Writing Exercise: A Supermarket in California

One writing professor I had frequently gave us an exercise in which we would convert poems we liked by authors we respected into templates for our own brainstorming. I decided to do this tonight with Allen Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California." Text of my page plop first, then Ginsberg's wonderful poem after.

A Playground in New England

What memories of you I have today, my ghosts, for I wandered down hallways under fluorescent lights with a dry throat gulping at the woolen plaid skirts.

In my playful wishing, and seeking to hide, I went to the primary colored slide swing playground, whooping and hollering your names!

What games and what gaiety! Fathers and daughters playing tag! Sandboxes full of friends! Whispering on the monkey bars, laughing not at me! – and you, blue frog, what were you doing talking to the shy girl?

I saw you, my ghosts, children, lonely little beets, shuffling outside the perimeter and eyeing the others.

I heard you sighing at each: Who will talk to me? What place politics? Are you my Love?

I wove under and above the ringing streamers of giggles following you, and followed in my imagination by a celebratory circus.

We rode down the winding slides together in our silly reverie, faster, our hair whipping against our faces, and never going home for dinner.

Where are we going, my ghosts? The sun sets in an hour. Which way do your sheets blow tonight?

(I touch my face and think of our fantastic height on the swings and feel absurd.)

Will we dance all night through these dim halls? The faces don’t change, combinations don’t work, we’ll all be lonely.

Will we run dreaming of the lost childhood of slumber parties and Halloweens past a quiet man brushing his teeth, home to a still backyard?

Ah, sweet apparitions, fading lights, what childhood did you have when you were ravens, calling out loud, and rejoicing in the sound of your own voices?


A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

- Allen Ginsberg, Berkeley, 1955