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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=460997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Listening to Lawrence Ferlinghetti</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=460997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The story is.. no..<br>the history is.. no…<br>the story of the history is, <br>that back in the 15th century, <br>the wild battered shores of Portugal<br>threw up strange vegetable things, <br>strange woods, strange scented things, that spoke of <br>somewhere that was not Europe; so, was there, <br>far or near across the sea, between Europe and<br>the end, the plate’s-edge of the world<br>where anything might happen<br>like, a fall into infinite space.. falling, falling..<br>an island? and if an island, large or small, <br>did it, at the other side, fall straight into that nowhere, <br>or did it have a West Coast? </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=460997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">what human excitement for the adventurous! <br>and as each of us grows up, this same excitement..</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=460997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I remember when we were wondering<br>in a tired but changing world<br>who we were, what the world was, mid-1950s, <br>and word came (O brave new world<br>that hath such creatures in’t…) <br>of people called the Beats – did that mean<br>beaten down, or beatific, or, right on the beat? –<br>from the East and then the West Coast<br>of that very large continent across the sea..</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=460997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">and after we’d read Ginsberg, Corso, Burroughs, <br>in 1958 came a sweet book of poetry, <br>its photographic cover all whites and blacks and grays<br>and lights –‘ A Coney Island of the Mind’ –<br>and I treasured it, even when it was closed…</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=460997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The picture of the wild and loose and free<br>that we had then, did not accord<br>with the human being of magnificence<br>who stood there at the reading-desk, <br>huge in his eighties, with a face and build<br>straight out of Italy of the Renaissance –<br>even with a shirt of almost Tuscan red –<br>who fleshed out, statured out, the word<br>‘patrician’ – and read his still wild poetry<br>to a hand-held electronic score<br>of seagulls over harbour lights, <br>like some Dante who’d been to hell<br>and back, and walked Italian streets, <br>and ancient Palestinian mountains too, <br>who’d heard that message that time’s tide throws up<br>of a tomorrow that’s not like today; </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=460997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">proclaiming a humanity beyond even anarchy<br>with all the kindliness of those<br>who guard the human race.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a></strong></div>