by Tom Kuhn
The god of war
I saw the old god of war standing on a stump, on one side an abyss, on the other a cliff wall.
He smelled of free beer and carbolic and he showed off his gonads to the teenagers, the while some professors had rejuvenated him.
In his hoarse wolf’s voice he declared his love for all that is young. And there was a pregnant woman standing by, and she shivered.
And he continued without shame, presenting himself as a great champion of order. And he described how he created order in the barns, by emptying them.
As a man may scatter crumbs for the sparrows, so he fed poor people with crusts of bread he had taken from poor people.
His voice was sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but always hoarse.
In a loud voice he spoke of the great times to come, and in a quiet voice he taught the women how to boil crows and seagulls.
All the while he was uneasy in himself, and he looked over his shoulder time and again as if in fear of a stab in the back.
And every five minutes he assured his public that he was minded to make his entrance brief.
The roll call of the vices and the virtues
At the recent exploitation soirée a whole range of celebrities took their bows to the crowing of the trumpets, and attested their close bond with the powers that be.
VENGEFULNESS, made up and coiffed like conscience, gave demonstrations of her infallible memory. A small, crippled person, she garnered huge applause.
BRUTALITY, looking about her helplessly, made an awkward entrance. She slipped and fell on the platform, but she made up for it by stamping so hard in rage that she made a hole.
After her came HATRED OF EDUCATION and adjured the ignorant, with foaming lips, to throw off the burden of knowledge. “Down with the know-alls!” was his cry, and the know-nothings carried him aloft on their exhausted shoulders and out of the premises.
SERVILITY was there too. She presented herself as a great hunger-artist. Before she left the stage she bowed to a couple of fat hustlers whom she had helped into high office.
The popular comedian MALICIOUS SPITE brought some cheer to the proceedings. But he had a bit of an upset when he laughed so hard he gave himself a hernia.
In the second part of the promotion AMBITION, that great sportsman, was the first to come on stage. He leapt so high in the air that he banged his head on the rafters. But he didn’t bat an eye, neither then nor when one of the comperes fixed a medal on him and stabbed right through to the flesh with the long pin.
A little pale, perhaps suffering from stage fright, JUSTICE presented herself. She spoke only of lesser matters and promised a more comprehensive address another time soon.
Then THIRST FOR KNOWLEDGE, a powerful young man, reported how the regime had opened his eyes to the guilt of the crooked-noses in respect of all public grievances.
And up stepped SELF-SACRIFICE, a tall skinny chap with an honest face, holding a big plate of cheap pewter in his horny hand. He gathered in the workers’ pennies and said quietly, in an exhausted voice: Think of your children!
ORDER too stepped onto the platform, and she had a bald head beneath her clean bonnet. She distributed doctor’s diplomas to the liars and surgeon’s licences to the murderers. There wasn’t a spot of dust on her grey dress, even though she had been out to steal rubbish at night from the bins in the backyards. In long queues, as far as the eye could see, the victims of thievery filed past her table, and till the veins stood out on her cramped hands she wrote receipts for each and every one.
Her sister THRIFT showed off the basket of bread crusts that she had taken from the mouths of the sick in the hospitals.
Then INDUSTRY, gasping for breath like someone hunted to death, and with whip lashes at his neck, gave an extra turn for free. He fashioned a grenade in less time than it takes to blow your nose. And as an encore, before you could say Ah! he brewed up enough poison gas for two thousand families.
All these celebrities, these children and children’s children of COLD and HUNGER, came on stage in the midst of the people and came out unreservedly as the loyal servants of EXPLOITATION.
The dispute Anno Domini 1938
I saw them standing on four hills. Two were shouting, and two were silent. All four were surrounded by their servants, their animals and their wares. All the servants on all four hills were pale and underfed.
All four were in fury. Two had knives in their hands and two had their knives in their bootlegs.
“Give us back what you stole from us!” two of them cried, “otherwise there’ll be trouble!” And two were silent and casually watched the weather.
“We’re hungry”, shouted two, “but we’re armed.” Then the other two began to speak.
“What we took was worthless and little and wasn’t enough to satisfy you”, they said with dignity. “Then give it back if it’s worthless”, shouted the other two.
“We don’t like your knives”, said the dignified ones. “Lay them down and you’ll get something.” “Empty promises”, screamed the hungry ones. “When we didn’t have knives, then you wouldn’t even make promises!”
