{"id":4160,"date":"2018-10-10T13:33:11","date_gmt":"2018-10-10T13:33:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/2018\/10\/10\/the-canticle-of-jack-kerouac\/"},"modified":"2018-10-10T13:33:11","modified_gmt":"2018-10-10T13:33:11","slug":"the-canticle-of-jack-kerouac","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/2018\/10\/10\/the-canticle-of-jack-kerouac\/","title":{"rendered":"The Canticle of Jack Kerouac"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
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BY LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI<\/a><\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/span> <\/span><\/div>\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
1.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
Far from the sea far from the sea<\/span><\/div>\n
                                     of Breton fishermen<\/span><\/div>\n
       the white clouds scudding<\/span><\/div>\n
                                             over Lowell<\/span><\/div>\n
            and the white birches the<\/span><\/div>\n
                                           bare white birches   <\/span><\/div>\n
                along the blear night roads<\/span><\/div>\n
                                       flashing by in darkness   <\/span><\/div>\n
            (where once he rode<\/span><\/div>\n
                                        in Pop\u2019s old Plymouth)   <\/span><\/div>\n
And the birch-white face<\/span><\/div>\n
                                    of a Merrimac madonna   <\/span><\/div>\n
            shadowed in streetlight<\/span><\/div>\n
                            by Merrimac\u2019s shroudy waters   <\/span><\/div>\n
                  \u2014a leaf blown<\/span><\/div>\n
                                     upon sea wind<\/span><\/div>\n
                     out of Brittany<\/span><\/div>\n
                                           over endless oceans<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
2.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
There is a garden in the memory of America<\/span><\/div>\n
There is a nightbird in its memory<\/span><\/div>\n
There is an andante cantabile<\/em><\/span><\/div>\n
in a garden in the memory   <\/span><\/div>\n
of America<\/span><\/div>\n
In a secret garden<\/span><\/div>\n
in a private place<\/span><\/div>\n
a song a melody<\/span><\/div>\n
a nightsong echoing<\/span><\/div>\n
in the memory of America   <\/span><\/div>\n
In the sound of a nightbird   <\/span><\/div>\n
outside a Lowell window<\/span><\/div>\n
In the cry of kids<\/span><\/div>\n
in tenement yards at night<\/span><\/div>\n
In the deep sound<\/span><\/div>\n
of a woman murmuring<\/span><\/div>\n
a woman singing broken melody<\/span><\/div>\n
in a shuttered room<\/span><\/div>\n
in an old wood house<\/span><\/div>\n
in Lowell<\/span><\/div>\n
As the world cracks by<\/span><\/div>\n
                                 thundering<\/span><\/div>\n
like a lost lumber truck<\/span><\/div>\n
                                    on a steep grade   <\/span><\/div>\n
               in Kerouac America<\/span><\/div>\n
The woman sits silent now<\/span><\/div>\n
                                     rocking backward   <\/span><\/div>\n
      to Whistler\u2019s Mother in Lowell<\/span><\/div>\n
                         and all the tough old<\/span><\/div>\n
                                          Canuck mothers   <\/span><\/div>\n
                              and Jack\u2019s M\u00e9m\u00e8re<\/span><\/div>\n
And they continue rocking<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
      And may still on stormy nights show through   <\/span><\/div>\n
          as a phantom after-image<\/span><\/div>\n
                            on silent TV screens   <\/span><\/div>\n
             a flickered after-image<\/span><\/div>\n
                              that will not go away   <\/span><\/div>\n
                in Moody Street<\/span><\/div>\n
                  in Beaulieu Street<\/span><\/div>\n
                   in \u2018dirtstreet Sarah Avenue\u2019   <\/span><\/div>\n
    in Pawtucketville<\/span><\/div>\n
       And in the Church of St. Jean Baptiste<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
3.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
And the Old Worthen Bar<\/span><\/div>\n
                                  in Lowell Mass. at midnight   <\/span><\/div>\n
         in the now of Nineteen Eighty-seven<\/span><\/div>\n
Kerouackian revellers<\/span><\/div>\n
                               crowd the wood booths<\/span><\/div>\n
         ancient with carved initials<\/span><\/div>\n
                  of a million drinking bouts<\/span><\/div>\n
