by Tom Kuhn
This is the year people will talk about.
This is the year people will keep quiet about.
The old see the young dying.
The foolish see the wise dying.
The earth no longer bears fruit, but it swallows.
Rain does not fall from the sky, only iron.
Now, Timon, misanthrope . . .
Now, Timon, misanthrope in Hades, say
Which, daylight or night, maddens you more?
“I hate the dark more than I hate the day
Since more of you are down here than up there.”
The crooked bow . . .
The crooked bow and quiver from which were
Dispatched so many arrows of death, O Phoebus
Together they are hung up for you here
As votive offerings from Promachus.
But the arrows he cannot offer you since they
Bringers of terror in the battle’s bloody mêlée
Lodge in the hearts of many men and pay
Thus with death for that hospitality.
Stand there, spear of the ash-tree’s wood.
Stand there, spear of the ash-tree’s wood.
I do not wish to see, killer of men
Foully from your bronze point the blood
Of enemies dripping ever again.
Here in this house of light, in bright Athena’s
Soaring temple bide now and proclaim
The manly virtue, victories and name
Of Cretan Echecratidas.
In a former time I was the curving pair . . .
In a former time I was the curving pair
Of horns on a wild goat such as climb high
On the rocky cliffs, my curly hair
Often garlanded with greenery. Now by
The hands of a master turner I am joined
And smoothed into a bow for Nicomachus
Strung with the sinew of an ox and thus
Given him for battle, strong and finely tuned.
Letters from mothers to their children in foreign parts
You children, remember
How you sat at my knee and
Read of great wars to come
Some instruction from the Classics
Some exercise. Well, now
The great wars are come.
But the time is long past
When you sat together at my knee and
Asked questions and thought about answers
Often arguing and often reaching agreement.
Alone
That is how you now go to the great wars.
You there have read much
And you, only a few pages
You have lived through a lot
And you, hardly anything.
Whether much or little
Now it has to be enough.
How can I make my words reach you now?
There is tumult on the streets.
And even if they were to reach you
How should I know what each one of you needs?
Each of you is in a different danger
Above all, let me warn you
This is for each one of you—let me warn you
Against everything you hear said. For now
Everyone will say only what may help them to victory
And often people do not know
What will help them to victory.
Just as a tank protects the vulnerable body
So too it can be protected
By the smoke of words.
Bad deeds
Can often adduce good reasons
Whereas for good deeds
Bad reasons may be offered.
Hired by the people
You enter the service of the generals
On the march into battle for freedom you look back and
See the bankers waving after you.
You hear the cry: “For freedom!”
But look closely: he who speaks it
Is a butcher.
You hear the cry: “Help the victims!”
But look closely: he who speaks it has
For generations been an oppressor
Of the assaulted.
The dam cries out in the spring:
“The river is too violent!”
But the river answers: “And what
Are you, all year long?”
And so you hear: “The great
Are assaulting the small!”
Look closely: around the giant’s foot
A little snake is coiled.
The fisherman shouts out: “The people from the big house
Have taken my modest little mooring!”
The people from the house say: “Let’s not forget
It was because of the rats!”
What one person says, another can say too
And yet it is not the same.
Not only the good man may be in need
But the robber also!
The broken rope . . .
The broken rope can be knotted again
It will hold, but
It is still broken.
Perhaps we will meet again, but
Where you left me will
Not be where you see me again.
It was early in life I learnt . . .
It was early in life I learnt to shift things swiftly
The ground on which I walked, the air I breathed
With ease I let them go, but still I see
How others carry so much too much with them.
Let your boat be light, let things lie easy
And leave your boat behind lightly when you’re told
To follow your way inland.
You cannot be happy if you seek to hold on to too much
Nor yet if you want things so many others do not want
Be smart, will your own head not to have and hold
Rather, learn the art of taking as you pass.
In times of extreme persecution
When you are beaten
What will remain?
Hunger and conflict
Snow and rain.
Who will teach?
Those who are not lost
Hunger and frost
They will teach.
It did not succeed—
Will people not complain?
The heavily burdened
Start grumbling again.
Who will bear witness
For those who died?
Their stumps and scars
They will bear witness.
My seasons
1
This they sang at my cradle for my sins:
Autumn—this is where your year begins.
2
Storms race through the golden dawn
All that’s old and brittle is torn down.
3
Early winter chills your blood and bones
Rubs out the paths and makes of water stones.
4
Heralded by storms the spring comes now
A time for anger and a time to plough.
5
Suddenly the summer brings its warm
Poppies wave their heads now in the corn.
6
With the summer my year nears its end
Yet still I see approach the reaper’s men.
Valse plus triste
Down at the lake there’s a dance tonight
The refugee came to see them
To see the customs in the land
That offered him asylum.
Pigeon chest partnered two left feet
In the groaning press
He soon ran out of social skills
And she ran short of breath.
Old maid danced with young lass
And the old maid kicked up higher
The young lass danced around the holes
While the old maid leapt right over.
Blind man and cripple waltzed by
Comrades from the trenches!
The blin
d man lost his one glass eye
The cripple broke his ankle!
The master gave his maid a twirl
The poor maid reeked of sweat
And he of schnapps, how he gripped the girl
And they kept falling out of step.
Riches stepped out with the local judge
True love—you should have seen them!
They tried to gaze into each other’s souls
But they didn’t have a soul between them.
