JACK MICHELINE
Fecha de nacimiento: 6 de noviembre de 1929, El Bronx, Nueva York, Estados Unidos
Fallecimiento: 27 de febrero de 1998, Orinda, California, Estados Unidos
Poeta y pintor que rechazó ser incluido en cualquier corriente artística, Jack Micheline está íntimamente ligado a la GENERATION BEAT y su primer libro, River of Red Wine, publicado en 1958, incluyó una introducción de Jack Kerouac, quien vivía en su mismo edificio en Nueva York.
Es uno de los doce poetas que Neelie Cherkovski presentó en su colección de ensayos Whitman’s Wild Children (Los niños salvajes de Whitman, 1989), junto con Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Harold Norse y William Everson, entre otros.
Nacido en Bronx, de origen ruso-rumano, Micheline se mudó a principios de la década de 1960 a la bahía de San Francisco y allí vivió y escribió, a menudo en la pobreza, hasta su muerte, de un ataque cardíaco a bordo de un tren.
El conmovedor y crudo Chasing Kerouac’s Shadow recorre muchos de los tópicos del poeta vagabundo y en guerra contra el sistema y es un llamamiento a los marginados del sueño americano en la búsqueda de una nueva religiosidad frente al devastador modernismo.
Persiguiendo la sombra de Kerouac, de Jack Micheline
POESÍA BEAT Por PIPA PASSES
Persiguiendo la sombra de Kerouac
La ciudad de alabastro resplandece bajo la luz del sol
Estoy en un autobús yendo a Santa Rosa
Lejos del apestoso hotel
Me dicen que soy famoso, como las Jerome cookies
Calles, poemas, manicomios, cárceles, pinturas, estafadores y tiempo
Mis veinte años de poemas y pinturas
Guardados lejos en casas y sótanos
Implacables de ira y amor
Reflexiono sobre la vida y el mundo a mi alrededor
El autobús acelera a sesenta en la autopista
Tengo cincuenta y dos, vivo solo, considerado un genio loco y excéntrico
En realidad soy un poeta fracasado
Que nunca aceptará el mundo
No importa cuán hermosas crezcan las flores
No importan cuánto sonrían los niños
No importa cuán azul sea el cielo más azul
Las duras realidades de la vida, que la vida es mayormente un engaño
El genio de la lluvia nos evita
El alma solitaria que realiza su hermosa danza para que
…todos la vean
Busco a la hoja genuina volando en el viento
La persona auténtica tamborileando una canción cuya melodía
Fluye a través de ríos y tiempo
La imagen que baila con estrellas
El sol que funde ira y acoso
Años pasados mendigando y vendiéndome
Llevando pinturas en autobuses
Llevando colchones a través de las calles
Desalojos, amores perdidos, resacas, reumatismo, hemorroides
Por una musa que raramente satisface
Debo estar loco, embrujado como un apostador perdido
Librado a su última apuesta sin pasaje ni dulce
No soy hábil ni encantador
No puedo mentir por dinero o contar cuentos
Soy el zorro canoso algo idiota
El viejo experto persiguiendo el sueño loco
El mismísimo judío chiflado
Que no sabe cuándo retirarse
Que no puede decir morir salvo que muera
Es todo un loco sueño
La pista de carreras llena de maníacos
Apostadores perdidos viviendo de esperanzas y sueños
Mañana nunca es mejor
Los mismos autobuses llenos de rostros cansados y golpeados
Solo sé cuándo el gallo se levanta y el cuervo aúlla
Para comer, beber, mear
Y el pollo es bueno para comer cuando uno tiene hambre
El dinero compra a todos, es por eso que el mundo está jodido
Es por eso que los políticos tienen diecisiete rostros y
…redactores de discursos
Y las camareras usan lápiz labial
Es por eso que la mediocridad gobierna
Es por eso que los poetas andan en grupos para protegerse
Y los músicos desaparecen más rápido que las moscas
Y los artistas se tragan a los ricos más rápido que la sandía veraniega
y los niños burgueses
Es por eso que comunistas y capitalistas
Usan los mismos trucos
Para ocultar lo milagroso
La magia de la vida
La maravilla de niños y salamandras y pájaros
Maravilla es el trueno
Maravilla es la lluvia primaveral en sí
Maravilla es la joven enamorada
El concierto
El colibrí
Las nubes moviéndose a través del cielo nocturno
Está lloviendo nuevamente
Luz contra oscuridad
Sombras persiguiendo al sol
El sol persiguiendo a las sombras
Hombre contra la noche
Hombre y mujer juntos con la noche
El día despierta
Cantemos una canción
Para aquellos que persiguen a la noche
Para aquellos que bailan con luz
Una gota de luz
No importa quién es luz
Enciende lo desconocido
Lo desconocido, es todo lo que tenemos
Todo es posible
Como colores recién nacidos parpadeando a lo largo del Universo
El camino
El vagabundo
Los soñadores
Los bailarines
Lo olvidado
¡A la mierda con los fanáticos!
