---

Allen Ginsberg - Wales Visitation
Work rating: Medium

White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow 
          Trees moving in rivers of wind 
                                              The clouds arise 
   as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist 
          above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed 
                                                       along a green crag 
          glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine— 


Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught 
   but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion, 
          of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology, 
                                  the wisdom of earthly relations, 
          of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible 
                  orchards of mind language manifest human, 
   of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry 
          flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny 
                                  bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs— 


Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower 
          & network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self 
   the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating 
   heard in Blake’s old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness 
   clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey— 
                     Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness! 


All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind 
                                 undulating on mossy hills 
   a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels 
                                          on the mountainside 
   whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway 
                                     in granitic undertow down— 
and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees 
          and lifted the grasses an instant in balance 
                     and lifted the lambs to hold still 
   and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave 


A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale, 
   a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley, 
the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean 
                                                      tonned with cloud-hang, 
                     —Heaven balanced on a grassblade. 
Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body, 
          One Being on the mountainside stirring gently 
                     Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance, 
one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of daisies, 
one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering 
          to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down 
                                 through shivering flowers on the mountain’s head— 


No imperfection in the budded mountain, 
          Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together, 
   daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble, 
                                           grass shimmers green 
sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes, 
                              horses dance in the warm rain, 
          tree-lined canals network live farmland, 
                              blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn’d hills, 
          pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern— 


Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air, 
Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body! 
Stare close, no imperfection in the grass, 
                      each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story, 
                                             myriad-formed— 
Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells dropped 
          doubled down the stem trembling antennae, 
   & look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare 
          breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn— 
I lay down mixing my beard with the wet hair of the mountainside, 
          smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless, 
             tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness— 
One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath 
          moves every floweret in the stillness on the valley floor, 
   trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass, 
lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught 
             hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight, 


Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart 
                               Calling our Presence together 
          The great secret is no secret 
                     Senses fit the winds, 
                               Visible is visible, 
          rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale, 
                     gray atoms wet the wind’s kabbala 
Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain, 
          rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless, 
   breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside, 
                     Heaven breath and my own symmetric 
          Airs wavering thru antlered green fern 
drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn, 
                     Sounds of Aleph and Aum 
                               through forests of gristle, 
          my skull and Lord Hereford’s Knob equal, 
                                       All Albion one. 


What did I notice? Particulars! The 
          vision of the great One is myriad— 
   smoke curls upward from ashtray, 
             house fire burned low, 
The night, still wet & moody black heaven 
                                 starless 
                upward in motion with wet wind.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.