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WOLF BIERMANN THE WIRE HARPB A L L A D S | P O E M S | S O N G S

WI T H M U S I C A L S C O R E S

1 K A N S I. A I ' E D H V E R I C 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. This 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 extramarital love. His satire is primarily 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 irreverence 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 Biermanns work, skillfully translated the texts and fitted the songs and ballads to Biermanns own musical scores.

A H E L I N A N D K U R T W O L F F B O O K

H A R C O l ' R T , B R A C E & W O R L D . I N C .

7>7 T h ird A ven u e, A'ew York, X .Y . 10017

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010

http://www.archive.org/details/wireharpballadspOObier

THE WI RE HARP

WOLF BIERMANN

THE WIRE HARPB A L L A D S / POEMS / SONGS

T R A N S L A T E D B Y ERIC B E N T L E Y

IkEl

A H E L E N A N D K U R T W O L F F B O O K

H A R C O U R T , B R A C E & W O R L D , I N C . , N E W Y O R K

Copyright 1965, 1967 by Verlag Klaus Wagenbach, Berlin English translation copyright 1967, 1968 by Harcourt,

Brace & World, Inc.All 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 rahtharfe.

TRANSLATORS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My initial debt is to the person who took me to Biermanns apartment in East Berlin and introduced me to Biermann. It was also my introduction to Biermanns 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

The First of M ay 3

The Ballad of the D rainpipe Layer Fred i Rohsm eisl of Buckow 5

The Ballad of the Old Women of Buckow g

The Ballad of the Sweet Cherry Season in Buckow 11

Sm all-Town Sunday 13

PORTRAITS

M r. Brecht 19

Comrade Ju li n Grim au 21

The B allad of the Letter Carrier W illiam L . M oore of Baltim ore 23

The Barlach Song 27

Ballad on the Poet Francois Villon 29

BERLIN

Ascension Day in B erlin 37

M y Tenem ent B rid e 39

B allad of Bite-Crazy Barbara 41

Brigitte 43

A t the Ear Nose and Throat Doctors 44

R hym e Traum a 45

B erlin 47

Early M orning 48

REASSURANCES AND REVISIONS

The Singers Inaugural Address 51

Fairground on the R h in e 53

The Fam ily Bath 55

Toys 57

Last Variation on the Old Them e 58

On the Misery of Philosophy 60

The Poets After-Dinner Speech 61

Do Not Wait for Better Times 65

The Crows 67

To the Old Comrades 68

Reckless Abuse 71

Ballad of the Man . . . 75

Self-Portrait on a Rainy Sunday in the City of Berlin 77

N othing To It 79

ADDITIONAL POEMS

Germany: A W inters Tale (Part One) 83

Legend of the Soldier in W orld War I I I 87

M orning Dictum of General Ky 89

General K ys Dream 90

Question and Answer and Question 91

Notes 95

T HE B U C K O W BALL ADS

THE FIRST OF MAY

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THE FIRST OF MAY

T o be sung by village children

Fair is the first of May For people come that day The state store orders Bockwurst And a hundred cases of beer And students too are here T heir home is in the town (Where such things abound)

New is the first of MayAs yet there is no hayTh e cows still eat the oaten strawT h e writing in the cowsheds whiteThough red the proclamation: M ilk and butter here are madeAnd peace with every nation.

And peace with every nation.

3

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THE BALLAD OF

THE DRAINPIPE LAYER FREDI ROHSMEISL

OF BUCKOW

1This 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 Kutschinskys Th e dance he danced with his fiance Was the Twist, which was not allowed Okay . . .

I ve seen people dancing, and theres no doubt What I saw was sometimes a bit far out.But does that hurt us? No.

2And while he so wildly was dancing the Twist And the music was hot and the beer was warm Tw o guys came along and grabbed him by the arm And threw him into the Taubengasse.And then threw him clear over the fence And beat his face in for him And he still hadn t done a thing And he had on his light blue suit.

I ve seen people beating, and theres no doubtW hat I saw was sometimes a bit far out.But does that help us? No.

5

3Then Fredi Rohsmeisl went for them both Tw 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 This all the men of Buckow saw And all the Buckow women.

I ve seen people seeing, and theres no doubt What I saw was sometimes a bit far out.But does that help us? No.

4And now he had a trial on his neck He was tried as a counter-revolutionary fink Where did the state attorney find the legal right T o get him twelve weeks in the clink?Fredis 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 theres no doubtW hat I heard was sometimes a bit far out.But does that help us? No.

