The Collected Poems of Bertolt Brecht
Page 8
Slept—
She had much work on her hands out of which the children
Snatched food and drink. Later, in the afternoon
The tree of her destiny rounded its crown up higher
But the wind continuing strong it was often not easy to stand.
Then when the children, grown up and already hardened
Went from her like birds into all the four quarters
Over the land and the lands and over the sea
The old woman learned to look further:
Over the land and the lands and over the sea.
Years went by. Already the children’s children were growing
Distant family over lands and over seas
Who bore in their bones her marrow and her blood in their veins
And in the storms of life, again and again fought through
They, far away, revered her, mother of the mothers.
At last at evening she went, she who had borne them all
Alone through the house by the market, upright, unbowed
Whilst in lands become darker pulpit and trumpet
Parted the grandchildren. She however
Above the quarrel prayed for her grandchildren this side and that.
And they in the struggle surely thought of her always
In their separate camps and that in the house by the market
Beds were made up for them and the table already laid.
Half in my sleep . . .
Half in my sleep in the pale beginning light
Against your body, many a night: that dream.
Ghostly highways under evening-pale
Very cold skies. Pale winds. Crows
Screaming for food and in the night comes rain.
With clouds in the wind, years following on years
Your face washes away, my Bittersweet, again
And in the cold wind with a shock of fear I feel
Your body lightly, half in my sleep, in the beginning light
Still with a trace of bitterness in my brain.
Ode to my father
Under the spreading roof of the house on the marketplace
Growing in the citron light of the early morning
Child among many children—with joyful limbs.
Over the childish brows anxious shadows came early.
Strictly ruled though they were, joy in life never left them
So in their seriousness there was always a gaiety.
Earlier than others they stood, still trembling
On their own two feet. But the will
Drove him into the struggle. In years of work
Looking ahead and boldly he fought his way forwards.
Owing all to himself: nothing was given him.
Then the family and children! In a strange town
He founded a home where over the well-built house
The winds and the rain could pass.
Not always free himself, he gave the children their freedom.
Showed in example, not by talk, simplicity
Stature and courage.
And the healthy law of an honourable struggle.
Cautious and bold, knowing his own strength
He fought without rest, astutely, for what was possible
And what was achieved, that he made use of with thanks and correctly.
Never did he combat the natural, rather
He put it to use for himself and for others.
We in silence, all of us, bowed to his influence—never
As it felt to us, to power.
A thousand years from now when this land long since has gone under
Never to praise the loud-mouths who vainly by speeches or battle
In the pealing of bells and the roar of the canon destroyed it—no!
Let the singer’s song be sung in praise of the good men
Who built it in sweat and tears, who were bold and far-seeing
Knowing their strength and simple men in their greatness.
The old man in spring
Oh back in my day when I was a youngster
Spring was lovelier than it is today
And that the lovely girls back then were lovelier
Is the only thing that cheers us old men on their way.
Ask your mother: she thinks the same as I do
Nobody knows what’s what before they’re old.
The old have seen a lot and I can tell you
Yours is the age of iron and ours was gold.
It must be true that corn and meadow now
Are not so green and gold as they were then
For if it isn’t true and if they are, how
Would I be able still to visit them?
But that the sun today is ever colder
Than were the splendid suns of yesteryear
Is not a good thing for as you get older
Each year you love the sunshine more and more.
Back then our lives and loves and poetry
Were something else—not what they are today
We’re the only thing that’s still the same. Well, tell me
Who likes you changing once your hair’s gone grey?
The virginia smoker
The doctor said to me: Smoke your virginias by all means!
Everyone croaks in the end whether they smoke or not.
For example, I’ve got yellowish lines in my pupils’ mucous membranes.
Sooner or later I’ll die of that.
Of course, that’s no reason for a man to lose heart.
He might live for years yet. Who knows?
He can stuff himself full with capons and blackberry tart.
Of course, it will hit him one of these fine days.
Nothing anybody can do about it, not with dodges, not with schnapps.