“Why don’t you make something useful?” asked the dignified ones. “Because you won’t let us sell our wares anyway”, answered the hungry ones crossly, “that’s why we made knives.”
But they themselves were not hungry, that’s why they always gestured at their servants, who were truly hungry. And the dignified ones said to each other: “Our servants are hungry too.”
And they came down from their hills to parley, so that the shouting might cease, for there were too many that were hungry. And the other two came likewise down from their hills, and the conversation continued quietly.
“Between ourselves”, said two, “we live from our servants.” And two nodded and said: “We do too.”
“If we don’t get anything”, said the warlike ones, “we’ll send our servants against yours and you’ll be defeated.” “Perhaps it is you who will be defeated”, smiled the peaceful ones.
“Yes, perhaps we will be defeated”, said the warlike ones. “Then our servants will throw themselves upon us and kill us and discuss with your servants how they may kill you too. For if the masters won’t talk to one another, then the servants will talk to one another.”
“What is it you need?” asked the peaceful ones, alarmed. And the warlike ones drew long lists from their pockets.
But all four stood up, as one, and turned to their servants and said aloud: “Now we are discussing how to preserve the peace.”
And they sat down again and looked at the lists, and they were too long.
So that the peaceful ones turned red with fury and said: “We see, you want to live from our servants too”, and they went back to their hills.
Then the warlike ones too went back to their hills.
I saw them standing on four hills and all four were shouting. All four had knives in their hands and were saying to their servants: “That lot over there want you to work for them! Only war can decide.”
Everywhere so much to see
What did you see, wanderer?
I saw a gracious landscape. There was a grey hill against a bright sky, and the grass swayed in the wind. Against the hill leant a house, like a woman leans against a man.
What did you see, wanderer?
I saw a range of hills, good to set artillery behind.
What did you see, wanderer?
I saw a house so ramshackle that it was only held up by the hill; but it was in shadow throughout the day. I came past at various times but there was never smoke from the hearth, no sign of a meal cooking. And I saw people who lived there.
What did you see, wanderer?
I saw a barren field on stony ground. Every blade of grass for itself. Stones strewn across the meadow. Too much shade from the hill.
What did you see, wanderer?
I saw a ridge lifting its shoulder out of the grass like a giant who will not be conquered. And the grass st
ood high and straight, proud on the bare earth. And an indifferent heaven.
What did you see, wanderer?
I saw a fold in the earth. Millennia past there must have been huge movements in the earth’s crust. The granite lay revealed.
What did you see, wanderer?
No bench. I was tired.
The teach-me-better
When I was young, I had drawn for me on a wooden board
With a palette knife and paint, an old man
Scratching his chest because he’s scurfy
But with a plaintive look, because he hopes he may be taught better.
A second board for the opposite corner of the room
Which was to show a young man who might teach him
Was never completed.
When I was young I hoped
I would find an old man who would let himself be taught better.
When I am old I hope
A young man may find me and that I
Will let myself be taught.
In the bath
The cabinet minister lies in the bath. With his hand he tries
To push the wooden-backed brush under the surface of the water.
In this childish game
A seriousness lies concealed.
To my little radio
You little box I carried on my flight
Anxious lest the fragile valves should break
From house to train, from train to house to boat
So that my enemies might always speak
Beside my bed and to my agony
The last I hear at night, the first by day
Of all their victories and my dismay:
Give me your word you won’t give up on me!
My pipes
I left my books, in haste to reach the border
To friends, I can get by without a poem
But smuggled out my pipes, so broke the order
To refugees: take nothing of your own!
To him the books have little left to offer
Whom foes pursue with murderous intent.
The smoker’s kit wrapped in its pouch of leather
Right now holds promises more pertinent.
I read of the tank battle
You Augsburg dyer’s son, who years gone past
Played marbles with me by the riverbanks
Where are you in the fury of the tanks
That now grind pretty Flanders into dust?
That bomb that fell on Calais from the skies
Was that the weaver’s son with whom I played?
Oh, baker’s son from long-gone childhood days
Are you the cause of bleeding Champagne’s cries?
Finnish landscape
Fish-teeming waters! Well-wooded lands!
Silver birch and berry scents!
An air of many tones and tastes which wends
A breeze so milky mild you’d think those steel churns
That roll from out the white farm gate stood open!
Smells and sounds all meld, and sight and sense.
