Pochi versi qua e là, tradotti un po’ così, da “Populist Manifesto”, una poesia di Lawrence Ferlinghetti dal suo libro, Who Are We Now? (New Directions, 1976). Per il resto, sotto c’è il testo completo in inglese.
Poeti, uscite allo scoperto,
aprite le finestre, aprite le porte,
vi siete nascosti troppo a lungo
nei vostri mondi chiusi.
dalle Russian Hills e Telegraph Hills
dalle Beacon Hills e Chapel Hills
dalle montagne simboliche e dalle Montparnasse
Basta cantare Hare Krishna
mentre Roma brucia
Abbiamo visto le menti migliori della nostra generazione
distrutte dalla noia ai reading di poesia.
La poesia non è una società segreta,
non è neanche un tempio.
Dove sono i figli furiosi di Whitman,
dove le grandi voci che dicono con forza la loro
con un senso di dolcezza e sublimità,
dove la nuova grande visione,
la grande visione del mondo,
l’alta canzone profetica dell’immensa terra
e tutto ciò che canta in essa
e la nostra relazione con essa –
nelle strade del mondo una volta ancora
Poets, come out of your closets, Open your windows, open your doors, You have been holed-up too long in your closed worlds. Come down, come down from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills, your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills, your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses, down from your foothills and mountains, out of your teepees and domes. The trees are still falling and we’ll to the woods no more. No time now for sitting in them As man burns down his own house to roast his pig No more chanting Hare Krishna while Rome burns. San Francisco’s burning, Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning the fossil-fuels of life. Night & the Horse approaches eating light, heat & power, and the clouds have trousers. No time now for the artist to hide above, beyond, behind the scenes, indifferent, paring his fingernails, refining himself out of existence. No time now for our little literary games, no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias, no time now for fear & loathing, time now only for light & love. We have seen the best minds of our generation destroyed by boredom at poetry readings. Poetry isn’t a secret society, It isn’t a temple either. Secret words & chants won’t do any longer. The hour of oming is over, the time of keening come, a time for keening & rejoicing over the coming end of industrial civilization which is bad for earth & Man. Time now to face outward in the full lotus position with eyes wide open, Time now to open your mouths with a new open speech, time now to communicate with all sentient beings, All you ‘Poets of the Cities’ hung in museums including myself, All you poet’s poets writing poetry about poetry, All you poetry workshop poets in the boondock heart of America, All you housebroken Ezra Pounds, All you far-out freaked-out cut-up poets, All you pre-stressed Concrete poets, All you cunnilingual poets, All you pay-toilet poets groaning with graffiti, All you A-train swingers who never swing on birches, All you masters of the sawmill haiku in the Siberias of America, All you eyeless unrealists, All you self-occulting supersurrealists, All you bedroom visionaries and closet agitpropagators, All you Groucho Marxist poets and leisure-class Comrades who lie around all day and talk about the workingclass proletariat, All you Catholic anarchists of poetry, All you Black Mountaineers of poetry, All you Boston Brahims and Bolinas bucolics, All you den mothers of poetry, All you zen brothers of poetry, All you suicide lovers of poetry, All you hairy professors of poesie, All you poetry reviewers drinking the blood of the poet, All you Poetry Police - Where are Whitman’s wild children, where the great voices speaking out with a sense of sweetness and sublimity, where the great’new vision, the great world-view, the high prophetic song of the immense earth and all that sings in it And our relations to it - Poets, descend to the street of the world once more And open your minds & eyes with the old visual delight, Clear your throat and speak up, Poetry is dead, long live poetry with terrible eyes and buffalo strength. Don’t wait for the Revolution or it’ll happen without you, Stop mumbling and speak out with a new wide-open poetry with a new commonsensual ‘public surface’ with other subjective levels or other subversive levels, a tuning fork in the inner ear to strike below the surface. Of your own sweet Self still sing yet utter ‘the word en-masse - Poetry the common carrier for the transportation of the public to higher places than other wheels can carry it. Poetry still falls from the skies into our streets still open. They haven’t put up the barricades, yet, the streets still alive with faces, lovely men & women still walking there, still lovely creatures everywhere, in the eyes of all the secret of all still buried there, Whitman’s wild children still sleeping there, Awake and walk in the open air.