6

5He finds no end to it, Fredi Is full of bitter despair And as for social justice, well,He thinks its just not there.He favors our new State A stalwart Socialist, he But as for the State in Buckow H es had ityes, sirree!

I ve heard people cursing, and theres no doubt W hat I heard was sometimes a bit far out.But does that help us? No.

6Then a few years went over the dam And a few speeches went over the dam There was many a change and many 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 Twist T h e state attorneyin full view Of Freditried the new dance too.

I ve seen people changing, and theres no doubtW hat I saw was sometimes a bit far out.But does that help us? (Yes.)

The, ballad oj ttii 6 Li Ultima a of BiicKoU

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THE BALLAD OF

THE OLD WOMEN

OF BUCKOW

The old, old women of Buckow W ait long, long hours for fish.Th e PG H of the fishermen Delivers the fish much fresher Than the HO, oho, than the HO, oho! T h ats 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:They sound off against the HO.T h ats 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.That made the women of Buckow So angry and so wet.

T h at made the women of Buckow So angry and so wet.

9

fhe ail&cI of the Sierf Chetrj Season in uckou)

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THE BALLAD OF

THE SWEET CHERRY SEASON

IN BUCKOW

T he 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.

This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time T h e trees line the road as you see Th is was in Buckow at sweet cherry time Co-operatives own every tree And 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 PRO -TEC -TED !In the night, in the night,And especially: in the night.

T h e guests are young and beautiful Th e hostess old and beat And when a guest leans out the window He sees the little street.

T he street in Buckow at sweet cherry timeT he trees line the road as you seeT his was in Buckow at sweet cherry timeCo-operatives own every treeAnd 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 PRO -TEC -TED !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 . . .

The sweet, sweet cherries of sweet cherry timeThe trees line the road as you seeThis was in Buckow at sweet cherry timeCo-operatives own every treeAnd on each one this sign can be read:T H E P EO PLE S P R O P E R T Y IS PRO -TEC-TED ! In the night, in the night,And especially: in the night.

When I was walking home at four A farmer bawled me out:W ere servicing our chicks ourselves!And offered to beat me up.

This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time T he trees line the road as see you shall This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time Co-operatives own every gal And on each girl a sign can be read:T H E PEO PLE S P R O P E R T Y IS PRO -TEC-TED ! In the night, in the night,And especially: in the night.

12

SMALL-TOWN SUNDAY

So, shall we go?OK, then, lets go.Nothing doing round here?Nothing doing round here.Waiter, one beer!It s empty here.T h e summer is cold.W ere getting old.Miss Rosa has veal.It s half past three.Now lets go, OK?Yeah, lets go, OK.And is he in?Yes, he is in.Shall we go in?Yes, lets go right in.Watching T V today?W atching T V today.Are they showing a movie?They are showing a movie.Got money left?Yeah, I got money left.How bout a drink?Yeah, lets have a drink.So, shall we go?OK, let us go.W atching T V today?

Yes I m watching T V today.

13

Small-Toum Sunday

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P O R T R A I T S

MR. BRECHT

Three years after his death Mr. Brecht was walking From the Huguenot Cemetery Along Friedrichstrasse T o his theater.

On the way he met One fat man T w o fat women One boy.What, he thought,Arent these the eager beavers From the Brecht Archive?What, he thought,Are you still not finished W ith all that crap?

And he smiledHis insolent-modest smile and was Content.

19

Conrad & Julian Chmau

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> J J I J M . J l j T P P i gLlilES AAIb YET IS Go/JE. HE LJt/ES Aa/2 YET U Goa/E

COMRADE JULIN GRIMAU

Oh, sister!When dawn is gray in Madrid W hile here the men are still sleeping Ju lin Grimau is dying.

Oh, brother!When dawn is gray in Madrid W hile here the sun rises bleeding Ju lin Grimau is dying.

Oh, mammalWhen dawn is gray in Madrid Before we are reading our newspapers Ju lin Grim au is dying.

Oh, comrades!M adrid is red at dawn Ju lin Grim 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 walked alone into the Southern States in 1963.

H e protested against the persecution of the Negroes.

H e was shot after one week.

Three bullets struck him in the forehead.

S U ND A YSunday he rested, W illiam L. Moore,After a week of work.He was a letter carrier, thats all.His home was Baltimore.

