by Tom Kuhn
Concerning man’s dependency on nature
Always
Man thinks he stands
In the world unchangeable, the air
May at times be full of fire, he has seen
The ground quake, he stood
Unchanging, himself, the same, and beside him
He was accustomed to seeing
Man wholly unchanged. Wrong:
The ground did not cease to be ground
The air did not cease to be air. But man
Shrank away in fear
And swelled out in foolishness
It would not take much
When I first sighted the great cities
At once I thought, surely it will do
For example, to send them a word and this
They will accept and not ask any more of you
The word that is like no other word, alas
Always eluded me
And time meanwhile has gone by very fast
I dispatched it guilefully
Words never were in short supply
A man pukes one, another eats it
Had I ever hooked the word, the one and only
All men would have said: that’s it
I would have given them peace, for sure
And gathered up the coins they threw my way
Enough to live on and to spare
And they would have been content with me
Spring
Long before
We fell upon iron, oil and ammoniac
There was in every year
The time of the wildly unstoppably leafing trees.
The lengthening days
We all remember
Brighter skies
Change in the air
Of spring that was coming for certain.
In books we still read
Of that celebrated season
And yet for a long time now
Above our cities there has been no sight
Of the famous flocks of birds.
If anyone, the common people sitting in trains
Still notice spring.
The flatlands show it
In the old clarity.
True, very high
Storms still seem to pass over but
Nowadays they touch
Only our aerials.
As I dressed for my wedding . . .
1
As I dressed for my wedding
My mother stood by me
“He’ll tell you you are his now
And his alone,” said she.
That’s what they all want to hear:
“Be mine for evermore!”
And they take what you’ve got to give
And they say that’s no way to live
And knock at another’s door.
The bed that you make you must lie on
No one will tuck you up in it but you.
So let him be the kicked and you the kicker
If and when it is kicking it comes to.
2
I knew within a twelvemonth
What she meant by those words of hers
“One of you will be laughing
And the other will be in tears.”
“Treat me nice,” they all say that
But what really matters is: who ends up boss?
Take my word for it, child
It’s either or, him or you, profit or loss:
You rule him or be ruled.
The bed that you make you must lie on
No one will tuck you up in it but you.
So let him be the kicked and you the kicker
If and when it is kicking it comes to.
Ballad of the virgins
Behold the virgins, behold the flowers
In the morning behold them in glorious May
Commend them to God’s loving care in your prayers
Plucked, they are over and pass with the day.
Plucked, you must go to the grave for a dwelling
For now you are rotting. Her happiest lot
Is she may be purchased for less than a shilling
Till rotting and stinking she’s trod under foot.
A whore who’s so inclined, sir . . .
A whore who’s so inclined, sir
Will rob you on the way
Of health and wealth and time, sir
I make so bold . . ., she’ll say.
Your daughter flying the nest, sir
Will take your sheets with her
The mother steals the rest, sir
The question is: who for?
The riddle
1
Where does he come from?
He comes out of the flesh
He comes out of the air
Out of the river water
Out of the desert
He comes out of the cities
When he has come
He goes again.
2
What does he learn from?
He learns from the river
He learns from the book
From people’s faces
From fists
From laughter
When he has learned enough
He goes again
3
Where does he go to?
He goes everywhere
He goes to the mountain passes
To the cities
To the seas
To the springs
When he has gone enough
He goes no more
Tercets on love
See how those cranes fly arcing through the sky!
The clouds they have for company on their way
Were there already when they had to fly
From one life to another far away.
Together at the selfsame height and pace
It seems an almost casual display.
That crane and cloud just chance to share the space
Of the wide skies through which they pass so briefly
So neither one may linger in this place
And all they see is one another slightly
Rocking on the wind in loose accord
Who now in flight lie side by side so lightly
The wind may carry them off into the void.
If they remain themselves, and hold on tight
They can be touched by nothing untoward
It doesn’t matter if they’re driven out
Threatened by gunshots or by stormy weather.
Indifferent to the sun and moon’s pale light
They journey on, besotted with each other.
What are you fleeing from? —The world. —Where to? —Wherever.
You ask how long now have they been together?
Not long. —And when they’ll part? —Oh, soon enough.
So love appears secure to those who love.
In the chophouse and the drawing room . . .
In the chophouse and the drawing room, over rooftops, under bridges
Black-masked mostly, ever more outrageous
There the bad guy lives the life of Riley, always has—
Of course he does.
Not far off, alone perhaps or maybe plural
Always lovely legs and lots of hair and sex appeal
Lives the innocent girl, unspoilt, intact still—
Of course she does.
Guilt and innocence with the man unceasingly
Now must struggle, virtuously, disgracefully
And the innocent is always grateful, isn’t she?
And who wins? The innocent, naturally.
Oh what manner of world is this then? Hollywood
Naturally
Every story ends there as it should
Happily.
The making of long-lasting works
1
How long
Do works last? They last
Till they are finished.
For so long as they still require effort
They do not decay.
Inviting effort
Rewarding participation
They will live and last for as long
As they invite and reward.
Useful works
Need people
Works full of artistry
Have room for art in them
Wise works
Need wisdom
Those intending completeness
Show gaps
The long-lasting
Are forever on the brink of falling in
Those planned on a truly grand scale
Are unfinished.
Uncompleted still
Like the wall awaiting ivy
(It was once unfinished
Ages ago, before the ivy came, bare!)
