by Tom Kuhn
To the narrow plank, face up, and strike off
His head.
In the second year of my flight . . .
In the second year of my flight
I read in a newspaper, in a foreign language
That I had lost my citizenship.
I was not sad, nor was I pleased
To read my name alongside many others
Both good and bad.
The plight of those who had fled seemed no worse to me than that
Of those who had remained.
On the often heard sentence, barbarism comes from barbarism
When they see how the farmer whips his ox
When the old wooden plough gets stuck in the stony ground
They cry “Brutality!”, for they can see
That the plough isn’t helped on by the beating, so
There seems to be no plan to it, but in reality
It is just a misguided plan.
How indeed is he supposed, merely by goodness
To keep this monstrous man-crusher going, to manage this massive
Manure bucket-wheel just by being neat and tidy?
Can he hope
That the milk will not be stolen from the mouths of children
If he preaches brotherly love to the thieves?
If barbarism comes from barbarism
Then goodness comes from goodness and is intractable
And beauty is beautiful, even if it’s standing up to its neck in the shit.
You see world war approaching
You see world war approaching
And you fear, it will be very hard
But you still hope
That the swine will be slaughtered.
Cantata for the first of May
1
On the first of May 1935 in New York
In the workers’ procession, the negro Bill Wood
In spite of his sixty-four years and poor health, helped carry a placard
With the message “Defend Soviet China!”
The procession was marching against the wind, and so
Two men walked alongside the placard bearer
Holding the placard straight with cords, so that
The slogan was visible. The man on the left
Was Bill Wood.
2
On this day in New York
90,000 workers marched, white, black and yellow
And carried on boards
The names of their organizations and on banners
Their demands for higher wages, better schools, and their condemnation
Of war and of fascism, and with them
Marched also
The negro Bill Wood with his demand:
“Defend Soviet China!”
3
Why was he marching?
4
Does he have a son in Soviet China?
Is he awaited there?
Will he find work there?
He is out of work.
Has he seen Soviet China?
Does he love its mountains and rivers?
Do people of his race live there?
Thoughts of a stripper while she strips
It is my lot on this queer earth to be
Art’s handmaiden, the lowliest of the low
And give the gentlemen some felicity
But if you want to know
My feelings while I bare myself like this
With teasing grace and shone upon
By golden lights, my answer, as a stripper, is
I have no feelings, none.
Nearly twelve. Looks like I’ll miss my bus.
The cheese is better in the other shop.
The fat one’s going in the river, she says
He’ll cut her up.
Half full. On a Saturday! Till twelve again.
Smile more. The air in here’s atrocious. You at the front
Stop asking when. Can’t wait. Like dogs some men.
How’ll I pay the rent?
Cancel the milk. Another thing I forgot.
I’ll not show them my bum tonight, I’ll wiggle it
Around a bit and that will be their lot.
The food in the Yellow Dog will make you vomit.
When the sixteen-year-old seamstress Emma Ries . . .
When the sixteen-year-old seamstress Emma Ries
Appeared before the magistrate in Czernowitz
She was asked to explain why
She had distributed leaflets which contained
A call to revolution, which is punishable with a prison sentence.
By way of answer she stood and sang
The Internationale.
When the magistrate shook his head
She yelled at him: Stand up! This
Is the Internationale!
When years ago . . .
When years ago studying the workings of the Chicago wheat market
I suddenly understood how they manage the world’s cereal there
And at the same time did not understand it and laid the book down
I knew immediately: you have got yourself into
An evil business.
I felt no embitterment and it wasn’t the injustice
That shocked me, but the thought
What they are doing there is intolerable, filled me entirely.
These people, I realized, lived by the damage
They did to others and not by doing good.
This was a situation that could only be upheld
By crime, since for most it was too detrimental.
And so every achievement
Of reason, every invention or discovery
Will lead only to yet greater misery
These and similar things I thought at that moment
Far from rage or lamentation when I laid down the book
In which were described the wheat market and the stock exchange of Chicago.
Much effort and trouble
Awaited me.