MON D A YMonday, a day in Baltimore,T o his good wife, said he:I m through delivering letters, my dear It s touring the South I would be.

B L A C K A N D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! He wrote on a signAnd JIM C RO W M U ST GO, M U ST GO! And he set out alone.

23

T U E S D A YTuesday, a day on the train going down,Many asked W illiam Moore:What is the sign you got there with you?And wished him luck on his tour.

B L A C K AND W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! Written on his sign . . .

W E D N E S D A Y

Wednesday, through Alabama that day,W illiam Moore went on foot.Long is the road to Birmingham And his feet hurt him a lot.

B L A C K AND 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 Told him: But you are white! Niggers are none of your business, he said. Fellow, just think of the price!

B L A C K AND W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! etc.

24

F R I D A Y

Friday, a little dog followed him Soon it was always there And in the evening stones hit them both But they walked onquite a pair!

B L A C K AN 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 hotAnd a white woman cameGave him a drink and secretly said: You and I think just the same.

B L A C K AN D W H IT E , U N IT E , U N IT E ! etc.

L A S T DAYSunday, a blue blue day, and heLay in the grass so greenThree 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 ! Written on his sign.And: J IM C RO W M U ST GO, M U ST GO! And he died quite alone.He wont remain alone.

25

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THE BARLACH SONG

Oh, Mother, close the windows, do, T h e rain is surely coming And yonder is the bank of clouds Th at wants to fall upon us.

What is in store for us We have so much to dread And down to earth from heaven Angels are falling dead.

Oh, Mother, close the doors, do,Th e rats are surely coming T h e hungry ones are out in front Those that have eaten follow.

What 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, Th e rain and rats are coming And through the cracks that we forgot They all will soon be crowding.

W hat is in store for us We have so much to dread And down to earth from heaven Angels are falling dead.

27

dallad an the Poet" Frantoti i/illn

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BALLAD ON

THE POET FRANOIS VILLON

My elder brother Frank Villon Lives with me as my lodger.When people come to case the joint Villon, the artful dodger,Hides in the closet, solaced with T he wine he loves the most And waits until the coast is clear.But its an unclear coast.

He stinks, the poet, though he must Have smelled like rose or dahlia Ere like a dog they buried himHow many centuries earlier?And when a friends there and maybe Three lovely girls, hell climb Out of the closet where he hides And booze till breakfast time

And on occasion will sing songs Stories and ballads many.If he forgets the words I prompt Him out of Brechts Threepenny.

1

29

2My 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 The thought of Fat Margot!

What did she do? I ask but dont Press mv interrogations.It s a long time ago and he With all those supplications With supplications Villon has Quite often wriggled out Of dungeon and of prison tower:Of that there is no doubt.

With all those supplications he Ofttimes escaped the noose.He did not wish his neck to feel His rear end swinging loose.

30

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 Villon 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.ND is hard for him to read T h e German gives him pain.

They taught him Latin when he was A child at school but when Villon got older he preferred T h e speech of simpler men.

3

31

4If Mary visits me at night Frank Villon, for our sins,Goes strolling on the W all which scares The guards out of their skins.The 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 alls barbed wire The 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 understanding for us two.

32

5But nothing here can long be hid And out came the whole story.Theres Order in our land just as In Seven Dwarf territory.There came a bang upon my door One morning around three:Our peoples own police had sent Three of their men to me.

They said to me, Herr Biermann, you Are well known to us all.Youre loyal to the D D R,Youll hear your countrys call.Is it not truenow dont be scared T h at for about a year There has lived here a certain Frank Fillonk whos got red hair?

H es a subversive and at night Has offered provocation T o border guards. At this point I Made this mild declaration:

33

6With his fresh songs hes 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 youve come to get this crook. Hes hiding in the closet.I gave up such impertinence When I wasse\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 found was what hed thrown Up on the closet floor.

34

BERLI N

Ascensin Day in Berlin

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IN BERLIN

T he kids in the yard play happily Princess, murderer, peoples cop.They do not have to go to school: T odays Ascension Day.

T h e kids in the yard play noisily Bedecked with rags and tatters.They play at bride and cosmonaut In a spaceship of cardboard.

Th e kids play noisily, happily.T h e yard becomes a theater.A t the windows their fat mothers watch, They are awaiting Father.

37

A1y Tenement r i de

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MY TENEMENT BRIDE

My tenement brideLives on the sixth floorAnd when the town belows still grayHere up above theres sunshine.