A cancer like that grows in secret so you’d never know
And there you are, already deleted perhaps
And only yesterday you stood at the altar and said: I do.
My uncle, for example, kept his trouser-creases
Long after he had the mark on him.
Roses in his cheeks, but they were hectic roses.
He had no health in any part of him.
There are some people, they have it in the family
But they won’t admit it. They’d never
Mistake say a pineapple for a sprig of parsley
But tell themselves their cancer’s a hernia.
On the other hand my grandfather knew exactly what he’d got
And lived with painful care according to prescription
And reached fifty, then he was tired of it.
Really, no dog would live a day in that fashion.
But our sort say, Who’s well? Nobody is.
Do what you like, we all have our crosses to bear.
Myself I’ve got a problem with my kidneys
And haven’t been allowed a drink this many a year.
The mother
When she was finished then and all was given away
The abundance smilingly shared and lavishly spent
In her who had been so rich
Very small strength remained. She gathered it up.
All her strength and held her hands as steady as iron
Still and looked at those to whom she had given.
Then it was as if her hands
Never weary of giving
Her cool and caressing hands
As if now on an impulse
She wished to give them away too. So she held them fast.
When she was finished now and passed over
Softly with such light feet as though she feared
To wake children and so light as though she were floating
Since now it was off her, the weight that had been immense.
And all rose up and looked over
Those still suffering, those still so in despair
But also those who had passed through such darkness
That now they had scarcel
y any sensation of light
And were now beyond wondering, those and those
Who had once been powerful and raised above many
They looked across in amazement:
For however much they in their time had given
She
Had given everything and withheld
Nothing for herself.
My dear Bez
And Thursday morning: the shop
Yawned greyly and stank of soap.
She was very sad and had some secret trouble.
I said such things were quite beyond my ken
And that, as always, I worried for you all.
With a smile she said, when I did not begin:
Yesterday evening I could find no peace
So that I did what I’ve never done before and won’t again:
Went round that very evening to his place.
You’re laughing. But it’s not an exaggeration:
I was missing him and I knew I shouldn’t be.
Nor did I know he was so keen on me.—
With a wooden smile she was looking through the window
At a hunchbacked very old woman
Throwing street muck into a wheelbarrow.
Leaving, I noticed that her hands are red
And motherly—I expect they’re very good
At gently stroking hot things, someone’s brow
Or the tea-machine. I smiled, no more to say
I pressed her hands in mine and went away.
(One cannot always, when one wants to, kiss.)
Hm. My mother is coming on for fifty
And of that tally she has been ill thirty.
And yesterday she laughed and said, Alas
Our girls will never meet with much success:
Before he left he said—and was more serious
Than I in all my dying days have ever been—
Today, no ifs, no buts, he must get through
A novel to the very end. I ask you!
He said that to me, an old woman!
And I, I don’t know why, laughed too.
And looked, as you did, like an idiot.
And now the days are sunny and I’m fine.
The nights full of starlight and of peace and quiet.
And all the fountains bow to anyone
Who in the evenings is livelier than dry rot.
For many weeks the woods have lain in wait.
Music in the ploughlands, naked in the sun
And loud above all earthly things into
The blazing skies of youth from brash
And brutal drums, divine cymbals
The fairground rises with its drunken beat.
O blessed home of homeless trash:
Villains, poets, women of ill repute
Your children seized by all the miracles
Soldiers’ song
Brothers we in the dark factories
Must choke in the dirt of the earth like fishes.
By day we are beasts that wade into darkness
But come the evening, then we are soldiers.
We, brother, walled in the dark over here
You, brother ploughman, in the light over there
By day, we can’t take time off for the kermis
But come the evening, then we are soldiers.
We play the accordion appassionato
And sharpen the knives as soon as we’re told to.
We roll around like pigs in clover
But when we are dying, then we are soldiers.
We labour like angels and dance like the heathen
We get the women with very fat children
We clench our fists and we sing and sing—
But we’ve dropped and are dead, come the evening.