Not able to be halted there
Like a machine that is needed and used
But does not suffice
But promises better
Like that if it is to last
A work must be built like
The machine full of shortcomings.
2
When things are to be said that will not immediately be understood
When advice is given that it takes a long time to follow
When we fear human weakness
The enemy’s staying power, the catastrophes that bury everything
Then we must lend our works the power to last.
3
The desire to make works that will last a long time
Is not always to be welcomed.
The man who addresses the as yet unborn
Often does nothing for their birth.
He does not fight, but wants the victory.
He sees no enemy
Except being forgotten.
Why should every wind last forever?
You may take note of a good pronouncement
So long as the occasion may come again
For which it was good.
Certain experiences handed on in perfected form
Enrich mankind
But we can have too much of riches.
Not only experiences
Memories too make us old.
So the desire to lend a work long-lastingness
Is not always to be welcomed.
Remember, these are the years . . .
Remember, these are the years
In which it is not a matter of winning victories but
Of winning the defeats
Who lives in order to be victorious
Is ignorant of victory
Swimming from the sinking ship
You don’t seek the best island but
The nearest.
Changing the world
Does not mean: winning victories.
Do not go forth
To change the world, and
Be victorious in your own town which
Remains unchanged.
You have prepared the victory
You have fought the fight, now
You could be victorious
Don’t be victorious!
Fight on!
But in these years that I tell you
Are not the years of victories
Be present at all your defeats
Without exception, hear
Every insult but hear every single one like a question and shout each its answer!
Eat and drink, fighter
Waiting eagerly for the fight
Repair the chair you are sitting on
Laugh with those who are laughing
Give your kidneys time to heal
Read the thoughts of the dead in peace
The years of the victories may
Come after you.
A ballad for Article 218
Doctor, my period . . .
Well doesn’t it make you glad
You’ll be helping the population figures along a bit?
Doctor, our place isn’t fit . . .
Don’t tell me you haven’t a bed
Look after yourself a bit
And keep yourself nice and warm
You’ll make a nice little mother
Of a bit more factory-fodder.
That’s what your belly is for
And that’s what you’re there to do
You know the score
And whether you like it or no
That’s that: you’re a mother-to-be.
Doctor, a man out of work, he can’t have a child, can he?
Oh he’ll soon find work now, my dear lady.
Doctor . .
Mrs Renner, I don’t understand you.
The state needs men, can’t you see
To mind the machinery.
You’ll make a nice little mother
Of a bit more factory-fodder.
That’s what your belly is for
And that’s what you’re there to do
You know the score
And whether you like it or no
That’s that: you’re a mother-to-be.
Doctor, where’ll I lie in?
Mrs Renner, enough being silly.
First you wanted the fun
And now you won’t do your duty.
When we prohibit a thing
We know very well what we’re doing
So leave it all to us
And let us have no more fuss.
You’ll make a nice little mother
Of a bit more factory-fodder.
That’s what your belly is for
And that’s what you’re there to do
You know the score
And whether you like it or no
Fact is you’re a mother-to-be.
Chorus
But below us also there are
Further levels
And below them so it seems
Further levels still and even we
The unhappy
Are yet by others
Called
Happy.
The way down!
Comrade, don’t ask
Where your way leads
Your way leads
Down.
Comrade, when you were one year old
You began to walk
You were going—
Down.
You went to learn
You went to work
You went fresh
You went in weariness
Comrade, don’t go too fast
You are going down.
Comrade, you marry
You have children
Together you go the way
Down.
But on Sundays you walk in procession with your comrades
You sing, you follow the waving flag
You march to the beat of the drum
Down.
Comrade, we have marched together
We have demonstrated together
We have spoken of the new time
We go our separate ways.
Where
Shall we meet?
Down below.
For not even you, comrade
Will always go
Down
Once you lie underground
You’ll have done going down.
The jobless
1
Here it’s warm, here do penance
Here eat for the last time all you want
Here are benches, sit and listen
To the word of God, thou shalt, thou shan’t.
2
Leave self-respect and shame to the rich people
Confess your sins and they will give you bread
Whatever else they demand of you, do it
For being dead won’t do you any good.
3
Here’s some soup now. Sup it and confess
The sins that have been committed against you
Say sorry here beside this warming hearth
Fast for everything they’ve done to you.
I saw a bowl of soup once . . .
1
I saw a bowl of soup once
It didn’t belong to m
e
The soup was oversalty
But that didn’t bother me
2
I saw another bowl of soup once
And nothing wrong with it
Still I didn’t eat it
It wasn’t mine to eat
3
So long as I don’t work for them
I don’t have any rights
And so long as I do work for them
They own my days and nights
4
And now that there’s no work to do
They’re mine, my days and nights
Truth is I have no right to work
Nor right to any rights.
You coming from just having eaten . . .
You coming from just having eaten
Permit us to make you aware
Of our ceaseless struggle
For food to eat such as yours
And worse would also content us
We beg you: behold us
In the ceaseless search for work!
But alas over work and food to eat
There are laws, immutable
Unknown laws
But all the while downwards
Fall
Through grids in the asphalt
Many and various unremarkable
Undistinguished people down
Suddenly, fast, without a sound, they go down
Walking beside us, cheerful people, from out of the midst
Of the throng of people, down
Inexactly selected
Six out of seven go down but the seventh
Enters the eating place.