M y tenement bride Sleeps by an open window.On the window-ledge pigeons eat My bread of yesterday evening.

My tenement bride Has a big heart.If I m lonely she likes to have A little fun with me.

A hundred stairs lead the way T o my tenement bride.If thats not too tiring, you Can sleep at her side.

My tenement bride A husband should find.But if she only finds a man Then she does not Then she does not Then she does not mind.

39

B a lla d o f i t c C razy Barbara

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BALLAD OF

BITE-CRAZY BARBARA

She kissed me and bit me until the blood came Not just in the mouth but elsewhere.

And when I cried out, she only laughed.And so I

tore my hair.

I grilled a beefsteak with pepper and salt For Barbaras bite-crazy tooth

And as through the window she threw it, she laughed And kissed me and

bit me forsooth.

And like the most abject of skirt-chasers I Was broken upon her wheel.

But she only laughed as she mangled my limbs T h at frenzied

feminine heel.

I d no bit of skin or of fat left intact From my poor bitten toes to my head

But when I said to her: So long then, my chick,She bit in

to the bed.

41

The wounds, they healed up long ago I m loved now by gentle Marie.

But when I hold gentle Marie in my arms I m thinking of I m thinking of I m th 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 And knew the film.I went to a bar And was alone.I was hungryAnd had a couple of drinks.I wanted to be alone And was among people.I wanted to breathe And couldnt find the exit.I saw a woman Who is often here.I saw a manWho stared into his beer.I saw two dogs Who did what dogs do.I saw human beings Who laughed at this too.I saw a man Who fell in the snow It didnt hurt him H ed 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 DOCTORS

Just throats.A pear-shaped faceLooks 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.

The sky is full of applesApple pieApple treeAdam s appleAdenoidalAdenauer.

44

RHYME TRAUMA

Lots of people full of fight C lung fast to Bus Number Nine And you wore your cap so white W hich needs washing all the time.And my mouth is worn away By the pain of loves delight.Every kiss has there implanted Its own wound, and I can write: Street dust on that cap so white.And I can decide: tonightI will take a little biteOf youto wash my wounds. A ll right?

But here comes the Number Nine W hich also could use a wash sometime.

45

B t R L I

----------- r * - R - L a/ , y o u A L L TOO G E R . -M A M L A S S I L L W oo YOU / T H M Y

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Berlin, you all too German lass I ll woo you with my lyre Your hands are so coarse-grained, alas, From the cold and from the fire.

Alas, how narrow are your hips Your streets were narrow ever And how insipid are your lips I shall desert you never.

I cannot get away from you In the West the W alls a tough one And in the East are my good friends T h e North wind is a rough one.

Berlin, I m coolly courting you Youre blond if not bewitching Your skys 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 toMy son whoSince it was SundayHad gone out early for milk.

One has no use for those who come too soon.But one drinks their milk.

48

R E A S S U R A N C E S

AND R E V I S I O N S

THE SINGERS INAUGURAL ADDRESS

Who 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, thats what I must be, truly A dinosaur is dancing on the M arx Engels Platz A backfiring shell, a dumpling stuck fast in the fat neck Of the responsible, who fear nothing so much as Responsibility.

W ell thenwould you chop your foot off

Rather than wash it? Go thirsty rather than Drink the bitter juice of my truth, O Man?

Undo the belt of fear that binds your chest If youre afraid your heart might 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 ets really cut loose together!We were not born to blow our great dreams stealthily

into the world Through a handkerchief, you idiot!

51

Our fathers, too. were children of freedom and rebellion. So let us be true sons of our fathers: irreverently Roll up our rough blue shirtsleeves and sing!

shout! get fresh and

laugh!

52

FAIRGROUND ON THE RHINE

My soldiers shoot best Says the General.In the summer war They lie among flowers And shoot people.At the Christmas Fair They stand among people And shoot flowers.T he people whove been shot down Are gathered up by death.T h e flowers that have been shot down Are gathered up by the girl.

T h e ferns are shooting up.M y son is shooting up.FernsAre protected by laws for the conservation of Nature.

When at long last w ill our nature protect us So people like us will not be shot by People like us?

53

The Family afk

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THE FAMILY BATH

Every Saturday the fat and jolly father Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles T o prepare the weekly bath So his chil-

so his chil- So his children will be clean.

