by Tom Kuhn
Often at night I dream . . .
Often at night I dream
I can no longer earn my living
Nobody in this country
Needs the tables I make, the fishmongers speak
Chinese
My closest relatives
Look me in the face like strangers
The woman I slept with for seven years
Greets me politely in the hall and
Goes smiling
On her way
I know
The last room is already empty
The furniture has been removed
The mattress slit open
The curtains have been torn down
In short, everything is ready
To turn
My sad face white
The underwear drying on the line in the yard
Is my underwear, I cannot mistake it
However
Looking closer I see
Darns and patches
It seems
I have moved out, somebody else
Is living here now and
What’s more
In my underwear
Step forward! Why are you so late?
Step forward! Why are you so late? Now
Wait! No, not you—him there! You
Can vanish altogether, we know you, pointless
Shoving yourself in here. Stop, where you off to?
You lot, do me a favour, hit him in the kisser. Now
He knows what’s what. Don’t tell me he’s still yapping!
See to him, will you, he’s still yapping.
Show the man what’s at issue here.
If he thinks he can’t shout at every little thing:
In the kisser, again and again, surely you can deal with a man like him.
So then, when you’ve dealt with him, you can bring
What’s left of him back in, that much
We’ll keep.
Are you a king?
Are you a king?
Or are you just like the rest of us?
Do you own an estate?
Or do you live on our side street?
Are you an upright man?
Or the usual scum like us?
Are you brave?
Or in danger do you behave the way we do?
Do you believe in anything?
Or do you talk about the world the way we do?
Report to somewhere else
1
When I came into the newly built
Cities many came
With me but when I went out of them
Not a soul came with me
On the day agreed
For the fight I went to fight
And I stood from morning till evening
And saw nobody standing by me
But many smiling
Or weeping looked down
From the walls
2
I thought to myself they have forgotten
The day that was agreed
Or decided on another day
And forgot to tell me
But in the evening I saw that they
Were sitting on the walls and eating
And
What they were eating was: stones
And I saw that slyly
And just in time
They had learned to eat a new food
3
And I saw by their eyes
That the enemies were not fighting me
But a dense hail
Of shots was falling upon the place
Where I was standing, so with a smile
I left that place
4
Thereupon friend and foe
We went down together
To drink wine and to smoke
And again and again
In the course of that beautiful night
They told me they had nothing against me
Not one of my words
Had offended them as I believed
For they had not interpreted any one of them
It was only that they believed
I wanted something
Belonging to them and fixed
And sacrosanct for all time
But with a smile I assure them
I wanted nothing of the sort
Young and helpless arriving in the cities . . .
1
Young and helpless arriving in the cities
Seconded to those
For the slaughter
I gave quick answers
To every question
Said, I am going, and went
Or: I am staying, and stayed.
2
Nowadays I know:
What I say and what I do
Are not the same
I have seen myself all too often.
3
When I said: I like the taste of this
At once
The food became bitter in my mouth
Sit down . . .
1
Sit down
Are you seated?
Lean back by all means
We want you sitting in comfort and at ease.
Smoke if you like.
The important thing is, you hear every word I say.
Can you hear every word?
I have something to tell you that will interest you.
2
You are a dickhead.
Are you sure you can hear me?
I hope that beyond any doubt you can hear clearly and exactly what I am saying.
So:
I repeat: you are a dickhead.
A dickhead.
D for Dennis, I for Irene, C for Clive, K for Ken
Head as in “head”.
Dickhead.
3
Please do not interrupt.
You must not interrupt me.
You are a dickhead.
Don’t speak. Don’t make excuses.
You are a dickhead.
Period.
4
I’m not the only one saying it.
That good lady, your mother, has been saying it for a long time.
You are a dickhead.
Ask your nearest and dearest
Are you not a D?
Of course, they won’t tell you
Because then you’ll get vindictive like all dickheads.
But
Everyone around you has known for years that you are a dickhead
Of course, it’s typical that you deny it.
That’s what it’s like: it’s typical of a D that he denies it.
Oh dear, how difficult it is to get a dickhead to see that he is one.
Downright exhausting.
But look, it has to be said.
That you are a dickhead
It’s surely not uninteresting for you to know what you are.
Not knowing what everybody knows surely puts you at a disadvantage
What’s that you’re saying? That your opinions are no different from your pal’s?
But he’s a dickhead too
Please don’t let it be a comfort to you that there are plenty more D’s.
You are a D
It’s not such a bad thing really
Won’t stop you living till you’re eighty.
In business it’s a positive advantage.
And as for politics!
An asset beyond price!
As a D you don’t have to bother about anything.
And you are a D
(You pleased?)
So you see: we know that you are a D.
Do you still not quite understand?
Who else can we get to tell you
Brecht says it too, that you are a D
Here a minute, Brecht, you’re an expert, give him your opinion
The man is a D
There now
A single playing of the record will not be enough.
Uncollected Poems
1927–1930
Po
em of the Unknown Soldier under the triumphal arch
1
We came from the mountains and from the ocean
To strike him down.
We caught him in webs that stretched
From Moscow to the city of Marseilles.
We set up guns that could reach him
Wheresoever he might take flight
When he saw us.
2
We gathered ourselves for four years
Let our work lie and stood
In the decaying cities, calling out to one another in many tongues
From the mountains to the ocean
Where he was to be found.
And so we struck him down in the fourth year.
3
And there were present:
Those whom he was born to see
Standing about him at the time of his death:
All of us.
And
There was a woman also, who had borne him
And who had remained silent when we came to get him.
May her womb be torn from her!
Amen!
