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WOLF BIERMANN THE WIRE HARP BALLADS WI T H
|
POEMS
MUS I CAL
1 K A N S I. A I ' E D
|
SONGS
S CORES
HV
ERIC
B E N T L E Y
Acclaimed in both East and West Germany for his incisive poems and ballads, many of which are meant to be sung to the guitar, W olf Biermann has become an embarrassment to the East German regime. His political poems praise Socialist theory and condemn Socialist practice. T his has led the Communist party press to denounce him for his “ betrayal of the basic positions of Socialism” and to brand him as a “ political pornographer.” Actually, his polemical verse is directed against all and sundry: the Berlin ’Wall and the racists in America: petty party tyranny in East Germany and Fascist oppression in Spain: stuffy family life and the oddities of extra marital love. His satire is prim arily concerned with the free and straightforward expression of sensible thought, with truth against the slogans of politics. Brecht and Villon are his acknowledged masters. His verse combines ir reverence with serious political commitment. Biermann is a representative of the young who believe in the necessity of unhampered criticism and consider him a dramatic symbol of a new age. Eric Bentley, an admirer of Bierm ann’s work, skillfully translated the texts and fitted the songs and ballads to Bierm ann’s own musical scores. A
HE L I N
AND
HARCOl'RT,
KURT
BRACE
WOLFF
& WORLD.
7>7 T h ird A v e n u e , A'ew York, X .Y . 10017
BOOK INC.
Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010
http://www.archive.org/details/wireharpballadspOObier
THE WI RE HARP
WOLF BIERMANN THE WIRE HARP BALLADS
T R A N S L A T E D
/
POEMS
/
SONGS
ERI C B E N T L E Y
BY
IkEl A
H EL EN
AND
HARCOURT,
KURT
BRACE
W O L F F
&
WORLD,
BOOK
INC.,
NEW
YORK
Copyright © 1965, 1967 by Verlag Klaus Wagenbach, Berlin English translation copyright © 1967, 1968 by Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc. A ll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First edition Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 67-20306 Printed in the United States of America Originally published in Germany under the title D ie D ra h th arfe.
TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My initial debt is to the person who took me to Biermann’s apart ment in East Berlin and introduced me to Biermann. It was also my introduction to Biermann’s work, and I had the advantage of knowing from the start what his poems should sound like, and how, if at all, they should be sung. In the other part of Berlin I had received most friendly assistance from Klaus Schleusener and Peter Nestler. Back in the United States, I had the constant help and advice of Hugo Schmidt. Allan Miller helped me transcribe Biermann music from recording tape, so that I could work with it at my piano. The BBC invited me to record some of the songs for broadcasting in the United Kingdom. Counsel on minutiae of idiom and style was provided by Uwe Johnson and Michael Goldman. E. B. New York March 1967
CONTENTS
THE BUCKOW BALLADS
T h e First of M ay
3
T h e B a lla d of the D rain p ip e L a yer F red i Rohsm eisl of Buckow 5 T h e B a lla d of the O ld Women of B uckow
g
T h e B alla d of the Sweet Cherry Season in B uckow Sm all-Tow n Sunday
13
PORTRAITS
M r. Brecht
19
Com rade Ju liá n G rim au
21
T h e B a lla d of the L etter Carrier W illiam L . M oore of B altim ore 23 T h e Barlach Song
27
B a lla d on the Poet Francois Villon
29
BERLIN
Ascension Day in B erlin M y Tenem ent B rid e
37 39
B a lla d of Bite-Crazy Barbara B rigitte
41
43
A t the E a r N ose and Throat Doctor’s R h ym e Traum a B erlin
45
47
Early M orn ing
48
44
11
REASSURANCES AND REVISIONS
T he Singer’s Inaugural Address Fairground on the R h in e T he Fam ily Bath Toys
51
53
55
57
Last Variation on the Old Them e On the M isery of Philosophy T he Poet’s After-D inner Speech Do N ot Wait for Better Tim es T h e Crows
58
60 61 65
67
T o the Old Comrades Reckless Abuse
68
71
B allad of the M an . . .
75
Self-Portrait on a R ainy Sunday in the City of B erlin N othing T o It
79
ADDITIONAL POEMS
Germany: A W inter’s T ale (Part One)
83
Legend of the Soldier in W orld War I I I M orning Dictum of G eneral K y General K y’s Dream
89
90
Question and Answer and Question
Notes
95
91
87
77
THE BUCKOW BALLADS
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Fair is the first of M ay For people come that day T h e state store orders Bockwurst And a hundred cases of beer And students too are here T h eir home is in the town (Where such things abound) New is the first of M ay As yet there is no hay T h e cows still eat the oaten straw T h e w riting in the cowshed’s white Th ough red the proclam ation: “ M ilk and butter here are made A nd peace with every nation. And peace with every nation.”
3
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THE BALLAD OF THE DRAINPIPE LAYER FREDI ROHSMEISL OF BUCKOW
1 T h is is the ballad of Fredi Rohsmeisl Drainpipe layer in the fields around Buckow Great rubber boots right up to his belly His house to the left on Fischerkietz. There was dancing one time at Lene Kutschinsky’s T h e dance he danced with his fiancée Was the Tw ist, which was not allowed Okay . . . I ’ve seen people dancing, and there’s no doubt W hat I saw was sometimes a bit far out. But does that hurt us? No. 2
And And Two And And And And And
while he so w ildly was dancing the T w ist the music was hot and the beer was warm guys came along and grabbed him by the arm threw him into the Taubengasse. then threw him clear over the fence beat his face in for him he still hadn’ t done a thing he had on his light blue suit.
I ’ve seen people beating, and there’s no doubt W hat I saw was sometimes a bit far out. B ut does that help us? No.
