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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=432202" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Populist Manifesto No. 1</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poets, come out of your closets, <br>Open your windows, open your doors, <br>You have been holed-up too long <br>in your closed worlds.<br>Come down, come down<br>from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills, <br>your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,<br>your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses, <br>down from your foothills and mountains, <br>out of your teepees and domes. <br>The trees are still falling<br>and we’ll to the woods no more. <br>No time now for sitting in them <br>As man burns down his own house <br>to roast his pig<br>No more chanting Hare Krishna <br>while Rome burns.<br>San Francisco’s burning, <br>Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning <br>the fossil-fuels of life. <br>Night & the Horse approaches<br>eating light, heat & power, <br>and the clouds have trousers. <br>No time now for the artist to hide <br>above, beyond, behind the scenes, <br>indifferent, paring his fingernails, <br>refining himself out of existence. <br>No time now for our little literary games, <br>no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias, <br>no time now for fear & loathing, <br>time now only for light & love. <br>We have seen the best minds of our generation <br>destroyed by boredom at poetry readings. <br>Poetry isn’t a secret society, <br>It isn’t a temple either. <br>Secret words & chants won’t do any longer. <br>The hour of oming is over, <br>the time of keening come, <br>a time for keening & rejoicing <br>over the coming end<br>of industrial civilization <br>which is bad for earth & Man. <br>Time now to face outward <br>in the full lotus position <br>with eyes wide open, <br>Time now to open your mouths <br>with a new open speech, <br>time now to communicate with all sentient beings, <br>All you ‘Poets of the Cities’ <br>hung in museums including myself,<br>All you poet’s poets writing poetry <br>about poetry, <br>All you poetry workshop poets <br>in the boondock heart of America, <br>All you housebroken Ezra Pounds, <br>All you far-out freaked-out cut-up poets, <br>All you pre-stressed Concrete poets, <br>All you cunnilingual poets, <br>All you pay-toilet poets groaning with graffiti, <br>All you A-train swingers who never swing on birches, <br>All you masters of the sawmill haiku in the Siberias of America, <br>All you eyeless unrealists, <br>All you self-occulting supersurrealists, <br>All you bedroom visionaries and closet agitpropagators, <br>All you Groucho Marxist poets <br>and leisure-class Comrades <br>who lie around all day and talk about the workingclass proletariat, <br>All you Catholic anarchists of poetry, <br>All you Black Mountaineers of poetry, <br>All you Boston Brahims and Bolinas bucolics, <br>All you den mothers of poetry, <br>All you zen brothers of poetry, <br>All you suicide lovers of poetry, <br>All you hairy professors of poesie, <br>All you poetry reviewers <br>drinking the blood of the poet, <br>All you Poetry Police -<br>Where are Whitman’s wild children, <br>where the great voices speaking out <br>with a sense of sweetness and sublimity, <br>where the great’new vision, <br>the great world-view, <br>the high prophetic song <br>of the immense earth <br>and all that sings in it <br>And our relations to it -<br>Poets, descend <br>to the street of the world once more <br>And open your minds & eyes <br>with the old visual delight,<br>Clear your throat and speak up, <br>Poetry is dead, long live poetry <br>with terrible eyes and buffalo strength. <br>Don’t wait for the Revolution <br>or it’ll happen without you, <br>Stop mumbling and speak out <br>with a new wide-open poetry <br>with a new commonsensual ‘public surface’ <br>with other subjective levels <br>or other subversive levels, <br>a tuning fork in the inner ear <br>to strike below the surface. <br>Of your own sweet Self still sing <br>yet utter ‘the word en-masse -<br>Poetry the common carrier <br>for the transportation of the public <br>to higher places<br>than other wheels can carry it. <br>Poetry still falls from the skies <br>into our streets still open. <br>They haven’t put up the barricades, yet, <br>the streets still alive with faces, <br>lovely men & women still walking there, <br>still lovely creatures everywhere, <br>in the eyes of all the secret of all <br>still buried there, <br>Whitman’s wild children still sleeping there, <br>Awake and walk in the open air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lawrence+Ferlinghetti">Lawrence Ferlinghetti</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=432202" data-title="Populist Manifesto No. 1 de Lawrence Ferlinghetti" data-description="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 A..."></div>
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