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#2347- Tuesday, December 20, 2005 - Editor: Jerry Katz





This issue is dedicated to Allen Ginsburg and his poem, Howl which is celebrating 50 years since publication. Ginsburg, Jack Kerouac, and the other Beat writers, with radical honesty and freedom and specific pullings from Buddhist teachings, helped to open people's minds so they could eventually receive Buddhism's most nondual teachings as well as nondual teachings from all people and traditions.


The focus of this issue is Gabriel Rosenstock's translation of some of Ginsburg's beautifully striking haikus into a strangely ever-familiar Irish.













photo: Allen Ginsberg


Haiku by Allen Ginsberg

and Irish versions by Gabriel Rosenstock


“Talk stand shit


            eat sleep –”


                        flies walking on my nose




“Labhair seas cac


            ith codail – ”


                        cuileoga ag siúl ar mo shrón










“You’re not going to get your money back”


            Everybody laughing –


                        “Any questions?”




“Ní bhfaighidh sibh bhur gcuid airgid ar ais”


            Gach éinne ag gáirí –


                        “Ceist ar bith?”










“What do we mean by Craziness?”


            Dogs bark to each other


                        across the meadow at night






“Cad is brí le Gealtachas?”


            Gadhair ag tafann ar a chéile


                        thar an móinéar istoíche












Not a word! Not a word!


Flies do all my talking for me –


and the wind says something else






Oiread is focal! Deineann cuileoga


an chaint thar mo cheann –


rud eile le rá ag an ngaoth










Buddha died and


left behind a


big emptiness




cailleadh an Búda


is d’fhág ina dhiaidh


folús fairsing










did you ever see yourself


a breathing skull


looking out the eyes?






An bhfacaís riamh thú féin


id bhlaosc análaithe


ag stánadh amach trí na súile?












Looking over my shoulder


my behind was covered


with cherry blossoms




ag féachaint thar mo ghualainn dom


bhí mo thóin clúdaithe


le bláthanna silíní










I didn’t know the names


of the flowers – now


my garden is gone






Ní raibh ainmneacha na mbláthanna


ar eolas agam – ní hann níos mó


dom ghairdínse














A hardon in New York,


a boy


in San Francisco




Adharc orm i Nua-Eabhrac,




i San Francisco












Another year


has past – the world


is no different




Bliain eile imithe


tá an domhan


mar an gcéanna



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