5
3 Then Fredi Rohsmeisl went for them both T w o lefts, two rights, his aim was true And both of them were tall guys, those two And half of Buckow watched him do it. Someone phoned the riot squad and it came Fredi got beat up but good T h is all the men of Buckow saw And all the Buckow women. I ’ve seen people seeing, and there’s no doubt W hat I saw was sometimes a bit far out. But does that help us? No.
4 And now he had a trial on his neck He was tried as a counter-revolutionary fink W here did the state attorney find the legal right T o get him twelve weeks in the clink? Fredi’s been mad as hell ever since And after about ten beers He trots out his great big story for you Over and over and over.
I ’ve heard people weeping, and there’s no doubt W hat I heard was sometimes a bit far out. B ut does that help us? No.
6
5 He finds no end to it, Fredi Is full of bitter despair A nd as for social justice, well, He thinks it’s just not there. He favors our new State A stalwart Socialist, he But as for the State in Buckow H e’s had it—yes, sirree! I ’ve heard people cursing, and there’s no doubt W hat I heard was sometimes a bit far out. But does that help us? No. 6 T h en a few years went over the dam And a few speeches went over the dam Th ere was m any a change and m any a surprise Some folk could hardly believe their eyes. And later, when the tenth Sputnik flew T h e dance so hotly danced was the T w ist T h e state attorney—in full view O f Fredi—tried the new dance too.
I ’ve seen people changing, and there’s no doubt W hat I saw was sometimes a bit far out. B ut does th at help us? (Yes.)
The, ¡ballad oj ttii 6Li Ultimaa of BiicKoU
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THE BALLAD OF THE OLD WOMEN OF BUCKOW
T h e old, old women of Buckow W ait long, long hours for fish. T h e P G H of the fishermen Delivers the fish much fresher T h an the HO, oho, than the HO, oho! T h a t’s why the women of Buckow Stand in line from 5 a . m . T h e old, old women of Buckow Have a lot to say in the rain. Of cats and mice they gabble Of rats and other rabble: T h ey sound off against the HO. T h a t’s why the women of Buckow Stand in line from 5 a . m . T h e old, old women of Buckow Sound off against the State Since it has fresh fish Only on Saturday. T h e State is Fiete Kohn A strong young fisherman. A young woman of Buckow Is sleeping with him till eight. T h at made the women of Buckow So angry and so wet. T h a t made the women of Buckow So angry and so wet.
9
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THE BALLAD OF THE SWEET CHERRY SEASON IN BUCKOW
T h e little room beneath the roof Has table, chair and bed. T h e sheets are fresh and white; the walls Are blue; the floors are red. T h is was in Buckow at sweet cherry time T h e trees line the road as you see T h is was in Buckow at sweet cherry time Co-operatives own every tree A nd on each tree a sign can be read: T H E P E O P L E ’S P R O P E R T Y IS P R O -T E C -T E D ! In the night, in the night, And especially: in the night.
T h e guests are young and beautiful T h e hostess old and beat And when a guest leans out the window He sees the little street. T h e street in Buckow at sweet cherry time T h e trees line the road as you see T h is was in Buckow at sweet cherry time Co-operatives own every tree And on each one this sign can be read: T H E P E O P L E ’S P R O P E R T Y IS P R O -T E C -T E D ! In the night, in the night, And especially: in the night.
11
A summer stillness fills the street An old man goes for beer Girls from the co-op pick the fruit Until a quarter of four . . . T h e sweet, sweet cherries of sweet cherry time T h e trees line the road as you see T h is was in Buckow at sweet cherry time Co-operatives own every tree And on each one this sign can be read: T H E P E O P L E ’S P R O P E R T Y IS P R O -T E C -T E D ! In the night, in the night, And especially: in the night.
When I was walking home at four A farmer bawled me out: “ W e’re servicing our chicks ourselves!” And offered to beat me up. T h is was in Buckow at sweet cherry time T h e trees line the road as see you shall Th is was in Buckow at sweet cherry time Co-operatives own every gal And on each girl a sign can be read: T H E P E O P L E ’S P R O P E R T Y IS P R O -T E C -T E D ! In the night, in the night, And especially: in the night.
12
SMALL-TOWN SUNDAY
So, shall we go? OK, then, let’s go. Nothing doing round here? N othing doing round here. W aiter, one beer! It ’s empty here. T h e summer is cold. W e’re getting old. Miss Rosa has veal. It’s half past three. Now let’s go, OK? Yeah, let’s go, OK. And is he in? Yes, he is in. Shall we go in? Yes, let’s go right in. W atching T V today? W atching T V today. Are they showing a movie? T h ey are showing a movie. Got money left? Yeah, I got money left. How ’bout a drink? Yeah, let’s have a drink. So, shall we go? OK, let us go. W atching T V today? Yes
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13
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PORTRAITS
MR. BRECHT
T h ree years after his death M r. Brecht was w alking From the Huguenot Cemetery A long Friedrichstrasse T o his theater. On the way he met One fat man T w o fat women One boy. W hat, he thought, A ren ’t these the eager beavers From the Brecht Archive? W hat, he thought, A re you still not finished W ith all that crap? A nd he smiled H is insolent-modest smile and was Content.
19
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COMRADE JULIÁN GRIMAU
Oh, sister! W hen dawn is gray in M adrid W hile here the men are still sleeping Ju liá n G rim au is dying. Oh, brother! W hen dawn is gray in M adrid W hile here the sun rises bleeding Ju liá n G rim au is dying. Oh, mammal W hen dawn is gray in M adrid Before we are reading our newspapers Ju liá n G rim au is dying. Oh, comrades! M adrid is red at dawn Ju liá n G rim au lives on with us! H e lives and yet is gone.