The refugee beneath the alders turns
Once more to that vexed craft of his, that’s hoping.
He looks upon the sheaves all neatly trimmed
The well-fed beasts down drinking with their young
And thinks on those who lack both milk and corn.
Asks of the barge with tree trunks freshly sawn
Is this the wood they’ll use for wooden limbs?
And sees a nation mute in both its tongues.
Songs for Life of Galileo, Mother Courage, The Good Person of Szechwan, and Other Plays
Although we have not conscientiously included the poems and songs from Brecht’s plays in this collection, there are some that stand very well on their own and perhaps merit inclusion for that reason. Others, although completed, were not ultimately integrated in the plays, so again we have tried to find room for them. The following all date from the war years.
The scripture says . . .
The scripture says the globe is fixed. And doctors
Agree, it’s fixed, that’s what their science proves
The Holy Father grasps it by the ears and
Holds it fast. And nonetheless . . . it moves.
Solomon song
You’ve heard of wise old Solomon
You know his fate I’m sure.
There wasn’t much he couldn’t explain
But he cursed the hour he was born
And saw that everything was vain.
How great and wise was Solomon!
Behold, and it was not yet night
The world could see how this played out:
His wisdom was to blame all right!
Oh happy souls who do without!
You’ve heard of soldier Caesar too
You know his fate I’m sure.
He sat there like a living god
And then was murdered come the hour
Just when he thought he had it made.
Et tu! he cried, and then he died!
Behold, and it was not yet night
The whole world saw how this played out
His courage was to blame all right!
Oh happy souls who do without!
You know of honest Socrates
Who always spoke the truth.
But no one gave him any thanks
In fact they watched his every move
Then offered him that poison drink.
Oh he was honest, there’s no doubt!
Behold and it was not yet night
The world could see how this played out:
His honesty was to blame all right!
Oh happy souls who do without!
Good Saint Martin, as you know
Was moved by others’ need.
He saw a poor man in the snow
And offered to share his coat and so
They both of them froze and then were dead.
Worldly he was certainly not!
Behold, and it was not yet night
The world could see how this played out:
His selflessness was to blame all right!
Oh happy souls who do without!
You see here decent folk if you please
Who try to keep the Lord’s decrees.
So far it hasn’t helped at all.
And you who sit there in the warm
Please help us in our need
We’ve been so very well behaved!
I shall go with the one I love . . .
I shall go with the one I love.
I shall not reckon what it costs.
I shan’t consider if it’s right.
I shall not ask if he loves me.
I shall go with him I love.
The song of St Neverever Day
One day, as every soul knows
Who once in a poor crib lay
The poor woman’s son will mount a gold throne
And that day is St Neverever Day.
On St Neverever Day
He’ll sit on a golden throne.
And on this day goodness will pay
And wrongdoers will lose their heads
And profit and its friends will make amends
And share out their salt and bread.
On St Neverever Day
They’ll share their salt and bread.
And the grass will look down on the skies
And the pebbles will roll upstream
And mankind will be good, like they would if they could
And the earth an idyllic dream.
On St Neverever Day
The earth an idyllic dream.
On that day I’ll be an airman and fly
And you’ll be a general at least
And you, my friend, will get work in the end
And you poor woman will find peace.
On St Neverever Day
Poor woman you’ll get some peace.
And because we can’t wait any longer
All this will com
e, so they say
Not just when it’s late, at seven or eight
But with cockcrow at break of day.
On St Neverever Day
At the very break of day.
Song of the defencelessness of the gods and the good
In our country
You need luck to be useful. Only
If you find powerful help
Can you be useful.
The good
Cannot help themselves and the gods are powerless.
Why don’t the gods have tanks and heavy guns
Battleships and bombers and armoured cars
To punish the bad and protect the good?
It would make their lives better, and ours.
The good
Cannot stay good for long in our country.
Where plates are empty the hungry will squabble.
Oh, the decrees of the gods
Are no use against such deprivation.
Why don’t the gods appear on our markets
And share out, smiling, nature’s plenty
And allow the people, fortified by food and wine
To be good to one another henceforth, and friendly?
To come by a meal
Requires the steel which, in other times, built empires.
Without trampling dozens underfoot
No one can help those in misery.
Why don’t the gods cry out in the upper regions
That they owe the good a good world in which to live?
Why don’t they stand by the good with tanks and with guns
