Andrea has headlined everywhere from the Nuyorican Poet's Café, to Pride Fests and Lady Fests, to high schools and universities throughout the country. They have been showcased on Free Speech TV, Dyke TV, the documentary Slam Planet, and Independent Radio Stations nationwide. They are featured on New York City's 2004 Best of Urbana CD, and are currently a member of the prestigious Bullhorn Collective "comprised of 30 of the highest ranking slam poets and most accomplished performance poets in the world." They have shared the stage with such names as Leslie Feinberg, Amy Goodman, Dennis Kucinich and KRS1.
Andrea's poetry deconstructs the foundations of the current political machine, highlighting issues such as patriarchy, gender norms, white-supremacy, and capitalist culture. Their words are honest, humble and "oh my god, I can't believe you said that in public!" (ex-girlfriend #4).
Andrea is an independent artist who has self-released four CDs, Bullets and Windchimes (2003), Swarm (2004), When The Bough Breaks (2006), and Yellowbird (2009).
They have also self published three books, Trees That Grow in Cemeteries, Yellow Bird, and What the Yarn Knows of Sweaters.
Write Bloody Publishing published their nationally distributed collection of poems in 2008, Pole Dancing To Gospel Hymns.
Andrea uses they/them pronouns.
from: http://www.andreagibson.org/
Yellowbird
Andrea Gibson Lyrics
Jump to: Overall Meaning ↴ Line by Line Meaning ↴
From Miami, Florida to Vancouver, British Colombia, nobody
sells more fudge rounds, Swiss rolls or nutty bars than him.
My family is incredibly proud of this fact.
We tell it to strangers,
to the respective husbands of our nieces,
to the clerk at the drugstore,
we whisper it in church,
And I will never write a poem that will ever come close to matching the grandeur of that.
So you won the Nobel Prize, did ya? That's nice. Did you hear Billy put five hundred cream pies on the rack of a shop'n'save and in 5 days that rack was freakin' empty
Why
is art the first class to be dropped by any public school?
Why are music rooms empty in junior highs from New York City to Nashville, Tennessee?
How
can you burn CD after CD after CD while filling your tank with an infinite amount of gas?
Like the war is worth funding but music isn't?
Our culture is a prison.
And the only one with the key is little Emi Jones, covering every inch of her standardised test with the best number 2 pencil version of a starry night anyone has ever seen and yes,
there is a humming bird in her chest.
Its wings are beating 80 times a second,
but the second you and I will see that Doctor King did not write a speech called I Have a Dream - he wrote a poem called I Have a Dream.
Y'all, I don't know if God will ever have a purple heart, but I know we have a bow
we could pull above the strings of a combat boot and make it sing
like the eyes of a 7 year old boy
staring down the barrel of Apartheid's loaded guns;
screaming for the right to write stories; to sing songs in his Mother's tongue
Point me in the direction of glory
I will run towards a tiny hand in the most wounded corner of Palestine,
dipping a brush into a can of yellow paint
to paint a feather on a wing on a wall that is so tall, only yellow birds can escape
But when they do, they carry the hearts of children on their backs
and when their wings flap, they make the sound of anthems being replaced with sky.
And I swear, I could see their shadows pass across your glowing face
the night you said you have never given birth to a child
but you tear every single time you write a poem.
We are growing our future
with every borrowed pen
I pray tonight we would write a rain that would fall like the tears at Folsom Prison the day Johnny Cash smashed his guitar over apathy's head.
The way Frida Kahlo - in the prison of her own body - had whole years where she could paint nothing but red
but she painted
to the bars in the locked cells of her pores.
The same way saxophones in New Orleans played music underwater,
knowing some of those notes would rise up to the air carrying people and hope to shore.
I don't believe in the godliness of steeples, but I believe in the stain glass
and every key on every organ that is desperate for light ‘cause we are desperate for life -
for the sight of a captivated audience refusing to be held captive in the thought that they can only listen and watch.
Picasso said he'd paint with his own wet tongue on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.
We have to create;
it is the only thing louder than destruction;
it is the only chance the bars are gonna break.
Our hands full of colour
reaching towards the sky - a brush stroke in the dark
It is not too late
That starry night - it is not yet dry.
The song Yellowbird by Andrea Gibson is a powerful commentary on the role of art and creativity in our society. The first verse of the song describes the pride that the family of the Little Debbie's snack cake salesman, Uncle Billy, feels over his success. The singer then acknowledges that no matter how much she writes, she will never be able to capture the grandeur of Uncle Billy's achievement in words. This acknowledgment takes on a deeper meaning - it highlights the idea that there are certain experiences and accomplishments that cannot be encapsulated or represented through traditional mediums of expression such as writing.
The song then moves on to question why art and music are often the first to be cut from public schools while resources are poured into funding wars. The singer laments the loss of cultural and artistic expression in schools across the country, and how little value is placed on it. The next verse shifts to a personal reflection, describing the hummingbird in the singer's chest and how their own creative expression evokes emotions that are impossible to put into words.
Line by Line Meaning
My uncle Billy is the leading Little Debbie's snack cake salesman in all of North America.
My family is very proud to boast that my uncle Billy is the best Little Debbie's snack cake salesman in North America. Everywhere we go, we can't help ourselves but tell everyone this fact.
And I will never write a poem that will ever come close to matching the grandeur of that.
I do not think any poem I write could ever stand up to my uncle's greatness as a snack cake salesman.
Why is art the first class to be dropped by any public school?
I find it strange that art is always the first class to be eliminated from public school curriculums.
Why are music rooms empty in junior highs from New York City to Nashville, Tennessee?
I also find it strange that music rooms in junior high schools across the country are left empty.
How can you burn CD after CD after CD while filling your tank with an infinite amount of gas?
I can't help but wonder how people can afford to continuously purchase gas and CDs while things like music education programs are underfunded.
Like the war is worth funding but music isn't?
It seems like the government values funding for war more than they do funding music education programs.
Our culture is a prison.
I feel like our society as a whole is trapped and limited in many ways.
And the only one with the key is little Emi Jones, covering every inch of her standardised test with the best number 2 pencil version of a starry night anyone has ever seen and yes, there is a humming bird in her chest.
The only person who might be able to break free from this metaphorical prison is young Emi Jones, who is able to express her creativity through a beautiful drawing while taking a standardized test.
Its wings are beating 80 times a second, but the second you and I will see that Doctor King did not write a speech called I Have a Dream - he wrote a poem called I Have a Dream.
Young Emi is filled with so much creativity that it is almost palpable. Whenever I recognize this and think of Dr. King's famous ‘I Have a Dream' speech, I feel like he wrote it as a beautiful piece of poetry.
Y'all, I don't know if God will ever have a purple heart, but I know we have a bow we could pull above the strings of a combat boot and make it sing like the eyes of a 7-year-old boy staring down the barrel of Apartheid's loaded guns; screaming for the right to write stories; to sing songs in his Mother's tongue
I am not sure if God himself will ever receive a purple heart, but I believe that we all have the capability to make anything beautiful. Even something as seemingly ugly as a combat boot can be turned into something gorgeous when we add our own touch.
Point me in the direction of glory. I will run towards a tiny hand in the most wounded corner of Palestine, dipping a brush into a can of yellow paint to paint a feather on a wing on a wall that is so tall, only yellow birds can escape
If you ever need me to find something incredible, I will not hesitate to go to Palestine and paint a beautiful yellow bird feather on a tall wall that only these birds can fly over.
But when they do, they carry the hearts of children on their backs and when their wings flap, they make the sound of anthems being replaced with sky.
And when these yellowbirds fly away, they carry the hope and dreams of children with them. Their wings alone make a beautiful sound that can replace any anthem.
And I swear, I could see their shadows pass across your glowing face the night you said you have never given birth to a child but you tear every single time you write a poem.
I swear that I saw shadows of the yellowbirds cross your face as you shared the emotional story of how you tear up every time you write a poem, despite never having given birth.
We are growing our future with every borrowed pen
With every pen we borrow, we are able to shape and create a better future.
I pray tonight we would write a rain that would fall like the tears at Folsom Prison the day Johnny Cash smashed his guitar over apathy's head.
I hope tonight that we can create something so emotional and powerful that it would be like a rain that poured down like the tears at Folsom Prison when Johnny Cash famously smashed his guitar.
The way Frida Kahlo - in the prison of her body - had whole years where she could paint nothing but red but she painted to the bars in the locked cells of her pores.
I admire the way that even when Frida Kahlo was trapped in her own body, she still managed to create beautiful paintings that expressed her emotions and problems.
The same way saxophones in New Orleans played music underwater, knowing some of those notes would rise up to the air carrying people and hope to shore.
It's amazing to think about how saxophone players in New Orleans would play their instruments underwater, knowing that some of the notes they played would eventually make it out of the water and give people hope.
I don't believe in the godliness of steeples, but I believe in the stain glass and every key on every organ that is desperate for light ‘cause we are desperate for life - for the sight of a captivated audience refusing to be held captive in the thought that they can only listen and watch.
I don't believe in the religious aspect of steeples, but I do believe in the beauty of stained glass windows and organs that need light, as we all need light and hope in our lives. I want to see an audience that is fully engaged and refusing to be held captive when they come to watch and listen.
Picasso said he'd paint with his own wet tongue on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.
Pablo Picasso once said that he would paint with his own tongue on the dusty floor of a jail cell, just to continue creating.
We have to create; it is the only thing louder than destruction; it is the only chance the bars are gonna break.
In our society, we have to create and make things that are beautiful and meaningful, as that's the only way to counteract destruction and break out of the limited bars that surround us.
Our hands full of color reaching towards the sky - a brush stroke in the dark It is not too late That starry night - it is not yet dry.
We are all capable of creating something beautiful and meaningful, even in the darkest of times. The night sky is always waiting for us to paint it with something new to create a brighter tomorrow.
Contributed by Luke G. Suggest a correction in the comments below.
Kutlwelo
Yellowbird.
My uncle Billy is the leading Little Debbie’s snack cake salesman in all of North America.
From Miami, Florida to Vancouver, British Colombia, Nobody
sells more fudge rounds, Swiss rolls or nutty bars than him.
My family is incredibly proud of this fact
We tell it to strangers,
to the respective husbands of our nieces,
to the clerk at the drugstore,
we whisper it in church,
‘Did you hear about Billy? Yeah, he’s the leading Little Debbie’s snack cake salesman in all of North America.’
And I will never write a poem that will ever come close to matching the grandeur of that.
So you won the Nobel Prize, did ya? That’s nice. Did you hear Billy put six hundred cream pies on the rack of a shop’n’save in 3 days - that rack was freakin’ empty
Why
is art the first class to be dropped by any public school?
Why are music rooms empty in junior highs from New York City to Nashville, Tennessee?
How
can you burn CD after CD after CD while filling your tank with an infinite amount of gas?
Like the war is worth funding but music isn’t?
Our culture is a prison.
And the only one with the key is little Emi Jones, covering every inch of her standardised test with the best number 2 pencil version of a starry night anyone has ever seen and yes,
there is a humming bird in her chest.
Its wings are beating 80 times a second.
But the second you and I will see that Doctor King did not write a speech called I Have a Dream - he wrote a poem called I Have a Dream.
Y’all, I don’t know if God will have a purple heart, but I know we have a bow
we could pull above the strings of a combat boot and make it sing
like the eyes of a 7 year old boy
staring down the barrel of Apartheid’s loaded guns;
Screaming for the right to write stories; to sing songs in his Mother’s tongue
Point me in the direction of glory
I will run towards a tiny hand in the most wounded corner of Palestine,
dipping a brush in to a can of yellow paint
to paint a feather on a wing on a wall that is so tall, only yellow birds can escape
And when they do, they carry the hearts of little girls on their backs.
and when their wings flap, they make the sound of anthems being replaced with sky.
And I swear, I could see their shadows pass across your glowing face
the night you said you have never given birth to a child
but you tear every single time you write a poem.
We are growing our future
with every borrowed pen
I pray tonight we could write a rain that would fall like the tears at Folsom State Prison the day Johnny Cash smashed his guitar over apathy’s head.
The way Frida Kahlo - in the prison of her own body - had whole years where she could paint nothing but red
but she painted
to the bars in the locked cells of her pores.
The same when saxophones in New Orleans played music underwater,
knowing some of those notes would rise up to the air carrying people and hope to shore.
Y’all, I don’t believe in the godliness of steeples, but I believe in the stain glass
and every key on every organ that is desperate for light ‘cause we are desperate for life -
for the sight of a captivated audience refusing to be held captive in the thought that they can only listen and watch.
Picasso said he would paint with his own wet tongue on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.
We have to create;
it is the only thing louder than destruction;
it is the only chance the bars are gonna break.
Our hands full of colour
reaching towards the sky - a brush stroke in the dark
It is not too late
That starry night - it is not yet dry.
purpletycoon
"We have to create, it is the only thing louder than destruction". Beautiful, as always. Brought me to tears.
Tegan Rain
I just discovered Andrea, and already I have chills running throughout my body whole. I've found my inspiration to properly live <3
FIRE NECK
I love this women. She is amazing.
Eman Bouras
she makes my heart spin
cawin
my contemporary dance this year was to this and we painted ourselves with yellow paint ! it was so powerful !!
Kutlwelo
Yellowbird.
My uncle Billy is the leading Little Debbie’s snack cake salesman in all of North America.
From Miami, Florida to Vancouver, British Colombia, Nobody
sells more fudge rounds, Swiss rolls or nutty bars than him.
My family is incredibly proud of this fact
We tell it to strangers,
to the respective husbands of our nieces,
to the clerk at the drugstore,
we whisper it in church,
‘Did you hear about Billy? Yeah, he’s the leading Little Debbie’s snack cake salesman in all of North America.’
And I will never write a poem that will ever come close to matching the grandeur of that.
So you won the Nobel Prize, did ya? That’s nice. Did you hear Billy put six hundred cream pies on the rack of a shop’n’save in 3 days - that rack was freakin’ empty
Why
is art the first class to be dropped by any public school?
Why are music rooms empty in junior highs from New York City to Nashville, Tennessee?
How
can you burn CD after CD after CD while filling your tank with an infinite amount of gas?
Like the war is worth funding but music isn’t?
Our culture is a prison.
And the only one with the key is little Emi Jones, covering every inch of her standardised test with the best number 2 pencil version of a starry night anyone has ever seen and yes,
there is a humming bird in her chest.
Its wings are beating 80 times a second.
But the second you and I will see that Doctor King did not write a speech called I Have a Dream - he wrote a poem called I Have a Dream.
Y’all, I don’t know if God will have a purple heart, but I know we have a bow
we could pull above the strings of a combat boot and make it sing
like the eyes of a 7 year old boy
staring down the barrel of Apartheid’s loaded guns;
Screaming for the right to write stories; to sing songs in his Mother’s tongue
Point me in the direction of glory
I will run towards a tiny hand in the most wounded corner of Palestine,
dipping a brush in to a can of yellow paint
to paint a feather on a wing on a wall that is so tall, only yellow birds can escape
And when they do, they carry the hearts of little girls on their backs.
and when their wings flap, they make the sound of anthems being replaced with sky.
And I swear, I could see their shadows pass across your glowing face
the night you said you have never given birth to a child
but you tear every single time you write a poem.
We are growing our future
with every borrowed pen
I pray tonight we could write a rain that would fall like the tears at Folsom State Prison the day Johnny Cash smashed his guitar over apathy’s head.
The way Frida Kahlo - in the prison of her own body - had whole years where she could paint nothing but red
but she painted
to the bars in the locked cells of her pores.
The same when saxophones in New Orleans played music underwater,
knowing some of those notes would rise up to the air carrying people and hope to shore.
Y’all, I don’t believe in the godliness of steeples, but I believe in the stain glass
and every key on every organ that is desperate for light ‘cause we are desperate for life -
for the sight of a captivated audience refusing to be held captive in the thought that they can only listen and watch.
Picasso said he would paint with his own wet tongue on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.
We have to create;
it is the only thing louder than destruction;
it is the only chance the bars are gonna break.
Our hands full of colour
reaching towards the sky - a brush stroke in the dark
It is not too late
That starry night - it is not yet dry.
Noone nothing
This reminds me that art is war.
bendie
Art class-math class. Simple as that
thislifewasledastray
Does anyone know what her tattoos stand for? Are they symbolic or just decorative? It made me wonder because I never noticed until this video that they are matching.
Olivia Postell
but andrea has several new poems that are more soft-spoken, not the standard slam poem- but even more powerful-- like "the pursuit of happiness", "ashes", and "crab apple pirates". then again, i'm a die-hard andrea gibson fan so i'm a little biased. ;-)