Every Saturday the father Places all his darling children In the ancient iron bathtub W ith the spotty white enamel.Then his wife after the children and since he also will Be clean, oh so neat and clean He jumps in.

Every Saturday the fat and jolly father Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles T o prepare the weekly bath So his chil-

so his chil- So his children w ill be clean.

55

With his good wife now he plays Blue Mediterranean.In the Nineteen Forties he Spent a couple weeks down there M ajor of Herr Adolf Hitler Now hes only playing war With his good wife in the Mediterranean.

Every Saturday the fat and jolly father Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles T o prepare the weekly bath So his chil-

so his chil- So his children will be dean.

Suddenly a shark is there,Suddenly the wifes no more.And the bath water thats spilling Has turned red at Father's killing.And his chil- chil- chil- chil- children When they wake up in the morning Gently open the bathroom door:A glutted shark lies there M other is tint anyiohere

not anywhere not

56

TOYS

W ith the trainW e learn howT o go to Grannies.T h at is funW ith the dollWe like to eat soupT ill were fullT h at is funW ith the ballWe make PetersBear take a fallH es a dumb oneW ith the pussycatsPaul learns to scratchLittle AnnW hich is funW ith the armored truckWe learn howT rainDoll and soup T h e pussycats And all that Annie, Papa,House and mouse Are knocked flat.

57

LAST VARIATION ON THE OLD THEME

There: in the middle of Germany. Stick em in! Stick em up!

The screamer The murderer The reaper Oh, God! Into the gas, my GodNo man is wholly lost Be gentle in your verdict!Be gentle! Be gentle, citizens, Christians!Adolf Hitler loved his dogAdolf Eichmann loved a Jewess, the good soul

Who beheaded Germanys roses after 45? Rosebud rosebud rosebud red That you always think of me.But now the generals who brought ruinThe generals who brought ruinsHave placed a girdle about the bloody waistOf (oh!) Germany the pale mother And I wont stand for itAnd I won t stand for it !

58

Everything, everything will be missing:Soup in the potSalt in tearsTears in eyesTh e eye in the headT h e head on the trunkAnd death will be missing, yesEven death will croakThere will be nothing left to dieT 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

The German language is more spiritual.The problems of Germans are more spiritual. Philosophy was the limber limping 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 They quickly learn to write with the left.If their left hands are caught in a buzz saw They write with their mouths.

Theorylibel and eulogyStands naked and ashamed On the pedestal of the Nation W ith severed hands Oldmaidish. nice-looking.

60

THE POETS AFTER-DINNER SPEECH

Thank you, Comrades You want to see me happy.And my eyes should encounter H appy men.

In my songs you want to hear meRaise high the terse toneOf bliss. T h e diamondT h e little diamondYou want me to enlargeInto a block of mountains.

I m to dish out the moment of highest pleasure In your single-course dinner.You shout for the red wonder cook And when I bring you my rich foods:PotatoesBeefsteakPineappleOlivesW hite bread GarlicFinely chopped chervilAnd when I bring you baked apples from my oven Then 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 spoonfulunmixed 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 itAnd 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 wont need so much Ersatz in my words.Make yourselves a sweet life, citizens!Then my dry wine will please you.The poet is not a bag of sugar!Spare yourself the humiliation 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 wont 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 many men complaining: I m a Socialist, God knows,But what they are fabricating Is the wrong suit of clothes.I see many clench their fists and Hide them in their topcoat pockets Between their lips cold cigarette butts And in their hearts gray ashes.

Are 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 Which flow on forever?

I see many filled with hatred Many with no hopes at all I see many wrapped in silence As in a woolen shawl.Many every night are asking What tomorrow mornings got: Something that we can hold on to? Then what? Then what? Then what?

Are you saving up your courage? Do you wait for better times . . .

65

Many hope the river waterVery soon will cease to flowBut in springtime when the ice meltsThe river starts to go.Many 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 will make sure that Socialism wins the victory Not tomorrow: Now! For ne\er Too soon comes Liberty.And the remedy for Socialism (this bit I shall roar!)Is still more SocialismS T IL L M O RE, 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

When flocks of crows, a black cloth,Rose into the pale evening sky, alas,Th e thousand enchanted witches Picked out the skys red eye.

Crow, whither fliest thou?Where all are flying: to the field, to the field.

Crow, where takest thou thy rest?Where 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?When 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!Th e thousand enchanted witches Picked out the skys red eye.

I ve been seeing such things often, Comrades, of late.