Byron Hunt está haciendo un collage en el Goodman Buiding
Ed Balchowsky está haciendo otra pintura
Elevando su único brazo al cielo
Rosalie Sorrells está cantando una canción en Kansas
Sam Shepard está sonriendo
Aves raras están apareciendo con nuevos abrigos de color
Rainy Cass está vivo y sano en Nueva Orleans
Valentine Chuzioff está boceteando alguna rubia en Jackson Square
Bodenheim trapicheando otro poema por vino
Franz Kline cantando una canción triste en el Cedar
Kerouac hablando otra vez a la luna
James T. Farrell persiguiendo a una camarera en el Yankee Stadium
Charlie Mingus bailoteando, acariciando, comiendo un filete
Tocando el bajo con ángeles
Wilbur Ware
Gil Gaulkins
Bill Bosio
Al Delauro
Bob Bolles
Charlie Stark
Sue McGraw
Linda
Charlotte
Banana Boat
Steamboat Jones
Jeremías
Jerusalén
La luz está apareciendo
Entregaré al sol
Pertenece a todos
No es mío para que lo dé
Aquellos con el sol
Aquellos buscando al sol
Aquellos escapando en la noche de Chicago
Aquellos en la cárcel
Aquellos en las torres
Aquellos persiguiendo un fantasma en tierras salvajes
Aquellos en el camino
Aquellos con sueños
Aquellos que nunca se darán por vencidos
Aquellos que están aprendiendo a bailar
Aquellos perplejos
……….agonizantes
……….hechos polvo
……….desgraciados
……….marcados
……….confundidos
Todos somos el sol
Ustedes son el sol
Este mundo es uno
Aquellos con asombro, ustedes son el sol
Sacudan al sol
Somos uno
¡La luna y el sol son hermanos!
15 de marzo de 1982
Escrito en un bus de
San Francisco a Santa Rosa
Chasing Kerouac’s Shadow
The alabaster city gleams in the sunlight
I am on a bus going to Santa Rosa
Away from the stinking hotel
They tell me I am famous, like the Jerome cookies
Streets, poems, nuthouses, jails, paintings, con men and time
My twenty years of poems and paintings
stored away in houses and cellars
relentless with anger and love
I ponder at life and the world around me
The bus speeds on the highway going sixty
I am fifty-two, live alone, considered some mad freak genius
In reality I am a fucked up poet
who will never come to terms with the world
No matter how beautiful the flowers grow
No matter how children smile
No matter how blue is the bluest sky
The harsh realities of life, that life is mostly a put up job
The genius rain avoids us
The lone solitary soul that does her beautiful dance for
…all to see
I seek the genuine leaf blowing in the wind
The real person tapping a song whose melody
flows through rivers and time
The image that dances with stars
The sun that melts anger and harassment
Years spent begging and hustling
Carrying paintings on buses
Carrying mattresses through streets
Evictions, lost loves, hangovers, rheumatism, hemorrhoids
For a muse that rarely pays off
I must be mad, bewitched like a lost gambler
Down to my last bet with no carfare or candy
I am not subtle or charming
I cannot lie for money or tell stories
I’m the gray fox some schmuck
The old pro chasing the mad dream
The crazy Jew himself
Who don’t know when to quit
Who can’t say die unless I die
It is all a mad dream
The race track full of maniacs
Lost gamblers living on hope and dreams
Tomorrow is never better
The same buses full of beaten and tired faces
I only know when the cock rises and the crow howls
To eat, to drink, to take a leak
And chicken is good to eat when one is hungry
Money buys everybody, that is why the world is fucked up
That is why politicians have seventeen faces and
…speechwriters
And waitresses wear lipstick
Why mediocrity rules
Why poets hang out in groups for protection
And musicians disappear faster than flies
And artists suck the rich quicker than summer watermelon
and bourgeois children
Why the communists and capitalists
Use the same deck of tricks
To hide the miraculous
The magic of life
The wonder of children and salamanders and birds
Wonder is the thunder
Wonder is the Spring rain itself
Wonder is the young girl in love
Wonder is love
The concerto
The hummingbird
The clouds moving across the night sky
It is raining again
Light against darkness
Shadows chasing the sun
The sun chasing the shadows
Man against the night
Man and woman together with the night
The day awakens
Let’s sing a song
For those who chase the night
For those that dance with light
One speck of light
No matter who is light
Light the unknown
The unknown, it is all we have
Anything is possible
Like new born colors flashing across the Universe
The road
The vagabond
The dreamers
The dancers
The unsung
Fuck the Gung Ho!