                        the clouts of the<\/span><\/div>\n
                                       Shrouded Stranger<\/span><\/div>\n
                  upon each wood pew<\/span><\/div>\n
      where the likes of Kerouack lumberjack<\/span><\/div>\n
             feinted their defiance<\/span><\/div>\n
                                 of dung and death<\/span><\/div>\n
Ah the broken wood and the punka fans still turning   <\/span><\/div>\n
          (pull-cord wavings<\/span><\/div>\n
                                     of the breath of the Buddha)   <\/span><\/div>\n
       still lost in Lowell\u2019s<\/span><\/div>\n
                                        \u2018vast tragedies of darkness\u2019<\/span><\/div>\n
                           with Jack<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
4.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
And the Four Sisters Diner   <\/span><\/div>\n
         also known as \u2018The Owl\u2019   <\/span><\/div>\n
Sunday morning now<\/span><\/div>\n
                           March Eighty-seven<\/span><\/div>\n
or any year of Sunday specials   <\/span><\/div>\n
Scrambled eggs and chopped ham<\/span><\/div>\n
   the bright booths loaded with families<\/span><\/div>\n
      Lowell Greek and Gasp\u00e9 French<\/span><\/div>\n
               Joual patois and Argos argot<\/span><\/div>\n
    Spartan slaves escaped<\/span><\/div>\n
                         into the New World<\/span><\/div>\n
         here incarnate<\/span><\/div>\n
                              in rush of blood of<\/span><\/div>\n
                            American Sunday morning<\/span><\/div>\n
And \u201cTi-Jean\u201d Jack Kerouac   <\/span><\/div>\n
      comes smiling in<\/span><\/div>\n
                           baseball cap cocked up<\/span><\/div>\n
               hungry for mass<\/span><\/div>\n
                              in this Church of All Hungry Saints   <\/span><\/div>\n
         haunt of all-night Owls<\/span><\/div>\n
                                           blessing every booth …<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
5.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
Ah he the Silent Smiler<\/span><\/div>\n
    the one<\/span><\/div>\n
               with the lumberjack shirt<\/span><\/div>\n
         and cap with flaps askew<\/span><\/div>\n
                     blowing his hands in winter<\/span><\/div>\n
             as if to light a flame<\/span><\/div>\n
    The Shrouded Stranger knew him<\/span><\/div>\n
         as Ti-Jean the Smiler<\/span><\/div>\n
            grooking past redbrick mill buildings<\/span><\/div>\n
            down by the riverrun<\/span><\/div>\n
                              (O mighty Merrimac<\/span><\/div>\n
                                           \u2018thunderous husher\u2019)<\/span><\/div>\n
               where once upon a midnight then<\/span><\/div>\n
            young Ti-Jean danced with M\u00e9m\u00e8re<\/span><\/div>\n
                   in the moondrowned light<\/span><\/div>\n
And rolled upon the greensward   <\/span><\/div>\n
    his mother and lover<\/span><\/div>\n
         all one with Buddha<\/span><\/div>\n
                           in his arms<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
6.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
And then Ti-Jean Jack with Joual tongue<\/span><\/div>\n
      disguised as an American fullback in plaid shirt   <\/span><\/div>\n
          crossing and recrossing America<\/span><\/div>\n
                                             in speedy cars   <\/span><\/div>\n
    a Dr. Sax\u2019s shadow shadowing him<\/span><\/div>\n
      like a shroudy cloud over the landscape   <\/span><\/div>\n
       Song of the Open Road sung drunken<\/span><\/div>\n
               with Whitman and Jack London and Thomas Wolfe<\/span><\/div>\n
            still echoing through<\/span><\/div>\n
                            a Nineteen Thirties America   <\/span><\/div>\n
                            A Nineteen Forties America   <\/span><\/div>\n
                            an America now long gone<\/span><\/div>\n
               except in broken down dusty old<\/span><\/div>\n
                                              Greyhound Bus stations<\/span><\/div>\n
                   in small lost towns<\/span><\/div>\n
       Ti-Jean\u2019s vision of America<\/span><\/div>\n
                seen from a moving car window<\/span><\/div>\n
                      the same as Wolfe\u2019s lonely<\/span><\/div>\n
                                                sweeping vision<\/span><\/div>\n
                  glimpsed from a coach-train long ago<\/span><\/div>\n
       (\u2018And thus did he see first the dark land\u2019)   <\/span><\/div>\n