67

TO THE OLD COMRADES

1Look at me, Comrades\\ i th your weary eyesWith your hardened eyesYour friendly eyesSee me dissatisfied with the ageThat 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 sufferingsOf the happiness you found in struggle behind barbed

wireYet I myself am not happy:I am dissatisfied with the new order.

But you stand there disappointedAstonishedAffrontedBitter at so much ingratitude.You run your hands in embarrassment over your skimpy

hair.

68

The present, for you A sweet goal after all those bitter years Is for me but a bitter beginning, and Calls for changes. Full of impatience I hurl myself into the battle of the classes, new ones

whichIf they dont cover the battlefield with corpses Do cover it with sufferings.

3Yes, 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,And even for the deepest pain of love Our hearts are still weak, and weak still Are our loins.

So, many a slim young fellowIs crushed by this great big beautiful womanIn gaudy nights of love. Yes,

2

69

Giants are needed in courage and pleasure Giants in pain tooIn fighting strength, giants. And my heart:RedPaleFull of hate Full of loveIs your own heart, Comrades,Is only that which you have given me!

And therefore, with my impatience Dont be impatient, old men;PatienceFor 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 The new beginning!

RECKLESS ABUSE

11 , 1 , 1Am full of hate Am full of hardness My heads been cut in two My brain has been run over

I dont want to see anyone!Dont just stand there!Stop staring!T he Collective is on the wrong track

I am the individualT h e Collective has become isolated from me Dont glare at me so understandingly!Oh yes, I know very wellYoure waiting with earnest certitudeFor me to swimInto the net of self-criticism

But I am the pike!Youll have to maul me, hack me to bits Put me through a meat grinder I f you want me on bread!

71

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 injusticeThe way you overlook your wivesYou would have folded me to your bosom long ago

3Not to call the child by its nameT o smother pleasure andT o swallow painT o walk the Middle WayOn the outermost edge of the battlefieldT o call the swamp now sea, now dry landA ll this you callReasonAnd do not notice that your reason is borrowedFrom the brains of dwarfsFrom the tails of ratsFrom the slits in reptiles? You

2

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!Get away from me with your bloated snouts! Offended and outraged, get away from me!Go! Shake your heads at my wrong attitude but Go!

4I will persist in truth I, the liar

5I love all of you:T h is I set my name toRain, hail, or stormMy love for you is warmBut now please leave me aloneOn my wrong trackCut off from the CollectiveYes, I have strange bedfellowsM y bedfellow is my wifeA n d she knows where my heart is

73

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WHOLE T O N E ]

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.

There was no water there T o wash this foot of his For this one foot of his There was no water there.

So this man took an axe And hacked that foot right off T hat foot he hacked right off Hurriedly with his axe.

He 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 The other foot as well.

The two feet both lay there The two feet both grew cold Chalk-white before them sat Upon his rump the man.

The Party, it has chopped So many a foot off So many a good foot The Party has chopped off.

Yet, as is not the case With the above-mentioned man, In the Partys case sometimes The 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 More insolently, more nervously I swim in safety even in its drainpipes And my scorn climbs higher than the radio towers I can be bought with the currency of truth, payable in

cashIn the bunkers of my skepticism I sit immuneT o the radiance of the great obscurantistsAnd the hatred of yesterday shields me from the stormOf tomorrow. Take note that I am equipped

And yet I am also exposed, quite often in fact Again and again I lie there freshly slaughtered T orn 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 he countryside waits hungrily on the edge of the sea of

housesAnd the great wet city licks its chops Over the well-earned Sunday roast Biermann

77

M athinj To It

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NOTHING TO IT

When I m on fireWhen I m on fire

I reach down a cloud from heaven And wring it out over me.

Icy shower.Nothing to it.

When I am freezingW hen I am freezing

I reach down the sun from heaven And stick it under my coat.

Little oven.Nothing to it.

When I m at her placeWhen I m at her place

Clouds come floating down from heaven Down with the clouds rolls the sun.

T h ats what loves like.Nothing to it.

W hen I am tiredW hen I am tired

I reach God down from His heaven And have H im sing me a song.

Angels shed tears.Nothing 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 The border twixt heaven and hell.

Show your passport!Nothing to it.

80

A D D I T I O N A L PO E M S

GERMANY:

A WINTERS TALE

(Part One)

In the German December from East Berlin T o West Berlin flowed the Spree And I floated in a railway train High over the W all and away.