Byron Hunt is doing a collage at the Goodman Building
Ed Balchowsky is doing another painting
Raising his one arm to the sky
Rosalie Sorrells is singing a song in Kansas
Sam Shepard is smiling
Rare birds are coming out with new coats of color
Rainy Cass is alive and well in New Orleans
Valentine Chuzioff is sketching some blonde in Jackson Square
Bodenheim hustling another poem for wine
Franz Kline singing a sad song at the Cedar
Kerouac talking to the moon again
James T. Farrell chasing a waitress at Yankee Stadium
Charlie Mingus bopping, chucking, eating a steak
Playing bass with angels
Wilbur Ware
Gil Gaulkins
Bill Bosio
Al Delauro
Bob Bolles
Charlie Stark
Sue McGraw
Linda
Charlotte
Banana Boat
Steamboat Jones
Jeremiah
Jerusalem
The light is coming out
I’ll give the sun away
It belongs to everybody
It’s not mine to give away
Those with the sun
Those seeking the sun
Those on the run in the Chicago night
Those in jail
Those in the towers
Those chasing a ghost in the wilderness
Those on the road
Those with dreams
Those who will never give up
Those who are learning to dance
Those perplexed
……….agonized
……….whacked
……….wretched
……….tattooed
……….confused
We are all the sun
You are the sun
This world is one
Those with wonder, you are the sun
Shake the sun
We are one
The moon and the sun are brothers!
March 15, 1982
Written on a bus from
San Francisco to Santa Rosa
The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Alan Kaufman editor, pages 110-113, Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1999.
Traducción Mariano Rolando Andrade
heavy mama
One of those heavy mama’s
Done fuck with my head
She didn’t get no lovin
So she fucked with my head
Those No Lovin’ mama’s
They smother their sons
Lay out pain and sorrow
On their Lovin’ sons head
So I ran wild
Like a mad dog
Through towns and the cities
Joined all the causes to clear out the pain
sought out the answers
for guilt, pain and shame
he had a heavy mama
who had all the pain
all the tender kindness
put on your brain
through desperation and luck
through fire and rain
he found his real sound
his heart beat like a hammer a poet claimed
but deep inside him
remains still the pain
of a Heavy Mama and Fire and Rain
god bless the unknown
Born in a daze
I wandered across the cities
Ablaze with lights
Hospital, tower, prisons and all hells habitation
Tap in cry and die and keep going
What did I know or anyone know
We knew nothing
Not a god dam thing
A blind man searching in the night
A child poet
Bug eyed from the real racing
The need for what others seem to have
Appearance certainly a sham
This worlds a sham
So what has it been any different
The devil turns the wheels of the world
The devil with his fucking big hat
His ritual of deceit and murder
Slave, politician, banker, stockbroker, pimp entrepreneur
The need for money
Learn to make honey baby
That is the switcheroo
The birds are singing in the trees
The flowers are blooming
I got my eyes
We are all the light
thank you, bob kaufmann
Thank You, Bob Kaufman
That day in the Marina we threw your ashes in the Bay
You made the rainbows come
Not even the Pope could do that
From Coit Tower to Angel Island to Sausalito
You sent us a signal
A love call in the sky
Thank you, Bob Kaufman
hiding places | november 19, 1976 san francisco
There are hiding places in my room
where beautiful poems are hidden
Poems hidden away in boxes
on sheets of brown paper
Poems of spirit and magic
workers hands hidden in boxes
beautiful thighs
there are blue skies hidden in my room
dolphins and seagulls
the heaving of breasts and oceans
there are skies in my room
there are flies in my room
there are streets in my room
there are a thousand nights hidden in boxes
there are drunks in my poems
there are a million stars on the roof of my room
all hidden away in boxes
there are steps down side streets
there is a crazed eye of a poet in my room
there are old Arabs exploring the desert near Escalon
there are sparrows and bluebirds and wildcats in my room
there are elephants and tigers
there are skinny Italian girls in my room
there are letters from Peru and England
and Germany and Russia in my room
There are the steps of Odessa in my room
the Volga river in my room
there are dreams in the night of my room
there are flowers
there is the dance of affirmation in my room
the steps of young poets carrying knapsacks full of poems
