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Allen Ginsberg - Wales VisitationAllen Ginsberg - Wales Visitation
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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.
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