And soaring over the bloodhounds diere And all that barbed-wire mess My mind filled up with wonder And my soul with bitterness.

My heart filled up with bitterness At the comrades true I ve got For ever so many a man who went T h is way on foot had been shot.

Many have thrown their youthful flesh On the wire and the mines.The riddled bucket leaks when the subMachine gun barks from behind.

Not every man is so well builtAs the poet Frank VillonWho got away with a few red spotsJu st winestains, says the song.

My m inds eye saw a cousin of mine Th e impertinent Heinrich Heine Who swam to Germany 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:That Germany, gloriously unified,Again went and got itself split.

So what? The whole wide world has made This East and West division.Yet Germany has somehow contrived Once more to maintain its position.

Its position as the whole worlds ass So weighty and so fat.The 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 The stink and din in Germanys Tremendous. I'll explain:

Each part of the wide world has its own Part of the German po-po.The biggest parts West Germany.With reason good, I know.

84

And so with German industry T o save embarrassment West Germans polish and perfume T h e German excrement.

And they have managed to succeed Where alchemy failed, I m told:In German shit has now been found Th e formula for gold.

T h e D D R, my Fatherland,However, is very clean And 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 at formerly was brown.

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Lcaend of *he Soldier in World Uar UJ

y t j j J UWHEN MO/?-N/s/6 MU/?-MR ROUSED HIS LUST TH E SLEEP HE SLEPT A S

= H - c V v - t = = i s -J--

i

I5r/V?^ (?/= THE F A - THER - LAND. A - TO/Yl-lC /?OC - K E T S

4J J* J. | i J7 j* J-FELL LIKE HA IL O U T OF A CLEAR 3R/GHT SKY.

tl J ) J #/ ; y ; - >/V7oir oa r/Vf wds /^z. r/?/e r late t h e r e w as no thing l e f t to

LEGEND OF THE SOLDIER

IN WORLD WAR III

When morning murder roused his lust Th e sleep he slept was grand:He lay on his gal, and she could see T h e stars of the Fatherland.Atomic rockets fell like hail Out of a clear bright sky.Most of the bombs fell far too late There was nothing left to die.

Now it is winter time Long and broad evenings Mourn in the snow7.W hile love lasts we shall find,Karen, though cold the wind,T h at 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 werent beautiful now No one saw' them any more.T h e angels wings were all burned off T h e Lord G ods beard was burned For lack of souls the Day of Judgm ent Had to be adjourned.

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Now it is winter time Long and broad evenings Mourn in the snow.While love lasts we shall find,Karen, though cold the wind,That all is well.

And one molecule from the gals behind And one from the soldiers head Were standing side by side until The firestorm killed them dead.And had the soldier given his gal A child instead of a warThe 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 Among the flowers?War shall itself be dead And when the cherries are red All will be well.

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MORNING DICTUM OF GENERAL KY

A government that has nothing more to fearT han the peopleCan last a long time, as long asT h e people fears nothing moreT h an the government.

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GENERAL KYS DREAM

But finally the government passed a lawThat all men areHappyBreaches of this law Were punished with death SoonThere were really only Happy men

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QUESTION AND ANSWER AND QUESTION

They say one cannot change Horses in midstreamGood. But the old ones have drowned already

You say that the admission of our mistakesIs useful to the enemyGood. T o whom is our lying useful?

M any say: In the long run SocialismIs quite unavoidableGood. But whos putting it through?

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NOT ES

T H E B A L L A D O F T H E O L D W O M E N O F B l ' C K O W

P G H : the initials stand for Produktionsgenossenschaften des Handioerks, 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 Germany. And, of course, the exclamations H o! and O ho! exist in German as well as in English.

T H E B A L L A D O F T H E S W E E T C H E R R Y S E A S O N

I N B U C K O f f

Co-operatives: Landwirtschaftliche Produktionsgenossenschaften, which means agricultural production co-operatives.

C O M R A D E J U L I N G R I M A U

Ju lin Grim au was a Communist who was executed under the Franco regimeat dawn, A pril 20, 1963.

B A L L A D O N T H E P O E T F R A N O I S V I L L O N

N D : initials of Neues Deutschland, Communist newspaper, written in the language of functionaries.D D R : Deutsche Demokratische R ep u b lik , or German Democratic Republic.K u rella : A lfred Kurella (born 1895), a man who has held various important cultural posts in East Germany during the past dozen years. Attending a Kafka conference in Prague in 1962, he took the anti-Kafka side, and later wrote that, if one swallow does not make a summer, this swallowKafkawas in any case a bat.

