No one man should have all that power. The clocks tickin’, I just count the hours.

Falafelstaden!

See, I am an old dog, but I got some new tricks. Working hard, from eight to six.

Il y a dans tes yeux, comme une air curieux.

Dance, dance, dance, words can never make up for what you do.

Another negroleader, on the steps of the White House. One kneeling between the sheriff’s thighs, negotiating coolly for his people.

Jeg skal ikke forstå meg ihjel på konteksten til dette stykket. Diktet er, uavhengig av tid og sted, rasistisk og antisemittisk. Dette er ekstrem afrosentrisme. Men diktet er også, uavhengig av tid og sted, uavhengig av politisk ståsted og verdisyn, et som slår ut tennene på deg. Et som plasserer en knyttneve mellom pupillene dine. Et som sparker deg i magen. Et som ber deg om noe du ikke vet hva er. Og, ikke minst, et som  er akkompagnert av Albert Aylers saksofon.

Spennende analyse av diktet finner du her.

Black Art

Poems are bullshit unless they are

teeth or trees or lemons piled

on a step. Or black ladies dying

of men leaving nickel hearts

beating them down.

Fuck poems

and they are useful, would they shoot

come at you, love what you are,

breathe like wrestlers, or shudder

strangely after peeing.

We want live words of the hip world

live flesh and cursing blood.

Hearts,

brains,

souls splintering fire.

We want poems,

like fists beating niggers out of Jocks

or dagger poems in the slimy bellies

of the owner-jews.

Black poems to

smear on girdlemamma mulatto bitches

whose brains are red jelly stuck

between ‘lizabeth taylor’s toes.

Stinking Whores!

We want «poems that kill.»

Assassin poems.

Poems that shoot guns.

Poems that wrestle cops into alleys,

and take their weapons leaving them dead,

with tongues pulled out and sent to Ireland.

Knockoff poems for dope selling wops

or slick halfwhite

politicians.

Airplane poems, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh

. . .rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .

Setting fire and death to

whities ass.

Look at the liberal spokesman for the jews

clutch his throat and puke himself into eternity

. . . rrrrrrrr

There’s a negroleader pinned to

a bar stool in Sardi’s,

eyeballs melting in hot flame.

Another negroleader,

on the steps of the White House.

One kneeling between the sheriff’s thighs,

negotiating coolly for his people.

Aggh . . . stumbles across the room . . .

Put it on him, poem.

Strip him naked to the world!

Another bad poem cracking

steel knuckles in a jewlady’s mouth.

Poem, scream poison gas on beasts in green berets.

Clean out the world for virtue and love.

Let there be no love poems written,

until love can exist freely and

cleanly.

Let Black people understand

that they are the lovers and the sons,

of warriors and sons

of warriors,

are poems and poets and,

all the loveliness here in the world

We want a black poem.

And a black world.

Let the world be a black poem,

and let all black people speak this poem.

Silently,

or loud.

Weep for yourself, my man. You’ll never be what’s in your heart. Weep, little lion man.

So peace is on me on the day I was born, the day that I die and the day that I shall be raised up to life.

Jeg har tatt eksamenspause, men på juleaften, når Jesu’ fødsel etter europeisk tradisjon feires, selv om han angivelig var født sent på vinteren eller utpå våren, må jeg jo lese juleevangeliet – på muslimsk vis. Det skulle bare mangle.

 

Relate in the Book the story of Mary, when she withdrew from her family to a place in the East.

She placed a screen, to screen herself from them, then We sent her Our angel and he appeared before her as a man in all respects.

She said: «I seek refuge from thee to The Most Gracious, come not near if thou dost fear Allah.»

He said: «Nay, I am only a messenger from thy Lord, to announce to thee the gift of a holy son.»

She said: «How shall I have a son, seeing that no man has touched me, and I am not unchaste?»

He said: «So it will be. Thy Lord saith: «That is easy for Me, and We wish to appoint him as a sign unto men and a mercy from Us.» It is a matter so decreed.»

So she conceived him, and she retired with him to a remote place.

And the pains of childbirth drove her to the trunk of a palm-tree. She cried in her anguish: «Would that I had died before this, would that I had been a thing forgotten and out of sight.»

But a voice cried to her from beneath the palm-tree: «Grieve not! For thy Lord hath provided a rivulet beneath thee. And shake towards thyself the trunk of the palm-tree. It will let fall fresh ripe dates upon thee. So eat, and drink, and cool thine eye. And if thou dost see any man, say: ‘I have vowed a fast to the Most Gracious, and this day I will enter into not talk with any human being.’ «

At length she brought the child to her people, carrying him in her arms.

They said: «Oh, Mary! Truly an amazing thing hast thou brought. O sister of Aron! Thy father was not a man of evil, nor thy mother a woman unchaste!

But she pointed at the child. They said: «How can we talk to one who is a child in the cradle?»

He said: «I am indeed a servant of Allah. He hath given me a revelation and made me a prophet; and He hath made be blessed wheresoever I be, and hath enjoined on me prayer and charity as long as I live; He hath made me kind to my mother, and not insolent or miserable. So  peace is on me  on the day I was born, the day that I die and the  day that I shall be raised up to life.»

Such was Jesus, son of Mary. It is a statement of truth, about which they vainly dispute.

It is not befitting to the Majesty of Allah that He should beget a son. Glory be to Him, when He determines a matter, He only says to it: «Be!» And it is.

Verily Allah is my Lord, and Your Lord. Him therefore serve ye. This is the straight path.

[19:16-19:36]

Oversettelse av Yusuf Ali

Stanzas and anthems based on expansion, a vantage point of the past, present and after.

Winter’s cold is too much to handle, pincher crabs that pinch at your sandals.