The bandit and his knave
In Hesse there lived two bandits
They terrorized man and beast.
The one was lean as a hungry wolf
And the other as fat as a priest.
The contrast in their proportions
Derived from relations of power:
The boss took the cream, but long before
His knave got the milk it was sour.
The peasants caught up with the bandits
And strung them up in the breeze.
The one hung there lean as a hungry wolf
And the other as fat as a priest.
The peasants stood crossing themselves
And looked on the ill-matched pair.
They could see the fat man was a robber all right
But why was the thin man there?
Mother Germer’s sons
Old Mother Germer stood before the magistrates’ court:
God have mercy on my sons!
Of all the people gathered, not one offered support.
“Oh Miller sir, your scales, they don’t weigh true:
God have mercy on my sons!”
The miller walked on by as if he had work to do.
“Oh Reverend sir, your only care was for your tithe:
God have mercy on my sons!”
The reverend walked on by, blew his nose and sighed.
“Oh Chandler sir, you took five marks for the blade:
God have mercy on my sons!”
The chandler stopped: “You owe for the coffin”, he said.
“Oh Butcher sir, a knife draws blood, you must know that:
God have mercy on my sons!”
The butcher walked on by and did not doff his hat.
“Oh Neighbour sir, it was you lent money to the boys:
God have mercy on my sons!”
The neighbour walked on by, looking up at the skies.
“Oh Clerk sir, you said the victim was in the wrong:
God have mercy on my sons!”
The clerk, he walked on by and whistled a song.
“Oh Doctor’s Wife, your husband left the victim to die
God have mercy on my sons!”
The doctor’s wife was embarrassed, she walked on by.
“Oh Captain sir, you said: A soldier doesn’t lie.
God have mercy on my sons!”
The captain hurried by.
“Your Honour sir, you said: The law needn’t always be blind.
God have mercy on my sons!”
The judge walked by: “I said nothing of the kind.”
“Oh Schoolmaster sir, you taught: The prize will go to the bold!
God have mercy on my sons!”
The schoolmaster walked on by: “And it’s just as you were told!”
Old Mother Germer walked out of the magistrates’ court:
“God have mercy on my sons!”
And she took herself to the old barn, where a noose hung short.
Letter to the workers’ theatre “Theatre Union” in New York concerning the play The Mother
1
When I wrote the play The Mother
After the novel by Comrade Gorki and informed by many
Stories of proletarian comrades about their
Daily struggle, I wrote it
Without digressions, in spare language
Placing my words cleanly, choosing
Every gesture of my figure with care, as one
Reports the words and deeds of the great.
To the best of my abilities
I presented those apparently everyday
Events, a thousand times repeated in the homes of the scorned
Amongst the far too many, as historical events
In no way less important than the famous
Deeds of generals and statesmen in the textbooks.
I thought it my task to tell the story of a great historical figure
The unknown standard bearer of humanity
A model to be emulated.
2
So you see the proletarian mother going her way
The long and winding way of her class, you see how at first
She is short of a penny from her son’s meagre wages: she cannot
Make him a broth worth eating. So she gets embroiled
In a struggle with him, fears she will lose him. Then
Reluctantly, she helps him in his own struggle for that extra penny
All the time fearing she may now lose him in the struggle. Hesitantly
She follows her son into the jungle of the wage wars. In so doing
She learns to read. She leaves her hovel, cares for others
Beside her own son, in the same situation as he, those against whom she
Had earlier fought for her son, now she fights alongside them.
So the walls begin to fall away around her hearth. At her table sit
The sons of other mothers. The hovel which
Was once too small for two, becomes a meeting house. Her own son
She now sees but seldom. The struggle takes him from her.
And she herself now stands in the midst of the fighters. Exchanges
Between son and mother become a shouted greeting
While the struggle rages. In the end the son falls. It was no longer
Possible to provide him with a meal by the one
Means at her disposal. But now she stands
In the thickest tumult of the unceasing and
Boundless war of the classes. Still a mother
More than mother now, mother of the many fallen
Mother of fighters, mother of the unborn, cleaning out
The body politic. She feeds the rulers stones
For their extorted feast. Cleans weapons. Teaches
Her many sons and daughters the language of the struggle
Against war and against exploitation, member of an army that stretches
Across the whole planet, both hunted and hunter
Not tolerated and not tolerating. Beaten and implacable.
