Bilde fra Cauca’s
There is only one home to the life of a river-mussel; there is only one home to the life of a tortoise; there is only one shell to the soul of man: there is only one world to the spirit of our race. If that world leaves its course and smashes on boulders of the great void, whose world will give us shelter?
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.
bak rosa burkaer og gule mullahskjegg 