4
But when we had struck him down
We saw to him in such a way that he had no face
Under the marks of our fists.
We made him unrecognizable
So he would be no man’s son.
5
And we dug him out from under the ore
Carried him home to our city and
Buried him again under stone, under an arch, called
Arch of Triumph.
Which weighed 1000 hundredweight, so that
The Unknown Soldier
Should under no circumstance rise up at the Day of Judgement
And walk, unrecognizable
Before the face of God
And yet still once more in the light of day
And so bring us, the recognizable
To justice.
Second poem of the Unknown Soldier under the triumphal arch
6
All that we told you
About the murder and death of the Unknown Soldier
And the wasting of his face
And what we said about the efforts of his murderers
To prevent his coming again
Is true, but:
He will not come again.
7
His face was alive as ours is
Until it was wrecked and no more
And it will
Never again be seen on this earth
Neither whole nor wrecked
And his mouth
Will not speak at the Day of Judgement
There will
Be no such judgement.
8
Rather, our brother
Is dead and dead too
Is the stone above his head
And we regret
All our scorn and retract our complaint.
9
A long time already
Whoever he was, over his plate
There sits a new man and eats, and
Another sits now in the chair that
Was his chair
And the talk of him
Amongst his friends has long since fallen silent.
10
We ourselves take pleasure
At every new morning that is
Given to us.
11
But we beg of you, you who
Struck him down after all
—Quiet! Don’t start all over again
With your quarrelling, he’s dead anyway—
And yet we beg of you who after all
—For whatever reason, friends—
Struck him down:
At least cart off
This stone over his head
For all this triumphant mewling
Is uncalled for and just makes us
Trouble, for we
Who had already forgotten
The dead man, are reminded
Daily by this of you, you who are still
Living and
Not yet struck down dead—
Why ever not?
At Potsdam under the oak trees
At Potsdam under the oak trees
They marched in the light of day
A drummer was there and a flag at the rear
And a coffin leading the way.
At Potsdam under the oak trees
In the hundred-year-old dust
Six men carried a coffin along
With a helmet and iron cross.
And on the coffin with letters of red
There stood a little poem
The script was certainly ugly enough:
“Every soldier comes home!”
And that was meant as a monument
To many a fallen man
Born and raised in the homeland
And killed at the Battle of Aisnes.
Strung along by the Fatherland
They crawled through the mud and the loam
And the Fatherland gave them a coffin:
Every soldier comes home!
And so they marched through Potsdam
For the man who fell at Aisnes—
Along came the security police
And beat them up for their pains.
To Karl
(At present a crane in Ruhrort)
1
Come over here, Karl.
Take a look in the canal.
What do you see there, Karl?
That’s you there, Karl.
You’re the tallest here
And you’ve got the biggest gob.
But what’s that there on your throat, little man?
Karl, it looks like syphilis.
If you carry on like that
They’ll never raise your pay.
Karl, don’t cough like that.
Pull yourself together, the foreman’s watching you.
Don’t smoke the whole day long like a capitalist!
Work and pray, that’s the way.
Slide four metres forward!
Slide four metres back!
That’s it, little man.
Lay your grab down before you on the track!
Good lad, Karl, good lad.
2
Karl, show us a marxistically cheerful and enlightened face for once, will you?
3
Sunday will come, Karl
Then we’ll take a walk
You’ll see!
Around your dirty neck you’ll wear a red flag and so
NB with a brass band
Us two will toddle along
Behind Franz and Willem
Our iron comrades
Down the main streets
Wow!
Bawling at every corner
Yawning rudely at every police station
And a noisy little lot in your grab
The boys, our comrades!
And in the evening, comrade
We’ll get good and proper drunk
50 litres of oil as though it were nothing!
For we have to get home
But on that Sunday, Karl
We’ll be at home everywhere
Between Duisburg and Essen
Nobody can chase us away.
Your good health, Karl!
4
Slide four metres forward!
Slide four metres back!
Pick the coal up here, lay it down over there!
For the coal’s from here
And it’s going over there
And why?
There’s a reason why.
So, Karl, stretch your neck
Drop the coal where you’re told
Because, Karl, you have to
Because, Karl, you have to.
Karl, you belong to the proletariat
And, Karl, the proletariat
All do as they’re told.
Slide four metres forward
Slide four metres back
Grab
the iron here and sling it over there!
What’s iron here becomes
Over there big guns
And why?
There’s a reason why.
So, Karl, stretch your neck
Drop the iron where you’re told
Because, Karl, you have to
Because, Karl, you have to!
Karl, you belong to the proletariat
And, Karl, the whole proletariat
All do as they’re told.
One day we’ll go forward
And never back again
And what’s theirs we’ll fling down
And build with the iron we own
And the coal will warm our homes
And then and only then
There’ll be good reason why.
So, Karl, stretch your neck
And fling some things our side!
Because, Karl, you’re allowed!
Because, Karl, you’re allowed!
Karl, you belong to the proletariat
And when it’s for the proletariat
We say what’s allowed.
5
My name is Milksack Number 4
I drink oil, you drink beer
I eat coal and you eat bread
You’re not alive yet, I’m still dead.
Every day I do my tour
I was here before you on the Ruhr.
You will pass but I continue
By that walk of yours I’ll know you.
True, before long you’ll be gone
Gone forever, but not forgotten
Because I know you feel for me
We know we belong together
Born my comrade, born my brother
In the proletariat
In the proletariat
You and me!
Four already called me comrade
Led me kindly, walked alongside.
One gave me a sup of beer
Slopped it over the grabber gear.
One shoved all his dishes out