Now a series of songs,
March 1972, leaving
San
Francisco, flying over the
Pacific to
Hawaii and thence to the island of
Fiji.
Songs written on that trip,
the first for slack key guitar to the tune of
Sweet
Leilani
after visiting the
Bishop
Museum in
Honolulu.
Sweet
O 'ahu, got petroleum, superhighways,
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glass hotels, old
Hawai 'is buried under
steamboat mu seums, sugar hills,
bishop estates, leases, homesites, to the
Kaiser industry.
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An d the military highways
closed off to the ocean over
Koli
Koli.
Sweet
O 'ahu, got petroleum,
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superhighways, glass hotels.
Old
Hawaii's buried under steamboat museums,
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sugar hills, bishop estates, leases, homesites
To the
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Kaiser in the stream
And the military highways closed off
To the ocean over
Koli
Koli
Sweet
O 'ahu, got petroleum,
superhighways, glass ho tels.
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Old
Hawaii's buried under
Steamboat
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Museum's sugar hills
Bishop
Es tates leases home sites to the
Kaiser in dustry
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And the military highways
closed off to the ocean over
Coley,
Coley.
Ciritoka
Beach
Croon, quatrains, mirror image, two poems,
four quatrains each, written sitting
on the beach, no particular music in mind,
or what music was in mind disappeared, so
now re -improvised.
I closed my eyes on
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Fiji sands and what did I think of next?
You, big -eared listener,
and the
Prajnaparamita texts,
I thought of
Herman
Melville's rhyme on olden
Marquesa shore,
And dead
Jack
Kerouac's choo -choo time in
modern microphone roar.
A light rose up my body and spine
as children ripples fell
Smiling head that consciousness
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reached all my teachers in hell
Oh music that washes from shore to shore
Oh rhythm turned centuries old
Sing through our mouths and
wake the great mind,
The bard's first chanting foretold.
I opened my eyes on
Fiji sands,
What does the sunlight reveal?
Coral bones on the tiny beach, grass,
flies on my hand, wash and kneel.
Crabs in brown valleys of sand,
tree elbows leaned on the sea.
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Australian children yelling at wavelets,
a rowboat in shade of the tree.
Peaceful chatter of baby waves, white caps distant reef roar,
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birds whistling through green palm arms, jeep tires speeding the shore.
Oh, presence as timid as a white dog
that swims on the shallow tide
Salute, blue ocean in heaven,
through which our war bombers ride
Thank you.
Allen Ginsberg 
