Blog literario idiota de Andrés Nortes Martínez-Artero. Literatura y rock en vena. Y alguna cosa más

domingo, 14 de febrero de 2010

Poesía revolucionaria

Prefería dejarme esta entrada para mañana, pero ante el riesgo de no tener tiempo -o memoria- para hacerlo, dejo listos los apuntes para un pequeño artículo sobre lírica revolucionaria negra que me sugirió un programa de Radio 3 llamado Carne Cruda que presenta Javier Gallego.






Impagable el final de la canción de Last Poets...

"When the revolution comes...
But until then,
you know,
and I know,
niggers are party
and bullshit
and party
and bullshit
and party...
Some might even die"


Espero que os gusten. He aquí las letras. Son verdaderamente combativas, duras

When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes some of us will probably catch it on TV, with chicken hanging from our mouths. You'll know its revolution cause there won't be no commercials
When the revolution comes

When the revolution comes
Preacher pimps are gonna split the scene with the communion wine stuck in their back pockets
Faggots won´t be so funny then and all the junkies will quit their noddin´ and wake up When the revolution comes

When the revolution comes
Transit cops will be crushed by the trains after losing their guns and blood will run through the streets of Harlem drowning anything without substance
When the revolution comes

When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes
Our pearly white teeth froth the mouths that speak of revolution without reverence
The cost of revolution is 360 degrees understand the cycle that never ends
Understand the beginning to be the end and nothing is in between but space and time that I make or you make to relate or not to relate to the world outside my mind your mind. Speak not of revolution until you are willing to eat rats to survive

When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes; guns and rifles will be taking the place of poems and essays. Black cultural centers will forts supplying the revolutionaries with food and arms when the revolution comes

When the revolution comes
White death will froth the walls of museums and churches breaking the lies that enslaved our mothers when the revolution comes

When the revolution comes
Jesus Christ is gonna be standing on the corner of Lennox Ave and 125th St trying to catch the first gypsy cab out of Harlem, when the revolution comes

When the revolution comes
Jew merchants will give away motza balls and gifilka fish to anyone they see with afros. Frank Shieffin will give away the Apollo to the first person he sees wearing a blue dashiki, when the revolution comes

When the revolution comes afros gone be trying to straighten their heads and straightened heads gone be tryin to wear afros

When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes
But until then you know and I know niggers will party and bullshit and party and bullshit and party and bullshit and party and bullshit and party...

Some might even die before the revolution comes



Y aquí está el poema de Gil-Scott Heron

The revolution will no be televised
You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.
There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.
Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be right back
after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.
The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live. 

Ambas letras son enormes (también por su tamaño, jaja, al fin y al cabo, son poemas recitados)




 

2 comentarios:

Jesus/Salvador/Suto dijo...

The revolution will no be televised! me acuerdo que en los tiempos de los argentinos de mi barrio, de Cecilia, era uno de los clásicos... los tiempos en que conocí bien a Bowie, La velvet... que buen enlace!

El cuentacuentos dijo...

Y pensar que hay gente que cree que el rap lo inventaron Eminem, o Puff o Piff o Purrruff Daddy o Doddy o Diddy...

(Hizo un programa en algún canal estadounidense que era como un Operación Triunfo del rap-r´n´b que aún no se lo he enseñado a la anciana porque le daría un telele y se nos iría al otro barrio.)