Old patriotism and patience
Held the floor the longest
I watched how they held each other tight
Lest they both fall on their faces.
Stupidity pranced by with poverty
And stupidity was giving her an earful.
It brought tears to my eyes to see
Poverty mute and fearful.
Then hunger led labour onto the floor.
And they kept to the beat, no trouble!
They’d stepped out so many times before
Like some old married couple.
A fiddle and a clarinet intoned
A squeeze-box joined the fun
They all were playing an old dance tune
But it wasn’t the same one.
The birches stood around shuddering
The moon wasn’t feeling well
After just a few spins he turned green
And used the pond as a pail.
Ziffel’s song
Listen up, you distant friends who stayed
I’m out! And so, perhaps, at last in safety.
You, whom barbed wire fences now restrain
Look on me with envy and not pity.
Part banished and part refugee
I wander through the world, cap in hand
From the land of ancient heroes
Searching for a happy pygmy land.
Of course this world also has its fences
Arbitrary orders, rules, decrees:
Clouds, they ask, where are your transit visas
Show us your leave to remain, you trees.
There’s a scarcity of worlds to hide in
Regretfully our own is overfull
Crammed with hunger artists and with heroes
Quaking when the new dictators growl.
Burial of the actor
When the mutable one had passed
They laid him out in a little whitewashed room
With a view onto the garden for visitors
Laid at his feet on the floor
The saddle and the book, the drink mixer and the hand mirror
Hung on the wall the iron hook
To spike the scraps of paper with the notes
Of the unforgotten friendlinesses of the dead man, and then
They let the visitors in.
And in stepped his friends
(And those who wished him well amongst his relations)
His colleagues and his pupils, to deliver
Those notes
With the unforgotten friendlinesses of the dead man.
When they carried the mutable one into the morgue
Before him they carried the masks
Of his five great creations
The three exemplary ones and two controversial
But he himself was covered with the red flag
A present from the workers
For his constancy in the days of oppression
And his achievements in the days of upheaval.
And at the gate to the morgue
The representatives of the councils read out the text of his discharge
With the description of the good he had brought, the refutation
Of all rebukes and the admonishment to the living
To emulate him and take up his mantle.
Then they buried him in the park, there by the benches
For the lovers.
The loudspeaker
Several times a day
I listen to the loudspeaker with news from the front
To reassure myself that I am still of this world.
In the same way
The sailor back home asks his old mother
To slosh water from a bucket
Until he can fall asleep.
The willow pipe
I am not the standard bearer
I am not the seer with the heart of an eagle
On your march into the great dawn.
I am the willow by the river
Whipped by the wind
From which the earth’s rebel spirit
Plucks a little pipe to play
Its tune: of the storm, of love and pain
And perhaps a little
Morning grey.
The summer in Sörnäs
Your face, little brother
Is earnest and thin.
It is summer. The tarmac smells.
The stone walls throw shadows.
Breaths come in snatches
All the dust of the street rains down on you.
Have you in a dream at least
Seen green meadows and woods?
Our district is
For the poor people
The green of the parks
Did not stretch this far.
The parks are on the other side
Where the houses lie empty in the summer
For the better folk
Have gone to the country.
Finnish folksong
In a simple slatted hut
There his cradle stood
Underneath the looming hills
And fair Harju’s wood.
Father was the village cobbler
And an idle man
But a model all the same
To his doting son.
His beloved mother was
Broad of hip and wide,
Pirjo by name and not
At all a pretty sight.
His eyes rolled loosely in his head
Like two balls of string.
His lips were leather and his hair
A mossed and matted thing.
So the little ruffian
Took in boots to mend
Banged his own fat fingers while
The tacks got snapped and bent.
When the son had learnt his trade
His father called the lad
Like an old goat in a book
He wagged his greying beard.
Time to make your own way son
He said in tones of earnest
Our home is small the world is wide
It’s time to quit our nest!
Here’s a bodkin for your own
And of thread three knots
And look, from this knife you take
A handy little notch!
As he made his way his mother
Looked up from peeling radishes
Yelled after him a couple of
Pious Bible adages.
And the neighbour’s Lizzie looked
As he lurched along,
Alone with all his troubles now
Humming a little song.
Exercise for actors
From question and answer
I am formed, questioning and answering.
They form me and they change me
In that I form and change them.
A new phrase chases new colour
Into a pallid brow, ah, but just now upon my speaking
There was such a silence that my face
Must be collapsed like a patch of earth under which
There was once a spring, now
Trodden in by a passing foot.
When I made my entrance I was nothing
When I spoke I was known
When I made my exit, nothing left the scene.
But it was with such care that I
Delivered the words that had been entrusted me
Performed the movements corresponding to the meaning, and
Precisely
As arranged, I stood there
As we had discussed, and I spoke
And I made an effort to get my death right.
Between the third and fourth line
I paused a moment
So I didn’t forget to hint at the deceit
And my groaning was not too loud, and I found
Straight away the right spot to fall, in the light.
(In the third speech by the wall I made a change
But only after due reflection and just to try it out.)
To the best of my ability I served the meaning
I always thought about what I was saying
I held myself apart
What I did, I gave over to astonishment
Astonished myself, I presented what had been entrusted to me
I spoke as if in contradiction.
When I was supposed to be one of the great I did not mock
The small, and I mixed
Some smallness with my greatness. And when I was small
I did not forget respect and held fast to some greatness
The great and the small I set aside from the greater and from the smaller.
Not once