When at her look the violet light had fled . . .
When at her look the violet light had fled
I went downstairs with severed knees, an alien
But sleep that would have been my salvation
No longer bides for me in bed
So I wrapped my body in the fresh linen.
The sky like milk. I thought coolly.
And laughed with my limbs that were quite worn out.
Then there was nothing to do. Early till late
I floated down the Mississippi.
Towards evening I could not keep
From crying. The tear-flow
Bloated my shroud
And instead of between her legs I fell asleep
On cold stones naked under the Plough.
The negroes sing chorales over the Himalayas
Two hundred negroes with wooden sailing ships
From out of the black waters of the shark seas
They stand high up above the Himalayan cliffs
Sozzled to the gills on schnapps and tears
And for days they have been singing chorale upon chorale over the Himalayas.
May the Lord God hear their prayers!
Dear God, hear them!
And you also, Blessed Virgin Mary, hear them!
Even at the stake their singing will not cease.
Monstrous winters threaten them
With blue knives of ice.
And yet like children
They wear shirts that reach only to their knees.
With their children, rats and rotten fishes
That they coaxed along with them out of the quiet bays:
They pray to God for help and even as they pray
Their shirts are dropping off them into the blue crevasses!
Dear God, hear their plea!
And you also, Blessed Virgin Mary!
God Almighty! Now in telegram after telegram
They report that they are standing above the Great Himalayas
With their children and their children’s nurses
And do not dare to drink the restorative dram.
What shall they do? What undertake, now having gone
Beyond the help of anyone?
But God, hear their plea!
And the Blessed Virgin Mary!
My mouth is trembling. I collect tears in all my trilbies.
They should drink, if you ask me
Schnapps, schnapps, schnapps till they follow their shirts into the crevasses.
God sleeps in bliss and the negroes are freezing to death in their nakedness.
Over the Himalayas in April the final commission in search of God’s mercy . . .
My lips tremble at the immensity
Of the outcome. For it is now or never!
O God on High, hear their prayer!
And you also, Blessed Virgin Mary!
A song of praise
(After ‘Commit thou all thy griefs . . .’)
1
O you in need of helping
Commit your griefs and ways
To Him who tends the grieving
Or will one of these days.
But he who fills his vision
With clouds and winds and air
He will not be dejected
When they all disappear.
2
For nothing can befall you:
In your own self abide
In weal and woe and always
Refrain from suicide.
And though you lie in darkness
Night will abide with you
And speak to you of starlight
As only she can do.
3
For nothing can befall you:
But you in rain or shine
Stand your ground and see the sky
As it has always been.
And if you’ve done no evil
To clouds and winds and air
They’ll find nobody willing
To cast you out from here.
On vitality
1
The main thing is vitality
A slug of brandy, and you’re sorted
Any wench, law of causality
Must bend to vitality, even court it.
Women may lie in knots on your bed
Take your whip and not your morality!
Or do it outside, that’s just as good
As long as you have vitality.
3
Vitality will always ease
Your path with any dumb angel. Vitality.
She’ll see the Judgement and beg on her knees
For rites of bare legality.
4
Vitality can fully dispense
With soul or intellect
It’s more concerned with a sixth sense
And women you can disrespect.
5
Vitality couldn’t give a fig
For responsibility, consequences
Take Baal, for example, he was a pig
And a bundle of offences.
(So, morning and night to God I pray
For vi-tal-i-tay.)
Through the room the wild wind comes . . .
Through the room the wild wind comes . . .
As the child lay eating plums
Then she offered her pale self
To the pleasures of the flesh.
Showed him tactfully how to take it
First insisting he go naked.
Apricots as sweet as these
Can’t be fucked in dungarees.
And however wild our games were
Nothing was too much for her.
Afterwards she washed it nicely:
All just as it should by rights be.
Down in the willow grove . . .
Down in the willow grove
Wind blowing wild
She, ’cause her mother called
Did it and smiled . . .
Wild the wind overhead