JustMovement
10th July 2011, 03:40
This is a poem by Pier Paolo Pasolini, an Italian communist, poet, and film director. Pasolini wrote this poem after the 68 movement in Italy. He was very critical of the student movement in general because he thought that its middle class character doomed it to irrelevance, something that I completely agree with.
I took the the liberty to translate it from the original Italian because it is written in very easy language. The original can be found here:
http://www.pasolini.net/poesia_ppp_pciaigiovani.htm From the Pci to the Youth
.
Its sad. a critique of
the pci <Italian communist party> should have been done in the first half
of the past decade. You are late, children.
And it doesnt matter that at the time you were not born.
Now the journalists of the entire world (the t.v.
ones included)
kiss your (as they still say, I think, in
university) ass. I dont, friends.
You have the face of daddys boys.
Your clean appearance doesnt lie.
You have that mean look.
You are afraid, uncertain, despairing
(very good) but you also know how to be
spoilt, scheming and arrogant:
petit-bourgeoise values, my friends.
When you were at the Villa Giulia yestday you brawled
with the police,
I sympathised with the policemen!
Because policemen are sons of the poor.
They come from the outskirts, urban and rural.
As for me, I know well,
I know how they were as little kids and young men,
the precious penny, the father who never grew up,
because poverty does not bestow authority.
The mother calloused like a porter, or tender,
because of some disease, like a little bird;
the many children, the hut
among the orchards overgrown with red weeds (on someone elses
land); the slums
over the sewers;or the apartments in the vast
council estates, ecc. ecc.
And, look how they dress them up: like clowns,
with that rough cloth that stinks of
uniform and poverty. Worse of all, naturally,
is the psychological state to which they are reduced
(for a handful of dollars a month):
with no more smile,
without any friends in the world,
apart,
excluded (in an exclusion without equals);
humiliated at the loss of their human values
in exchange for police ones (being hated breeds hatred).
They are twenty, your age, my dear boys and girls.
We are all obviously against the institution of the police.
But try going against the courts, and then youll see!
The boy policemen
that you, out of the sacred violence (of the venerable risorgimento
tradition)
of the daddys boy, have beaten,
They belong to the other class.
At Valle Giulia, yesterday, occurred an instance of
class war: and you, my friends (although on the
right side) you were the rich,
while the policemen (who were on the
wrong side) they were the poor.A nice victory, then,
yours! In these cases ,
to the police you should give flowers, my friends.
[...]
Pier Paolo Pasolini
.
sorry its quite poor and I cant translate how nice it sounds in the origianl and ive never done something like that before, hopefully though the messae will come through anyways
I took the the liberty to translate it from the original Italian because it is written in very easy language. The original can be found here:
http://www.pasolini.net/poesia_ppp_pciaigiovani.htm From the Pci to the Youth
.
Its sad. a critique of
the pci <Italian communist party> should have been done in the first half
of the past decade. You are late, children.
And it doesnt matter that at the time you were not born.
Now the journalists of the entire world (the t.v.
ones included)
kiss your (as they still say, I think, in
university) ass. I dont, friends.
You have the face of daddys boys.
Your clean appearance doesnt lie.
You have that mean look.
You are afraid, uncertain, despairing
(very good) but you also know how to be
spoilt, scheming and arrogant:
petit-bourgeoise values, my friends.
When you were at the Villa Giulia yestday you brawled
with the police,
I sympathised with the policemen!
Because policemen are sons of the poor.
They come from the outskirts, urban and rural.
As for me, I know well,
I know how they were as little kids and young men,
the precious penny, the father who never grew up,
because poverty does not bestow authority.
The mother calloused like a porter, or tender,
because of some disease, like a little bird;
the many children, the hut
among the orchards overgrown with red weeds (on someone elses
land); the slums
over the sewers;or the apartments in the vast
council estates, ecc. ecc.
And, look how they dress them up: like clowns,
with that rough cloth that stinks of
uniform and poverty. Worse of all, naturally,
is the psychological state to which they are reduced
(for a handful of dollars a month):
with no more smile,
without any friends in the world,
apart,
excluded (in an exclusion without equals);
humiliated at the loss of their human values
in exchange for police ones (being hated breeds hatred).
They are twenty, your age, my dear boys and girls.
We are all obviously against the institution of the police.
But try going against the courts, and then youll see!
The boy policemen
that you, out of the sacred violence (of the venerable risorgimento
tradition)
of the daddys boy, have beaten,
They belong to the other class.
At Valle Giulia, yesterday, occurred an instance of
class war: and you, my friends (although on the
right side) you were the rich,
while the policemen (who were on the
wrong side) they were the poor.A nice victory, then,
yours! In these cases ,
to the police you should give flowers, my friends.
[...]
Pier Paolo Pasolini
.
sorry its quite poor and I cant translate how nice it sounds in the origianl and ive never done something like that before, hopefully though the messae will come through anyways