3
And so we staged the play like a report from a great age
No less golden in the glow of countless lights than
The royal spectacles of former times were staged
No less bright and humorous, and measured
In the sadder matters. The actors took their places
In front of a clean linen screen, simply, with the characteristic
Gestures of their scenes, speaking their sentences
With precision, words that could be vouched for. The force of each sentence
Was awaited, and disclosed. And we waited too
Till the crowd had weighed those words on the scales—for we had of course noticed
How those who have little, the often misled
Bite on a coin with their teeth, to see if it is good. Just like that coin
Those who have little, the often misled, our audience
Were to examine the words of our players. A few strokes
Suggested the settings. Some tables and chairs
The bare essentials were already enough. But photographs
Of the great enemies were projected on the screens of the backdrop.
And the dictums of the socialist classics
Painted on banners or projected on screens, were set around
Those careful players. Their manner was natural.
That which had nothing to contribute, however, we left out
In an exact process of cutting and simplifying. The musical numbers
Were presented with lightness and grace. There was much laughter
In the auditorium. The inexhaustible
Good mood of wily old Vlassova, grounded in the confidence
Of her youthful class, provoked
Happy laughter on the benches of the workers.
Eagerly they used the unaccustomed opportunity
To witness accustomed events without the attendant danger, and so also
The leisure to study them and to reconfigure
Their own behaviour.
4
Comrades, I see you
Reading the little play with embarrassment.
The spare language
Seems to you impoverished. Real people do not
Express themselves, you say, as in this account. I have read
Your adaptation. Here you insert a “Good morning”
There a “Hello, my boy”. You clutter the great arena
With furniture. The smell of cabbage
Rises from your stove. The courageous woman becomes dutiful, the historical events become everyday.
Instead of admiration
You tout for sympathy for the mother who loses her son.
The death of the son
You place, artfully, at the end. This, you think, is how to sustain
The spectators’ interest till the curtain falls. As a businessman
Invests his money in a business, so, you suppose, the spectator invests
Feeling in the hero: he wants a return
And with interest. But the proletarian audience
At the first performance did not miss the son at the end.
Their interest did not flag. And not from lack of sophistication.
And at that time too some people asked us:
Will the workers understand you? Will they deny themselves
That familiar narcotic; to partake in spirit
In the indignation, in the ascent of others; deny themselves all the illusion
That whips them along for two hours and leaves them exhausted at the end
Filled with vague memories and vaguer hopes?
Will you really, when you offer
Knowledge and experience, have statesmen for your groundlings?
Comrades, the form of the new plays
Is new. But why
Fear what is new? Is it hard to do?
But why fear what is new and hard to do?
For the ex
ploited, the always disappointed
Life too is always an experiment
Earning a few cents
An uncertain undertaking that no one teaches.
Why fear the new, rather than the old? And even if
Your spectators, the workers, should hesitate, then you must
Not run along behind, but go before them
Swiftly, with bold steps, unconditionally trusting in
Their ultimate vigour.
Song of the playwright
1
I am a playwright. I show
What I have seen. On the markets
I have seen how human beings are traded. That
I show, I, the playwright.
How they enter each other’s rooms with their plans
Or with rubber truncheons or with cash
How they stand on the streets and wait
How they set traps for one another
Full of hope
How they make assignations
How they leave each other hanging
How they make love
How they defend their loot
How they eat
All that I show.
The words they call out to one another, I report.
What the mother says to her son
What the contractor demands of the contracted
How the woman answers the man.
All the begging words, all the overbearing words
All the pleading, the misleading
The lying, the unknowing
The winning, the wounding
All these I report.
I see how snowstorms come to pass.
I see earthquakes rushing to the fore.
I see mountains standing in the way
And rivers I see overspilling their banks.