21
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THE BALLAD OF THE LETTER CARRIER WILLIAM L. MOORE OF BALTIMORE
who w alked alone into the Southern States in 1963. H e protested against the persecution of the Negroes. H e was shot after one week. T h ree bullets struck him in the forehead.
S UNDAY Sunday he rested, W illiam L . Moore, After a week of work. He was a letter carrier, that’s all. His home was Baltim ore.
MON D A Y Monday, a day in Baltim ore, T o his good wife, said he: I ’m through delivering letters, my dear It’s touring the South I w ould be. B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! H e wrote on a sign A nd JI M C R O W M U S T GO, M U S T GO! A nd he set out alone.
23
TUES DAY Tuesday, a day on the train going down, Many asked W illiam Moore: W hat is the sign you got there with you? And wished him luck on his tour. B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! W ritten on his sign . . .
W E D N E S D A Y
Wednesday, through Alabam a that day, W illiam Moore went on foot. Long is the road to Birm ingham And his feet hurt him a lot. B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! etc.
T H U R S D A Y
Thursday, the Sheriff stopped W illiam Moore T o ld him: “ But you are white! “ Niggers are none of your business,” he said. “ Fellow, just think of the price!” B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! etc.
24
FRI DAY
Friday, a little dog followed him Soon it was always there A nd in the evening stones hit them both But they walked on—quite a pair! B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! etc.
S A T U R D A Y
Saturday, this day was frightfully hot A nd a white woman came Gave him a drink and secretly said: “ You and I think just the same.” B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! etc.
L A S T DA Y Sunday, a blue blue day, and he L ay in the grass so green T h ree red carnations, crimson as blood, On his pale forehead were seen. B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! W ritten on his sign. And: J I M C R O W M U S T GO, M U S T GO! A n d he died quite alone. H e won’t rem ain alone.
25
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Oh, Mother, close the windows, do, T h e rain is surely coming And yonder is the bank of clouds T h at wants to fall upon us. W hat is in store for us W e have so much to dread A nd down to earth from heaven Angels are falling dead. Oh, Mother, close the doors, do, T h e rats are surely coming T h e hungry ones are out in front Those that have eaten follow. W hat is in store for us We have so much to dread And down to earth from heaven Angels are falling dead. Oh, Mother, close your eyes, please do, T h e rain and rats are coming And through the cracks that we forgot T h ey all w ill soon be crowding. W hat is in store for us We have so much to dread A nd down to earth from heaven Angels are fallin g dead.
27
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1 M y elder brother Frank Villon Lives with me as my lodger. W hen people come to case the joint Villon, the artful dodger, Hides in the closet, solaced with T h e wine he loves the most And waits until the coast is clear. But it’s an unclear coast. He stinks, the poet, though he must Have smelled like rose or dahlia Ere like a dog they buried him — How many centuries earlier? And when a friend’s there and maybe Th ree lovely girls, he’ll climb Out of the closet where he hides And booze till breakfast time A nd on occasion w ill sing songs Stories and ballads many. If he forgets the words I prompt Him out of Brecht’s Threepenny.
29
2
M y elder brother Frank Villon Suffered much persecution From cops and churchmen who alike Desired his execution. Despite his age he laughs and cries And tells tall tales and, oh, How he will fall a-cursing at T h e thought of Fat Margot! W hat did she do? I ask but don’t Press mv interrogations. It’s a long time ago and he W ith all those supplications W ith supplications V illon has Quite often wriggled out Of dungeon and of prison tower: Of that there is no doubt. W ith all those supplications he Ofttimes escaped the noose. He did not wish his neck to feel His rear end swinging loose.
30
3 T h e vanity of rulers had For him a smell infernal. Into some asshole he would creep And then make it eternal. Oh yes, my roommate Frank V illon He laid it on the line So long as he had good fresh air, Grub, and a glass of wine. W hile stealing or while kissing he Fine shameless songs would sing As free as bird in wood; but now He sits there stammering. T h e vodka schnapps from Adlershof Ju st brings on his migraine. N D is hard for him to read —T h e Germ an gives him pain. T h ey taught him Latin when he was A child at school but when V illon got older he preferred T h e speech of sim pler men.
31
4
If Mary visits me at night Frank Villon, for our sins, Goes strolling on the W all which scares T h e guards out of their skins. T h e bullets pass right through Villon But not a drop of blood Flows from the bullet holes they make, Just red wine in a flood. Then for a joke he makes a harp Out of the W all’s barbed wire T h e guards accompany the tune And keep time while they fire. And only when I am almost Drained dry by good Marie And she gets up to go to work Down in the town does he Return and cough up several pounds Of lead with much to-do. He curses yet is full of un derstanding for us two.
32
5 But nothing here can long be hid A nd out came the whole story. T h ere’s Order in our land just as In Seven D w arf territory. T h ere came a bang upon my door One m orning around three: Our people’s own police had sent T h ree of their men to me. T h ey said to me, H err Bierm ann, you Are well known to us all. Y o u ’re loyal to the D D R , Y ou ’ll hear your country’s call. Is it not true—now don’t be scared— T h a t for about a year Th ere has lived here a certain Frank Fillonk who’s got red hair? H e’s a subversive and at night Has offered provocation T o border guards. A t this point I M ade this m ild declaration:
33
6 “ W ith his fresh songs he’s tried to make Of me an agitator. I can tell you in confidence: I do not like the traitor. If I ’d not just been reading what Kurella has asserted Of Kafka and the bat, I fear I would have been subverted. I ’m glad you’ve come to get this crook. He’s hiding in the closet. I gave up such impertinence When I was—se\en, was it? I am a pious churchgoer, A Caspar Milquetoast, I. A docile citizen, I sing Of flowers and softly sigh.” The cops then threw themselves upon Poor Villon's closet door But all they foun d was what he’d thrown Up on the closet floor.