A T T H E E A R N O S E A N D T H R O A T D O C T O R S

In German, die M andel is either the almond or the tonsil. Forced

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to seek the name of something in the throat which was also the name of a fruit, the translator has settled for Adam s apple. (To fit the new pattern, a haze! nut becomes a pear.) \denoids suggests Adenauer (and vice versa, though the words Biermann worked with are M andel and Fernandel).

R H Y M E T R A U M A

This poem is based on German rhymes which cannot be duplicated in English.

THE SINGER' S INAUGURAL ADDRESS

Like the English word man. the German word Mensch can be either ultra-dignified or quite slangy and low. However, in the present context, the translator has thought it necessary to translate M ensch, in one instance, as bab\.-

T H E F A M I L Y B A T H

Biermann plays a verbal trick that cannot be duplicated in English. In German the first syllable of the word for cleanliness Sauberkeit) 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 he word pla\ in the English is. perforce, differentit is by way of using the first syllable of children to suggest the blood-

West Germany, Trettner is supposed to have said, Stick em in . (He denies it.)Pale m other: the phrase, as applied to Germany, is taken from the opening phrase of Brechts poem Deutschland : O Deutschland, bleiche M utter. T h e passages in quotation marks are from Goethes well-known poem, Heidenrslein.

T H E P O E T S A F T E R - D I N N E R S P E E C H

Single-course d in n er: the phrase translates E intopf, a name for a single-dish meal which was enjoined on everyone on certain days in H itler Germany.

R E C K L E S S A B U S E

Yes, I have strange bedfellow s: Here, one pun has replaced another. T h e German reads: Ich liege eben schief/ich lieg bei m einer Frau, which in an unpunning, literal translation would read: I am off the track/I lie (sleep) with my wife.

B A L L A D O F T H E M A N

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 ann,/D er hatte einen Schwamm . . . (The same nursery rhyme seems to lurk in the background of B rig itte .)

G E R M A N Y : A W I N T E R S T A L E ( P A R T O N E )

Unpublished in D ie Drahtharfe, it appeared in Neuss (sic) Deutschland, 8 May 1965, a sort of German Private Eye, published in West Berlin until forced out of business by the Establishment in early 1966. It is the first part of what is reported (1967) to be a very long poem.

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For German readers, the principal allusion of the title is not to Shakespeare but to Heine.

L E G E N D O F T H E S O L D I E R I N W O R L D W A R I I I

Unpublished in Die Drahtharfe, the German text has been transcribed from a tape recording. As the title suggests, this song is a kind of sequel to a poem in Brechts M anual of Piety, Legend of the Dead Soldier ; and the gal of Bierm anns opening lines might possibly be the half-uncovered gal of Brechts seventh stanza.

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W olf Biermann, born 1936, East German poet and balladeer, wrote his first poems and songs in the late i95os and became known to a small circle in the early 1960s. He sang and recited his bitingly satirical verse in rented halls, universities, and writers clubs in both Germanys, but was unable to have them published in East Germany where he lives. A first volume of his poetry was published in West Berlin by Verlag Klaus Wagenbach in autumn, 1965, with the title D ie Drahtharfe (The W ire Harp). A few months later, Biermann came under heavy attack in the East German party newspaper, Neues Deutschland. Biermann has since been forbidden to perform and to travel, even in Communist countries, and no book of his has appeared in East Germany or any of the other Communist countries.

However, W olf Biermann does not consider himself an antiCommunist. He is the representative of the young, who believe in the necessity of free expression of criticism, and consider him a dramatic symbol of a new age.

WOLF BIERMANNEast German poet and balladeer, was born in Ham burg in 1936 and went to East Germany in 1953. He worked there as assistant stage manager, organized the Berlin Workers and Students Theater Ensembles, and gave song recitals of his own. T h e theater wTas dissolved after two years, and he was forbidden to perform publicly. In 1965, his West Berlin publisher, Klaus Wagenbach, published T he Wire H arp, which has sold close to 40,000 copies, making Biermann one of the most successful German lyric poets of the twentieth century. Th is led to the promulgation of a new law known unofficially as the lex Bierm ann prohibiting East German authors from publishing in Western countries without first submitting their works to East German publishers and their censorship.

W olf Biermann 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