that window!
Five negatives? Who could be so cold!
disciplined as a Writer...
Good stuff
Oh thats right!.. I remember reading about that el' line. I know there was once one on Allen st. in LES, I wonder if it was connected.... either way, trust me, I'm from queens and lived in the LES for the past 5 years.... I've seen the worst transformation of this city in the past 10 years, I feel like it barely has a soul anymore.
red banjos on there hand bags, sweet
hard working hard drinking genius
man, his cadence reminds me of bernie sanders!
Yes it does. A cadence that has a self assuredness to it. Yet with an over tone of sincerity. Thats why we like to listen. Its a comforting voice.
Crazy daddio
Is this Ginsberg reading it?
It's Kerouac
this is prose nrt poetry. I love this prose, and I don't get why such natural prose is considered poetry.
+brett knoss
You are deciding that this is not poetry? I think there might be many scholars, critics, poets, and writers who disagree.
Prose is what you read in the newspapers and earnings reports. You'll never find anything one tenth as good as this in those places.
+Grif perfect!
I am speaking in prose? Asked Mister Jourdain
It's the imagery as.well as the inflections and rythm. Direct opposition to the classic structures. Meant to be read aloud and shared.
MacDougal
99 MacDougal - where are Teddy and Josie now?
Is this the old 6th ave. elevated line?
Probably 3rd Ave El.
Now he's dead, and they're dead (most probably).
ice cream of ignorance
i know what he means
I am not out to be critical here, not howling into cyber space so that someone never intended can read it, but for crying out loud, in all the "goofy, foolish human parade", why leave some of these comments. I was espeacially takenaback by whatever smart ass was hiding behind the sudanymn "paper back novel" who comment is "He's dead, they're all dead." He then adds, "most probably", as though he, in all his post post post modernism has gotten postal fever paranoia, and come to fear in the last fleeting moment before bravely hitting curser that, alas, some still living memeber of the beats (or just mid century working class Madhatten American life) will come back into his or her world through the white existential screne of the internet and announce his still vibrant pulse with all he brown and holy power of The Hudson saying, "You little shit, I exist, what do y'know?! Put'em up! Put up yer dukes! Put'em up!" What is his point? Hark the pigeon of empty fire escapes!? Yet he entails a dangling allowence of possiblity to the absolution of his thoughtless nihilistic graffiti. What then was the concern? A survivor? Perhaps some base ball totting boy, all lean muscle and freckled irish with his shirt sleeves rolled and brothers 1940s lop sided yankees cap on his head, playing with the lean negro and hispanic boy and jewish kids in summer t-shirts and wife beaters fully soaked in the wild reliefe of freshly opened fire hydrant will emerge upon his door step as strongly grandpas and beat him against his keyboard if he fails to be chronologically correct with all he places fatally and without meaning upon the screne with all the arrogance and dismal detatchement of men who must have pissed on cave art of the first artist, long ago! To you, I say, I'd love to take you up to misses Filasissimo's, 2nd story, apartment B, and she the old man shake his sandy head... Whats that you say? Anh? You still didbn't understand hunh? Well up to Mrs O'Brian then, for a good washin' with soap. The sooap, she calls it. Buys it down below and down a few doors down on the street below. Bough speacial sented ivory as her husband liked. Likes, she says. Pat was a fine one, she'll say, handsome too. A shoe repairman, never rich but hard workin, save on Sundays and certain Saturdays. A bit of a poet, Pat was. She even has a few scraps of this in the drawer her mother brought over from the old country as a bit of a dowery. She gets into a scrubbin' for a minute, Miss O'Brian, miss O'Leary too, if you let her get ahold of ye... A hard pair a thumb and index fingers for red ears, but ye have to earn it. For we myust remember the lord was patient. Saints preserve us, child, have some respect for a nice thing like poetry. Ye can't go takin like that. You'll find respect if I have to put it in ya! Out into the street with ye now. Lord help me Angela, in this heat to be the watcher of other's children!"
+Bunker Power i love you.
Bunker Power yeah you said it true Pal !!
Miri boheme z
Sudanym is "pseudonym".
It's Ginsberg reading what K wrote.
+David Rabinovitz No, sir.
+David Rabinowitz
It is Kerouac reading his own work.
Richard Marsh ~ That IS a fact!
It’s Jack
Like listening to an ancient roman sybarite - My generation [Z] cannot relate. We are being destroyed by these Baby Boomers...
only if you want to. Look at BETO!!!!
You are being destroyed by your inability to relate.
existential angst & ennui, baby! Anomie...
Go shop.
One word. Lame.
'This is the sound of ignorance'
Over rated