And so Jack<\/span><\/div>\n
                in an angel midnight bar<\/span><\/div>\n
   somewhere West of Middle America<\/span><\/div>\n
          where one drunk madonna<\/span><\/div>\n
                        (shades of one on a Merrimac corner)   <\/span><\/div>\n
      makes him a gesture with her eyes<\/span><\/div>\n
                                                       a blue gesture   <\/span><\/div>\n
          and Ti-Jean answers<\/span><\/div>\n
                                       only with his eyes   <\/span><\/div>\n
And the night goes on with them<\/span><\/div>\n
       And the light comes up on them<\/span><\/div>\n
                      making love in a parking lot<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
7.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
In the dark of his fellaheen night<\/span><\/div>\n
    in the light of the illuminated<\/span><\/div>\n
                                 Stations of the Cross<\/span><\/div>\n
               and the illuminated Grotto<\/span><\/div>\n
                           down behind the Funeral Home   <\/span><\/div>\n
                                           by roar of river   <\/span><\/div>\n
       where now Ti-Jean alone<\/span><\/div>\n
                     (returned to Lowell<\/span><\/div>\n
                        in one more doomed<\/span><\/div>\n
                                    Wolfian attempt<\/span><\/div>\n
                                    to Go Home Again)   <\/span><\/div>\n
    gropes past the Twelve Stations of the Cross<\/span><\/div>\n
               reciting aloud the French inscriptions<\/span><\/div>\n
                   in his Joual accent<\/span><\/div>\n
            which makes the plaster French Christ<\/span><\/div>\n
                                                       laugh and cry<\/span><\/div>\n
                  as He hefts His huge Cross<\/span><\/div>\n
                                        up the Eternal Hill   <\/span><\/div>\n
    And a very real tear drops<\/span><\/div>\n
                                           in the Grotto<\/span><\/div>\n
                           from the face<\/span><\/div>\n
                                              of the stoned Virgin<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
8.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
         Light upon light   <\/span><\/div>\n
The Mountain<\/span><\/div>\n
                  keeps still<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
9.<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
         Hands over ears   <\/span><\/div>\n
He steals away<\/span><\/div>\n
               with the Bell. . . .<\/span><\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n
Writ in Lowell and Conway and Boston Mass. and San Francisco   
<\/em><\/span><\/div>\n
March-April 1987<\/em><\/span><\/div>\n
\n
\n
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, \u201cThe Canticle of Jack Kerouac\u201d from These Are My Rivers: New and Selected Poems<\/em>. Copyright \u00a9 1993 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation, www.wwnorton.com\/nd\/welcome.htm.<\/span><\/div>\n
Source: These Are My Rivers: New and Selected Poems<\/em> (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1993)<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
 <\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

BY LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI    1.   Far from the sea far from the sea                                      of Breton fishermen        the white clouds scudding                                              over Lowell             and the white birches the                                            bare white birches                    along the blear night roads                                        flashing by in darkness                (where once he rode                                         in Pop\u2019s old Plymouth)    And the birch-white … Continue reading “The Canticle of Jack Kerouac”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[202,161],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4160","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-kerouac-and-friends","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4160","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4160"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4160\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4160"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4160"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maverickphilosopher.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4160"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}