34
BERLIN
Ascensión Day in Berlin
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T h e kids in the yard play happily Princess, murderer, people’s cop. T h ey do not have to go to school: T o d ay ’s Ascension Day. T h e kids in the yard play noisily Bedecked with rags and tatters. T h ey play at bride and cosmonaut In a spaceship of cardboard. T h e kids play noisily, happily. T h e yard becomes a theater. A t the windows their fat mothers watch, T h ey are aw aiting Father.
37
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39
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She kissed me and bit me until the blood came N ot just in the mouth but elsewhere. A nd when I cried out, she only laughed. A nd so I tore my hair. I grilled a beefsteak w ith pepper and salt For B arb ara’s bite-crazy tooth A n d as through the window she threw it, she laughed A n d kissed me and bit me forsooth. A n d like the most abject of skirt-chasers I W as broken upon her wheel. B u t she only laughed as she m angled my limbs T h a t frenzied fem inine heel. I ’d no bit of skin or of fat left intact From my poor bitten toes to my head B u t when I said to her: So long then, my chick, She bit in to the bed.
41
T h e wounds, they healed up long ago I ’m loved now by gentle Marie. But when I hold gentle M arie in my arms I ’m thinking of I ’m th in k in g of I ’m t h in k in g o f
well, not of Marie.
42
BRIGITTE
I went to you Your bed was empty. I wanted to read And thought of nothing, T o go to the movies A nd knew the film. I went to a bar A nd was alone. I was hungry A nd had a couple of drinks. I wanted to be alone A nd was among people. I wanted to breathe And couldn’t find the exit. I saw a woman W ho is often here. I saw a man W ho stared into his beer. I saw two dogs W ho did what dogs do. I saw human beings W ho laughed at this too. I saw a man W ho fell in the snow It didn’t hurt him H e’d been drinking so. And over the ice T h e cold made me run Through the alleys to you T o whom all this is unknown.
43
AT THE EAR NOSE AND THROAT DOCTOR’S
Ju st throats. A pear-shaped face Looks across at me from under its hair. Passing right through the many ears, noses, and throats Our eyes find each other. Coolness: it’s the name of the veil By which the pleasure of the eyes Conceals itself. T h e sky is full of apples Apple pie Apple tree Adam ’s apple Adenoidal Adenauer.
44
RHYME TRAUMA
Lots of people fu ll of fight C lung fast to Bus Num ber N ine A nd you wore your cap so white W hich needs washing all the time. A n d my mouth is worn away B y the pain of love’s delight. Every kiss has there im planted Its own wound, and I can w rite: “ Street dust on that cap so w hite.” A nd I can decide: tonight I w ill take a little bite O f you—to wash my wounds. A ll right? B u t here comes the Num ber N ine W hich also could use a wash sometime.
45
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Berlin, you all too Germ an lass I ’ll woo you with my lyre Y our hands are so coarse-grained, alas, From the cold and from the fire. Alas, how narrow are your hips Your streets were narrow ever A nd how insipid are your lips I shall desert you never. I cannot get away from you In the West the W all’s a tough one A nd in the East are my good friends T h e N orth w ind is a rough one. Berlin, I ’m coolly courting you Y ou ’re blond if not bewitching Your sky’s a rather bitchy blue T o it my lyre I ’m hitching.
EARLY MORNING
This morning as I lay cozily in bed A rude bell-ringer snatched me from my sleep. Furious and barefoot I ran to the door and opened it to My son who Since it was Sunday Had gone out early for milk. One has no use for those who come too soon. But one drinks their milk.
48
REASSURANCES AND R EV I SI O NS
THE SINGER’S INAUGURAL ADDRESS
W ho once bravely endured in the face of machine guns Are afraid of my guitar. Panic spreads in all directions When I open my jaws, and T h e sweat of terror is seen on the snouts of the bureaucrat elephants When I treat a concert hall to my songs, truly A monster, a plague, that’s what I must be, truly A dinosaur is dancing on the M arx Engels Platz A backfiring shell, a dum pling stuck fast in the fat neck O f the responsible, who fear nothing so much as Responsibility. W ell then w ould you chop your foot off R ather than wash it? Go thirsty rather than D rink the bitter juice of my truth, O Man? Undo the belt of fear that binds your chest If you’re afraid your heart m ight fall out if you do, Baby! Let it out two or three holes at any rate! Let your chest get used to breathing freely, shouting freely! Put up with the internal pressure but not with the external! L e t’s really cut loose together! We were not born to blow our great dreams stealthily into the world T h rough a handkerchief, you idiot!
51
Our fathers, too. were children of freedom and rebellion. So let us be true sons of our fathers: irreverently R oll up our rough blue shirtsleeves and sing! shout! get fresh and laugh!
52
FAIRGROUND ON THE RHINE
M y soldiers shoot best Says the General. In the summer war T h ey lie among flowers And shoot people. A t the Christmas Fair T h ey stand among people And shoot flowers. T h e people who’ve been shot down A re gathered up by death. T h e flowers that have been shot down A re gathered up by the girl. T h e ferns are shooting up. M y son is shooting up. Ferns A re protected by laws “ for the conservation of N ature.” W hen at long last w ill our nature protect us So people like us w ill not be shot by People like us?
53
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Every Saturday the fat and jolly father Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles T o prepare the weekly bath So his chilso his chilSo his children w ill be clean. Every Saturday the father Places all his darling children In the ancient iron bathtub W ith the spotty white enamel. T h en his wife after the chil dren and since he also w ill Be clean, oh so neat and clean H e jum ps in. Every Saturday the fat and jolly father Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles T o prepare the weekly bath So his chilso his chilSo his children w ill be clean.
