By Jack Kerouac
A never-before-published ebook of poems by way of Jack Kerouac—in a deluxe package
In 1952 and 1953 as he wandered round the United States, Jack Kerouac jotted down spontaneous prose poems, or "sketches" as he known as them, on small notebooks that he stored in his blouse wallet. The poems recount his travels—New York, North Carolina, Lowell (Massachusetts, Kerouac’s birthplace), San Francisco, Denver, Kansas, Mexico—observations, and meditations on paintings and existence. The poems are usually strung jointly in order that over the process a number of of them, a bit story—or travelogue—appears, entire in itself. released for the 1st time, Book of Sketches bargains a luminous, intimate, and transcendental glimpse of 1 of the main unique voices of the 20th century at a key time in his literary and religious improvement.
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Extra info for Book of Sketches
A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, OLIVER GOLDSMITH 513 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;— Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. HENRY FIELDING No longer from thy window look— Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid; Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow.