by Tom Kuhn
There will be light. That time will come.
There will be light then or God can’t exist—
If only when they die, at the very last:
The dark room will open and one will shine
Solidly, brightly, full in their gaze.
His chair is vacant. His place is laid.
He breaks them bread and he passes them wine
And they smile in their dying, transfigured, freed
And enter into heaven lightly, with ease.
Serenade
Now nothing wakes but the moon and cats
Already asleep all men and women
Then across the town hall square trots
Bert Brecht with his lampion.
And when the youngster May has woken
And all’s in bloom for evermore
Then through the night, the drink taken
Bert Brecht sways with his pet guitar.
And when you rest in peace and well
Contented with the rewards of heaven
Then through the furnace heat of hell
Bert Brecht will stumble with his lampion.
Song of the tree of vultures
From cockcrow to midnight
The vultures fight like demented things with the solitary tree.
So many wings darken the sky, for hours at a time he cannot see the sun.
The space around him sings with the rushing of wings of iron.
And the wings lifting like whips, when they fall on him
They hack at his body, it trembles, they gash every budding limb.
When their wings explode in his branches
Rip his bark, peck his crown to pieces
He stands hunched, cowering down
Forlorn and bloody, cut to bits, all awry and as though
Thrusting with swords their steel wings pierce him through
Tottering and dark in the ploughlands in the twilight.
The throttling of wings is so strong in the torn web of his branches
He has begun trying his roots in the ground—will they hold?
And deep down, deep, deep, far underground
The roots quaked but still he braced himself into the earth, he,
Not resisting the heavens, braced himself and held.
True, he dreams midday and evening and midnight as a dark dream.
But he stands. It is true, he lifts up his lacerated brow
The weight of it, only by force, high into the air, and tottering
And loudly in the night he mocked the laborious vultures, deriding the lot of them.
But wearily the birds in the moonlight rocked on their wings and filled the air
With screeches, the rush of their wings faltered and the tree was aware
That his immortality filled the vultures with horror
And he spread his branches wide, wide in jubilation for it was a night of spring.
Yes, this mortal tribe are tired now and the tree, hacked and awry, will blossom.
Today, he would begin to blossom—then the tree laughed. But the vultures
Rocked more wearily in the moonlight and the air was filled with their iron screeching.
They heard him in his dream, softly laughing, not groaning.
Next morning it would astound them to see how he bloomed and was splendidly free . . .
Their plumage weighed heavier, they were tired and sad
Rose heavily into the air and fell with the weight of lead
On the wounded tree so that it became like a hill of iron.
For crowded in their sleep they squatted on every branch
And sleeping with dead-weary talons held tight
Every twig and shoot and bud.
Curved their wings like shields of bronze and from top to bottom
Covered the astounded tree with brazen wings.
Trembling beneath the wearying weight
The tree fell dumb.
From midnight only until cockcrow
The sleeping vultures with shuddering wings and occasional
Hoarse cries squat woebegone on the groaning tree.
Their talons are blunted, their wings in ruins
And they dream of the tree, that he is immortal.—
When at red daybreak with a painful soaring
Sleepily they rise into a brightening spring morning
Their weary wings fill the air with a clang of iron
And from above they see like a ghostly dream, like a phantom
Below them the tree
And the tree is dead.
Romanticism
One day in spring a ship hove into sight
From distant shores and as the ocean blue
With flapping sails and hatches battened tight
Unaccounted for, and not a soul for crew.
It lay there rocking many sun-drenched days
And many watched it from the sunny shore.
It lay so long it faded in the haze
And no one saw its blue hull anymore.
Only drunkards reeling through night’s chill
Would hear strange music echo from the rig,
And yet: not one of those who listened still,
And yet: not one who saw the sails fill,
Took courage in his hands to board the brig.
It followed on a foreign star
To seek its rest on distant sands—
For, come the spring, the ghostly ship was far,
Drifting to the shores of blue-hazed lands.
Caspar’s song with the lone refrain
Cas is brave. Cas shoots big guns
At enemies he might have once befriended.
His fists, where gentle souls might dwell
Are swollen dangerously and distended.
But at night Cas sings all like a maid forlorn
Caspar’s song with its lone refrain:
Oh, that the war were done and I back home!
Cas is angry, for the war goes on and on
And just so long as Cas is angry that will be the case
He casts his weapons away but oh, he casts
His bayonet in his enemy’s guts.
But at night Cas sings all like a maid forlorn
Caspar’s song with its lone refrain:
Oh, that the war were done and I back home!
Cas has eyes, blue like the sky
Fat fists and a heart that’s big and brave
When he drinks schnapps he trots off smiling
Like a fat white horse off to his grave.
But at night Cas sings all like a maid forlorn
Caspar’s song with its lone refrain:
Oh, that the war were done and I back home!
Cas is growing huge amongst the guns
Fat and lumpy like a pig in clover
That might be of use to get him home
But, back home, the use will soon be over.
But at night Cas sings all like a maid forlorn
Caspar’s song with its lone refrain:
Oh, that the war were done and I back home!
Cas is invincible and so he goes on
Trusting in fate and harmony
Cas knows he’ll get home all right, but
He doesn’t know how, and nor do we.
But at night Cas sings all like a maid forlorn
Caspar’s song with its lone refrain:
Oh, that the war were done and I back home!
Cas is happy. Cas fired his soul
Up to the blue skies high and higher.
With or without a throat you still might sing
But not without a purpose or desire.
But at night Cas sings all like a maid forlorn
Caspar’s song with its lone refrain:
Oh, that the war were done and I back home!
The heaven of the disappointed
1
Halfway between night and morning somewhere
Naked, freezing cold, on stony ground
Under a cold sk
y as though concealed there
The Heaven of the Disappointed will be found.
2
High in the sky once every thousand years
White clouds. For a thousand more years: none.
High in the sky though every thousand years
Always. White and laughing. Them again.
3
Now and then though from the lower heavens
Voices singing solemnly and clear:
Out of the Heaven of the Admirers hymns
Rise and gently penetrate up there.
4
Always silence over massive stones
Not much brightness but always a sheen
Sad souls who feed themselves on moans and groans
Sit without tears or words, very alone.
Hymn to God
1
Deep in the lightless valleys the hungry are dying.
And you—show them bread and you let them die.
And you—rule eternally and invisibly
Radiant and cruel over the eternal plan.
2
You let the young die and those enjoying their lives
But those who wanted to die, you would not let them . . .
Many of those who by now have mouldered away
Believed in you and died in the certain hope of your heaven.
3
Left the poor to be poor for many a year
Because their longing was finer than your heaven was
Dying before you arrived with the light, alas
Still they died blessed—and rotted at once.
4
Many say you are not and that it is better so.
But how can a thing not be when it so deceives?
When so many live for you and cannot otherwise die
Tell me, what good does it do to say you are not?
The legend of the whore Evlyn Roe
When spring arrived and the sea was blue
And she could find no rest
Young Evlyn Roe, she came aboard
And the ship she boarded was the last.
She wore haircloth on her body.
Her body was unearthly fair.
She wore no gold or jewellery
But her wondrous rich hair.
“Let me sail with you, Captain, to the Holy Land
I must go to the Lord Jesus.”
“Woman, you shall sail, for we’re fools to a man
And you are so glorious.”
“Christ thank you for that. I’m a poor woman.
My soul belongs to Lord Jesus.”
“Give us your sweet body then!
To the lord you love it is no use
For he’s long dead and gone.”
They sailed away in the sun and the wind
And they loved Evlyn Roe.
She ate their bread and she drank their wine
And she wept while she did so.
They danced by night. They danced by day
They let the rudder go.
Evlyn Roe was so shy and so soft
And they were harder than stone.
Springtime passed and the summer too.
She ran at nights in clapped-out shoes
From stem to stern and far away
For a quiet shore out there in the grey
She stared, poor Evlyn Roe.
She danced by night. She danced by day.
She was wisht and wan, she was sickly
“Captain, Captain, when will we come
To Lord Jesus’ Holy City?”
The Captain lay in her lap. Said he
With a kiss and a laugh: “We know
Who’ll be to blame if we never get there
And that is Evlyn Roe.”
She danced by night. She danced by day.
She was wisht and wan, she was corpsy.
From the Captain down to the cabin boy:
“We’ve had our fill,” said they.
She wore silk on her body that now
Was sick and full of wheals.
And she wore over her spoiled brow
Hair that was matted and foul.
“Lord Jesus Christ, I shall never see you
With my body so full of sin.
You are not allowed to go to a whore
And I’m such a poor woman.”
So long from stem to stern to and fro
Sore at heart she ran on sore feet
Till she went one night when nobody saw
She went one night in the sea.
That was in cold January
She swam far far away
And it’s not till March or April
Blossom comes to the tree.
She gave herself to the dark dark waves
They washed her white and pure
Now she’ll likely be in the Holy Land
Before the Captain’s there.
In spring when she came to Heaven’s door
Peter shut that door on her
“God said to me: I’ll not have here
Evlyn Roe, the whore.”
But when she came to Hell’s door
They bolted that door too.
The Devil yelled: “I’ll not have here
The pious Evlyn Roe.”
She went in the wind through the realm of stars
Ever onwards she must go.
Late evening once in the fields I saw her:
Tottery. Resting never.
That poor Evlyn Roe.
Song of the saved
When you die, heaven will open its arms to some of you.
It won’t come as much surprise, and it won’t be anything new.
There’ll be murderers and drunkards in amongst the throng.
If you can’t love them, you haven’t got a song.
To anyone who struck his brother the pearly gates will open wide
Street drinkers too will stumble their way inside . . .
If ever you lay in the gutter and gazed at the starry sky
You’ll be raised up and ready when your final hour draws nigh.
Only those will ever see heaven who once were blind
If you’re on your own you’ll be left behind.
There’ll be griefs there too, you won’t be spared
But all the burdens will be shared
Children and fools will make it to the sunlit land . . .
Murderers and their victims walk there hand in hand.
And as they go they wipe the blood and tears off
Brother Baal and Brother Karamazov.
Fairground song
Spring leapt through the hoops
Of heaven to the green ground.
With calliopes and pipes
The bright fair came to town.
And there I saw a child
A girl with golden hair
No girl ever had eyes
That better suited her.
And there the carousels
Stood turning in the sun—
And when they came to a standstill
My head turned on and on.
At night the carousels
Like milk-glass lamps are still
Every night is lit with starlight:
Let things be as they will!
And now I’m drunk, my darling.
And I’m a sight to see
For I carry a brand-new lampion
Where my old skull used to be.
And spring may go her ways now
I’ll see her for evermore
Because in spring I saw a girl
A girl with golden hair.
Dolly Little, the layer-out
Dolly Little, the layer-out
She does the job just right
Washes your dirty body clean
Gives you clean to the earth again
Clean as you were in your mother’s womb . . .
A painter
Neher Cass rides on a camel through the desert and paints a green date-palm in watercolours
(Under h
eavy machine-gun fire)
There’s a war on. The terrible sky is bluer than usual. Many a man drops dead in the swamp grass.
Brown men can be shot dead. In the evening you can paint them.
Often they have remarkable hands.
Neher Cass paints the pale sky over the Ganges in the early-morning wind.
Seven coolies support his canvas; fourteen coolies support Neher Cass, who has been drinking.
Because the sky is beautiful.
At night Neher Cass sleeps on the stones and curses because they are hard.
But he finds even that beautiful (including the cursing)
He would like to paint it.
Neher Cass paints the violet sky over Peshawar white:
Because his tube of blue is used up.
Slowly the sun is eating him. His soul is being transfigured. Neher Cass keeps on painting.
On the sea between Ceylon and Port Said he paints on the inner wall of the old sailing ship
His best picture, in three colours, by the light of two hatches.
Then the ship sank, he escapes with his life. Cass is proud of the picture. It was beyond price.
Oh you can’t know what I suffer . . .
Oh you can’t know what I suffer
When I see a woman who
Sways her yellow silk-clad bottom
Under skies of evening blue.