55
W ith his good wife now he plays Blue Mediterranean. In the Nineteen Forties he Spent a couple weeks down there M ajor of Herr Adolf H itler Now he’s only playing war W ith his good wife in the M ed iterranean. Every Saturday the fat and jolly father Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles T o prepare the weekly bath So his chilso his chilSo his children will be dean. Suddenly a shark is there, Suddenly the w ife’s no more. And the bath water that’s spilling Has turned red at Father's killing. And his chil- chil- chil- chil- children When they wake up in the m orning Gently open the bathroom door: A glutted shark lies there M other is tint anyiohere not anyw here not
56
TOYS
W ith the train W e learn how T o go to G ran n ie’s. T h a t is fun W ith the doll W e like to eat soup T ill we’re full T h a t is fun W ith the ball W e make Peter’s Bear take a fall H e’s a dumb one W ith the pussycats Paul learns to scratch L ittle Ann W hich is fun W ith the armored truck W e learn how T ra in D oll and soup T h e pussycats A nd all that Annie, Papa, House and mouse A re knocked flat.
57
LAST VARIATION ON THE OLD THEME
There: in the middle of Germany. Stick ’em in! Stick ’em up! T h e screamer T h e murderer T h e reaper Oh, God! Into the gas, my God No man is wholly lost Be gentle in your verdict! Be gentle! Be gentle, citizens, Christians! A dolf Hitler loved his dog A dolf Eichmann loved a Jewess, the good soul Who beheaded Germ any’s roses after ’45 ? “ Rosebud rosebud rosebud red T h at you always think of me.” But now the generals who brought ruin T h e generals who brought ruins Have placed a girdle about the bloody waist Of (oh!) Germany the pale mother “ And I won’t stand for it And I won’ t stand for it!”
58
Everything, everything w ill be missing: Soup in the pot Salt in tears T ears in eyes T h e eye in the head T h e head on the trunk And death w ill be missing, yes Even death w ill croak T h ere w ill be nothing left to die T h e hope of death is snatched from the people H ave mercy on death M en, have mercy Preserve your chance of dying I f nothing else
ON THE MISERY OF PHILOSOPHY
T h e Germ an language is more spiritual. T h e problems of Germans are more spiritual. Philosophy was the limber lim ping leg of our people. Philosophy will teach us how to fly. Germans! Bad conscience Drives your philosophers into the factories And there soot enters lungs that are already full of stale indoor air. And if their right hands get hit by a hammer Th ey quickly learn to write with the left. If their left hands are caught in a buzz saw T h ey write with their mouths. T h eory—libel and eulogy— Stands naked and ashamed On the pedestal of the Nation W ith severed hands Oldmaidish. nice-looking.
60
THE POET’S AFTER-DINNER SPEECH
T h an k you, Comrades You want to see me happy. A nd my eyes should encounter H appy men. In my songs you want to hear me R aise high the terse tone O f bliss. T h e diamond T h e little diamond You want me to enlarge Into a block of m ountains. I ’m to dish out the moment of highest pleasure In your single-course dinner. You shout for the red wonder cook A nd when I bring you my rich foods: Potatoes Beefsteak Pineapple Olives W hite bread G arlic Finely chopped chervil A nd when I bring you baked apples from my oven T h en you shout at me You gluttons!
61
Then you hit me over the head with the asparagus And shout for your Single-course dinner! Single-course dinner of happiness! Every spoonful —unmixed joy Every smack of the lips —unmixed happiness. So you prefer to rush to the vats of bad cooks So you prefer to lick your chops over pig food and get fat on it And your fair and noble countenance, alas, Is distorted over the pig troughs I should sing you of the happiness of a new age But your ears are deaf from speechmaking. Make more happiness in reality! Then you won’t need so much Ersatz in my words. Make yourselves a sweet life, citizens! Then my dry wine will please you. T h e poet is not a bag of sugar! Spare yourself the hum iliation of asking me to be one. Oh, let me be the man who Into your future surplus of happiness Pours the bitter drop (Spiced-cucumber, anchovies) So that your eartnly bliss won’t make your palate And your heart unresponsive!
62
Comrades! Come to my table! You! My friends! Comrades! Forget my words, for the time being, and come! Let us eat, and afterwards Sing a little too.
63
Do Sloi Ulaii j o r Better Times
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DO NOT WAIT FOR BETTER TIMES
I hear m any men com plaining: “ I ’m a Socialist, God knows, But what they are fabricating Is the wrong suit of clothes.” I see m any clench their fists and H ide them in their topcoat pockets Between their lips cold cigarette butts A nd in their hearts gray ashes. A re you saving up your courage? Do you wait for better times Like the fool who day by day Sits beside the river waiting For the waters to stop flowing W hich flow on forever?
I see m any filled with hatred M any with no hopes at all I see many wrapped in silence As in a woolen shawl. M any every night are asking W hat tomorrow m orning’s got: Something that we can hold on to? T h en what? T h en what? T h en what? A re you saving up your courage? Do you wait for better times . . .
65
M any hope the river water Very soon w ill cease to flow But in springtime when the ice melts T h e river starts to go. M any tell us that these times will Go the way the winter went, But we must confront our problems Confront, confront, confront! Do not try to save your courage! Do not wait for better times . . .
People w ill make sure that Social ism wins the victory Not tomorrow: Now! For ne\er T o o soon comes Liberty. And the remedy for Social ism (this bit I shall roar!) Is still more Socialism— S T I L L M O R E , still more, still more! Let none try to save their courage! Let none wait for better times Like the fool who day by day Sits beside the river waiting For the waters to stop flowing Which flow on fore\er Which flow on forever
66
THE CROWS
W hen flocks of crows, a black cloth, Rose into the pale evening sky, alas, T h e thousand enchanted witches Picked out the sky’s red eye. Crow, whither fliest thou? —Where all are flying: to the field, to the field. Crow, where takest thou thy rest? —W here all are resting, in the tree, in the tree. Crow, when dost thou cry so loud? —When all are crying, then cry I. Crow, when eatest thou the seed? —W hen it is sown. Crow, when dost thou die alone? —When all things die, in the snow, in the snow. When flocks of crows, a black cloth, Rose into the pale evening sky, alas! T h e thousand enchanted witches Picked out the sky’s red eye. I ’ve been seeing such things often, Comrades, of late.
67
TO THE OLD COMRADES
1
Look at me, Comrades \\ i th your weary eyes With your hardened eyes Your friendly eyes See me dissatisfied with the age T h at you hand on to me. You speak in old words Of the bloody \ ictories of our class You point with old hands to the arsenal Of the bloody battles. Full of jealousy I hear reports of your sufferings Of the happiness you found in struggle behind barbed wire Yet I myself am not happy: I am dissatisfied with the new order. But you stand there disappointed Astonished Affronted Bitter at so much ingratitude. You run your hands in embarrassment over your skimpy hair.
68
2 T h e present, for you A sweet goal after all those bitter years Is for me but a bitter beginning, and Calls for changes. F u ll of impatience I hurl myself into the battle of the classes, new ones which If they don’t cover the battlefield with corpses Do cover it with sufferings.
3 Yes, many sweet fruits Fall in our lap, and On our heads still. Oh, for the wedding night with the new age For the giant embraces, oh, A n d even for the deepest pain of love Our hearts are still weak, and weak still Are our loins. So, m any a slim young fellow Is crushed by this great big beautiful woman In gaudy nights of love. Yes,
69
Giants are needed in courage and pleasure Giants in pain too In fighting strength, giants. And my heart: Red Pale Full of hate Full of love Is your own heart, Comrades, Is only that which you have given me! And therefore, with my impatience Don’t be impatient, old men; Patience For me patience is the whore of cowardice: Buddy-buddy with laziness, she gets the bed ready For crime. For you, though, patience would be an adornment. Set a good conclusion on your work In that you leave to us T he new beginning!
RECKLESS ABUSE
1
1,1,1 Am Am My My
full of hate full of hardness head’s been cut in two brain has been run over
I don’t want to see anyone! D on’t just stand there! Stop staring! T h e Collective is on the wrong track I am the individual T h e Collective has become isolated from me D on’t glare at me so understandingly! Oh yes, I know very well Y o u ’re waiting with earnest certitude For me to swim Into the net of self-criticism B u t I am the pike! Y o u ’ll have to m aul me, hack me to bits Put me through a meat grinder If you want me on bread!
71
2 Yes, if I were toothless You would call me mature If I were to smile gently At every fat lie You would think me A wise man If I were to overlook injustice T h e way you overlook your wives —You would have folded me to your bosom long ago
3 Not to call the child by its name T o smother pleasure and T o swallow pain T o walk the Middle W ay On the outermost edge of the battlefield T o call the swamp now sea, now dry land A ll this you call Reason And do not notice that your reason is borrowed From the brains of dwarfs From the tails of rats From the slits in reptiles? You
72
Wish to preach Communism at me And are the Inquisition on happiness. You Drag souls to the stake! You T ie yearning to the wheel. You! G et away from me with your bloated snouts! Offended and outraged, get away from me! Go! Shake your heads at my wrong attitude but Go!
4 I w ill persist in truth I, the liar
5 I love all of you: T h is I set my name to R ain , hail, or storm M y love for you is warm But now please leave me alone On my wrong track Cut off from the Collective Yes, I have strange bedfellow s M y bedfellow is my w ife A n d she knows w here my heart is
73
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B Y
Once there was a man W ho stepped in with his foot Stepped with his naked foot R ight in a heap of shit. He was disgusted quite By this one foot of his And wanted with this foot T o walk not one yard more. Th ere was no water there T o wash this foot of his For this one foot of his Th ere was no water there. So this man took an axe A nd hacked that foot right off T h at foot he hacked right off H urriedly with his axe. H e hurried overmuch It was the cleaner foot It was the wrong foot that He hurriedly chopped off.
•W h o cut off both his feet with his own hands.
75
Then he got in a rage And so made up his mind T o chop off with his axe T h e other foot as well. T h e two feet both lay there T h e two feet both grew cold Chalk-white before them sat Upon his rump the man. T h e Party, it has chopped So many a foot off So many a good foot T h e Party has chopped off. Yet, as is not the case W ith the above-mentioned man, In the Party’s case sometimes T h e foot grows on again.
SELF-PORTRAIT ON A RAINY SUNDAY IN THE CITY OF BERLIN
Equipped with the knives of reason am I Cool logic guides my bullets round the corners Arrogance and sophistry smooth the way for me Inexorably my doubts torture this city of stone M ore insolently, more nervously I swim in safety even in its drainpipes A nd my scorn climbs higher than the radio towers I can be bought with the currency of truth, payable in cash In the bunkers of my skepticism I sit immune T o the radiance of the great obscurantists A nd the hatred of yesterday shields me from the storm O f tomorrow. T a k e note that I am equipped And yet I am also exposed, quite often in fact A gain and again I lie there freshly slaughtered T o rn apart under the wild sky of the neighborhood Butcher hooks are driven into my belly W haling factories float in my eye On my tongue lies the hope of the hopeless Feebly my wild dreams flow in the end Into the shambles of your schools and offices Sausage machines greedily swallow my remains T h e countryside waits hungrily on the edge of the sea of houses A nd the great wet city licks its chops Over the well-earned Sunday roast Bierm ann
77
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NOTHING TO IT
When I ’m on fire W hen I ’m on fire I reach down a cloud from heaven A nd wring it out over me. Icy shower. N othing to it. W hen I am freezing W hen I am freezing I reach down the sun from heaven A nd stick it under my coat. L ittle oven. N othing to it. W hen I ’m at her place W hen I ’m at her place Clouds come floating down from heaven Down with the clouds rolls the sun. T h a t’s what love’s like. N othing to it. W hen I am tired W hen I am tired I reach G od down from His heaven A nd have H im sing me a song. Angels shed tears. N othing to it.
79
When I am plastered When I am plastered I go down to see the Devil And I buy Stalin a beer. Poor old fellow. Nebbish. When I ’m dead I ’ll be a When I ’m dead I ’ll be a Border guard and I ’ll keep watch on T h e border ’twixt heaven and hell. Show your passport! Nothing to it.
80
ADDITIONAL POEMS
GERMANY: A WINTER’S TALE
(Part One) In the Germ an December from East Berlin T o West Berlin flowed the Spree And I floated in a railw ay train High over the W all and away. A nd soaring over the bloodhounds diere A nd all that barbed-wire mess M y mind filled up with wonder And my soul with bitterness. M y heart filled up with bitterness A t the comrades true I ’ve got For ever so many a man who went T h is way on foot had been shot. M any have thrown their youthful flesh On the wire and the mines. T h e riddled bucket leaks when the sub M achine gun barks from behind. Not every man is so well built As the poet Frank V illon W ho got away with a few red spots— Ju st winestains, says the song. M y m in d’s eye saw a cousin of mine T h e im pertinent Heinrich Heine W ho swam to Germ any from France W ith the aid of Father Rhine-a.
83
I could not but think of what plainly occurred In the hundred years, to wit: T h at Germany, gloriously unified, Again went and got itself split. So what? T h e whole wide world has made Th is East and West division. Yet Germany has somehow contrived Once more to maintain its position. Its position as the whole world’s ass So weighty and so fat. T h e hairs inside the crack are made Of wire (and barbed, at that). Even the hole (I mean Berlin) Is split by a like duality: In which we see how human skill Can put to shame biology. And when the bellies of the great Of all the world give pain T h e stink and din in Germ any’s Tremendous. I'll explain: Each part of the wide world has its own Part of the German po-po. T h e biggest part’s West Germany. W ith reason good, I know.
84
And so with Germ an industry T o save embarrassment West Germans polish and perfume T h e Germ an excrement. A nd they have managed to succeed W here alchemy failed, I ’m told: In Germ an shit has now been found T h e form ula for gold. T h e D D R , my Fatherland, However, is very clean A nd a return to Nazi ways Is nowhere to be seen. W ith the hard broom of Stalin we So rubbed our bodies down T h e backside now is scratched all red T h a t form erly was brown.
85
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LEGEND OF THE SOLDIER IN WORLD WAR III
W hen m orning m urder roused his lust T h e sleep he slept was grand: He lay on his gal, and she could see T h e stars of the Fatherland. Atom ic rockets fell like hail O ut of a clear bright sky. Most of the bombs fell far too late T h ere was nothing left to die. Now it is winter time Lon g and broad evenings M ourn in the snow7. W hile love lasts we shall find, Karen, though cold the wind, T h a t all is well.
T h e earth was one great ship of death One big round open sore T h e stars in the sky weren’t beautiful now N o one saw' them any more. T h e angels’ wings were all burned off T h e Lord G o d ’s beard was burned For lack of souls the Day of Judgm ent H ad to be adjourned.
87
Now it is winter time Long and broad evenings Mourn in the snow. W hile love lasts we shall find, Karen, though cold the wind, T h at all is well.
And one molecule from the gal’s behind And one from the soldier’s head Were standing side by side until T h e firestorm killed them dead. And had the soldier given his gal A child instead of a war T h e heart of the earth would be beating now And war would be laughed to scorn. When summer comes shall we Karen, at last be three Am ong the flowers? W ar shall itself be dead And when the cherries are red A ll will be well.
88
MORNING DICTUM OF GENERAL KY
A government that has nothing more to fear T h an the people Can last a long time, as long as T h e people fears nothing more T h an the government.
89
GENERAL KY’S DREAM
But finally the government passed a law T h at all men are Happy Breaches of this law Were punished with death Soon There were really only Happy men
90
QUESTION AND ANSWER AND QUESTION
T h ey say one cannot change Horses in midstream Good. But the old ones have drowned already You say that the admission of our mistakes Is useful to the enemy Good. T o whom is our lying useful? M any say: In the long run Socialism Is quite unavoidable Good. But who’s putting it through?
91
NOTES
THE
BA LLA D
OF
THE
OLD
W O M EN
OF
Bl'CKOW
P G H : the initials stand for Produktionsgenossenschaften des H andioerks, words which mean “ production co-operatives of crafts.” H O : stands for H andelsorganisation, “ trading organization,” the name attached to government-owned food shops in East G er many. A nd, of course, the exclam ations “ H o !” and “ O ho!” exist in Germ an as well as in English.
THE IN
BALLAD
OF
THE
S WEET
CHERRY
SEASON
BUCKOff
Co-operatives: Landw irtschaftliche Produktionsgenossenschaften, which means “ agricultural production co-operatives.”
COMRADE
J U L IÁ N
GRIMAU
Ju liá n Grim au was a Communist who was executed under the Franco regim e—at dawn, A p ril 20, 1963.
BALLAD
ON
THE
POET
FRANÇOIS
VILLON
N D : initials of N eues Deutschland, Communist newspaper, w rit ten in the language of functionaries. D D R : D eutsche Dem okratische R e p u b lik , or Germ an Demo cratic R epublic. K u rella : A lfred K urella (born 1895), a man who has held various im portant cultural posts in East Germ any during the past dozen years. A ttending a K afka conference in Prague in 1962, he took the anti-Kafka side, and later wrote that, if one swallow does not make a summer, this swallow—K afk a—was in any case a bat.
AT
THE
EAR
NOSE
AND
THROAT
D OCTOR’ S
In Germ an, die M a n d el is either the almond or the tonsil. Forced
95
to seek the name of something in the throat which was also the name of a fruit, the translator has settled for A dam ’s apple. (To fit the new pattern, a haze! nut becomes a pear.) \denoids sug gests Adenauer (and vice versa, though the words Bierm ann worked with are M andel and Fernandel).
RHYME
TRAUMA
T h is poem is based on Germ an rhymes which cannot be d u pli cated in English.
THE SI NGER' S I NAUGURAL ADDRESS Like the English word “ m an.” the Germ an word Mensch can be either ultra-dignified or quite slangy and low. However, in the present context, the translator has thought it necessary to trans late M ensch, in one instance, as “ bab\.-
T HE
F A M I L Y
BATH
Bierm ann plays a verbal trick that cannot be duplicated in Eng lish. In German the first syllable of the word for cleanliness Sau berkeit) means pig. B\ pausing after this first syllable. Biermann is able, while talking of cleanliness, to indicate that he thinks the father is a pig. T h e word pla\ in the English is. perforce, differ ent—it is by way of using the first syllable of children to suggest the blood-<'//r7iing.
LAST
VARIATION
ON
THE
OLD
T H EM E
Stick ’em in !: T h is phrase translates Steck ein ! which has been attributed to General T rettner. at the time this poem was writ ten head of the West Germ an army. On being asked about the possibility of mines being placed at the border between East and
96
West Germ any, T rettn er is supposed to have said, “ Stick ’em in .” (He denies it.) Pale m other: the phrase, as applied to Germ any, is taken from the opening phrase of Brecht’s poem “ D eutschland” : O Deutsch land, bleiche M utter. T h e passages in quotation marks are from Goethe’s well-known poem, “ H eidenröslein.”
THE
P O E T ’ S
A F TE R -D I NN E R
SPEECH
Single-course d in n er: the phrase translates E in to p f, a name for a single-dish meal which was enjoined on everyone on certain days in H itler Germ any.
RECKLESS
ABUSE
Yes, I have strange bedfellow s: H ere, one pun has replaced an other. T h e Germ an reads: Ich liege eben sch ief/ich lieg bei m einer Frau, which in an unpunning, literal translation would read: “ I am off the track/I lie (sleep) with my w ife.”
BALLAD
OF
THE
MAN
T h e translator has aimed at the metrical prim itivity of nursery rhyme, but in the original a particular nursery rhyme is alluded to, that begins: Es war einm al ein M an n ,/D er hatte einen Schwamm . . . (The same nursery rhyme seems to lurk in the background of B rig itte .)
G E R MA N Y:
A
W I N T E R ’ S
T A LE
(PART
ONE)
Unpublished in D ie D rahtharfe, it appeared in Neuss (sic) D eutschland, 8 M ay 1965, a sort of Germ an Private E y e, pub lished in West B erlin until forced out of business by the Estab lishment in early 1966. It is the first part of what is reported (1967) to be a very long poem.
97
For German readers, the principal allusion of the title is not to Shakespeare but to Heine.
LEGEND
OF
THE
SOLDIER
IN
WORLD
WAR
III
Unpublished in Die D rahtharfe, the Germ an text has been tran scribed from a tape recording. As the title suggests, this song is a kind of sequel to a poem in Brecht’s M anual of Piety, ‘‘Legend of the Dead Soldier” ; and the “ gal” of Bierm ann’s opening lines might possibly be the “ half-uncovered g a l” of Brecht’s seventh stanza.
98
W olf Bierm ann, born 1936, East Germ an poet and balladeer, wrote his first poems and songs in the late i9 5o’s and became known to a small circle in the early 1960’s. He sang and recited his bitingly satirical verse in rented halls, universities, and writers’ clubs in both Germ anys, but was unable to have them published in East Germ any where he lives. A first volume of his poetry was published in West Berlin by Verlag Klaus W agenbach in autum n, 1965, with the title D ie D rahtharfe (The W ire H arp). A few months later, Bierm ann came under heavy attack in the East Germ an party newspaper, N eues D eutschland. Bierm ann has since been forbidden to perform and to travel, even in Communist countries, and no book of his has appeared in East Germ any or any of the other Communist countries. However, W olf Bierm ann does not consider him self an anti Communist. H e is the representative of the young, who believe in the necessity of free expression of criticism, and consider him a dram atic symbol of a new age.
WOLF BIERMANN East Germ an poet and balladeer, was born in H am burg in 1936 and went to East Germ any in 1953. He w’orked there as assistant stage manager, organized the Berlin W orkers and Students T h eater Ensembles, and gave song recitals of his own. T h e theater wTas dissolved after two years, and he was forbidden to per form publicly. In 1965, his West Berlin pub lisher, K laus W agenbach, published T h e Wire H a rp , which has sold close to 40,000 copies, m aking Bierm ann one of the most successful Germ an lyric poets of the twentieth century. T h is led to the prom ulgation of a new law— known unofficially as the “ lex Bierm ann” — prohibiting East Germ an authors from pub lishing in W estern countries without first subm itting their works to East German pub lishers and their censorship. W olf Bierm ann continues to live in East Berlin, barred from public appearances, and forbidden to publish, record, or travel.
Jacket design by K en Braren
WOLF BIERMANN
