Allen Ginsberg, 1973

[busker]

Allen Ginsberg, 1973
 
He was wearing Indian clothes
like he’d just stepped off the streets of Calcutta,
and he’d just led us in singing a Blake song
while he played his harmonium.
At intermission he moved into the audience
wandering the aisles of the auditorium
and I sought him out, waiting in terror
to intercept him.  Finally he appeared before me,
it was just the two of us, face to face.
Starry eyed, I said nothing, just stared into his eyes.
“Did you sing?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“I tried” I said and he smiled.
“That’s all we can ask” and moved on, first taking my hand.
His was soft as a flower.

Allen Ginsberg, 1973

 

He was wearing Indian clothes

like he’d just stepped off the street from Calcutta.

He’d just led us in singing a Blake song

while he played his harmonium,

was wandering the aisles of the auditorium in intermission.

His balding bearded head haloed in long black hair

appeared before me, “Did you sing?”

I said “I tried” and he smiled

“that’s all we can ask” he said

and moved on, first taking my hand.

His was as soft as a flower.

I don’t associate Ginsberg with soft hands or playing a harmonium. George Harrison, maybe? But I never met these guys in person, they were before my time.
It’s a great little vignette.
I preferred “off the street from Calcutta”. The whole  “off the streets of XYZ” sounds cliched and tired, almost implying that all the streets in any given city are interchangeable, and by implication, carry the same sort of generic individual.