there are the Pictures of an Exhibition in my room
Moussorgsky and Shostakovich
and Charlie Mingus in my room
Composers and painters all singing in my room
all hidden away in boxes
one night when the moon is full
they will come out and do a dance
poet of the streets
I walk east of Bleecker
the sky is blue
on this Sunday evening
there is something deeper than the earth
there is something deeper than the stone cities
there is something deeper than our existence
than all the robes of power
power and the night bleeding gutters with crutches
power and the night and the neon vibrating
the night and thirty moons and sharpies
the night and the railroad yards gleaming
the night and the sky
the night and billboards and darkness
across a nation skeletons and machinery
jaundice, joints and lips of connivers
burnt Christmass trees
jazz horns and drummers
above concrete
above whimpering voices
above calculators
riders with tokens in their hands
riders to the sea
a nation of cowards
cowards wrapped in academic cloth
over all in darkness
over all who live in deserts
over all shells covering
over all that are wasted
burying all in nothingness
burying all that is soul
burying all with layers of armour
burying herds with still voices
burying all in the nowhere of silence
herring and fish in cans
turkey and chicken in cans
humans in cells of unknowing
there is more to life than the lights of savage civilizations
there is more to life than all the words spoken
there is more to life than the eye can see
I see the sun of angels
hemp and sugar and wheat
blood and sinew within the flesh
ticker tapes, grey hair, jowls on faces
dollars and gods and people sold and traded
people dying for nothing
people selling their minds and bodies
people without courage
people with no teeth in drug stores
death loaded with goods
givers of death and more death
cranes and deep hookers
cutting shears for the young
newspapers stunting the mind
dollars the spoiler of ships of bananas
I see your faces as I stroll through the cities
the wind touching the faces of whores
the vision of poets encompassing all
song of children outside the brick houses
there is nothing deeper than life and the livers of life
mankind raped in the bank vaults of steel
dead soldiers, battlefields surrounded by iron and ironies
a million lost sunsets
a poet unconquered with the legacy of Whitman and Lorca
a poet unconquered by stone, by glass, by greed, by madness
the lights blaze on in the night
lights and the cold wind
visions above all death
cows milked dry, golden crosses
the sky blazing with miracles
a poet walks in the cold wind
his head raised humble and unafraid
death around him filled with waste and banners
death all around him
walking alone with birds above the canoe shaped moons
sounds are heard and the sky glows in darkness.
January 31, 1960, East Bleecker. This poem turned the tide of my death, written on First Avenue off the Bowery. In an alley of great souls.
rock song
‘O the dead stalk the corridors of airports
It’s the dead
It’s the dead
It’s the God damn dead
It’s the dead that rule the world
It’s the guys writing poems in the streets of the world
It’s the guys writing poems for us all
It’s the sound that comes from deep in the heart
It’s the sounds jumping out from the air
It’s the dead
It’s the dead
It’s the God damn dead
It’s the dead that rule the world
Don’t let it get you down
Don’t let the fear bring you down
The hard rock sound
All men are born to be free
‘O the dead stalk the corridors of airports
It’s the dead that rule the world
It’s the dead
It’s the dead
It’s the God damn dead
It’s the dead that rule the world
It’s the face of a child that I see
It’s the rays of the sun in the sky
It’s the dogs chasing birds in the grass of the world
It’s the lovers that make the world free
‘O the dead stalk the corridors of airports
It’s the dead that rule this world
It’s the dead
It’s the dead
It’s the God damn dead
It’s the dead that rule the world
reflections on saints
200 girls march up the stairs to mass
red robed, desiring
to praise the Lord Amen!
outside the rummys feel their pain
old jews weep in the park of Pitt St.
the lone Negro plays the blues
the sun begins to shine down on the old east side
playing a Puerto Rican rumble
200 girls march up the stairs to mass
red robed, desiring
to praise the Lord Amen!
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