Black and white photo of a covered wagon with two women inside and two young men walking in front in breeches and shirts and scarves. The women are in skirts and coats with covered hair.
Examine a close reading of Brechtian theatrical drama “Mother Courage and Her Children”.
“We’re doing an honest trade in ham and linen, and we’re peaceable folk” exemplifies Mother Courage’s mercenary enterprise that distinguishes her entrepreneurial proprietorship as the chief source of bread winning for the fulfilment in familial obligations. Sustenance of livelihood and survival hood is solely dependent upon the provisions of money generated from the returns of investment in the trade cart. The sergeant’s feigning of interest with the belt buckle and the recruiter’s abduction of Eiliff gobsmacks the dumb girl Kattrin, who gesticulates wildly. Eventually years follow and Eiliff is commissioned for pilferage and thievery of cattle from the supply wagons of the settlers.
Eliff’s “The Song of the Girl and the Soldier” is a notebly sung in chorus for the valour and bravery, gallantry and heroism in the office of the veteran general. However ousting of protestant by the Catholics implicates measures of extradition policies to exterminate the defenestrated regime. Catholic reinstatement to power is imminently catastrophic for these peaceable folks as soon as allied forces have been defeated by them. Mother Courage’s masquerading with chameleon stance and camouflaging Kattrin in ashes; Yuvette’s fastidiousness to wager a ransom price at the behest of Mother Courage to take over the custody of Swiss Cheese occur as an after effect of the repercussions. Mother Courage’s profit satisficing initiative forlorn recognition Swiss Cheeses’ cadaverous corpse ushered by the crusaders of Catholicism. “The Song of the Great Capitulation” is caroled by Mother Courage for her nonchalance and lackadaisical demeanor in involving herself into a court martial trail. “I changed me mind. I ain’t complaining” propounds her expostulation in refraining from alleging the battle.
Black and white photo of a covered wagon with two women inside and two young men walking in front in breeches and shirts and scarves. The women are in skirts and coats with covered hair.
Nonetheless, Mother Courage snatching of the looted overcoat of the soldier and her preceding denial in offering clothes to bandage wounded crusaders subverts her bourgeois mercenary identity. Kattrin’s brandishing of her mother with the plank and the chaplain’s exploiting of the wardrobe outfit resurrects the impresario of veteran insignia. The braggadocio of Mother Courage is ameliorated by Kattrin’s uprising to feminist womanhood as reflected in the maternity caregiving to an orphaned destitute. Mother Courage is truly the distinct hyena of the battlefield in relegating pacifism to ruining her business. “War be damned” is inverted by Mother Courage through her militaristic stance to bolster profits. Painstakingly the male survivor Eillif is implicated in war crimes during peace treaty coalition and trailed to justice.
Ultimately Mother Courage and Kattrin are harboured to the brink of existentialism and grave inhumanity befalls upon their gothic macabre. “Once fertile areas are ravaged by famines, wolves roam the burnt out towns…Business is bad, so there is nothing to do but beg.” Mother Courage’s reclaimed womanhood and feminist body polity consciousness transcends patriarchy and masculinity as reflected in abjuration of employment in chaplain’s tavern. The heartwrenching predicament of Mother Courage and Kattrin as harrowing survivors envisions utopian legacy of peasantry and peasanthood, “Happy are those with shelter now/ When winter winds are freezing.”
Mother Courage is alien to religiosity and ideologies and fosters ambivalence towards adversarial circumstances for her entrepreneurship. A formidable quester of wartime profiteer, striking, bargaining, lying and cheating to earn her survival. Brecht’s idolization of Mother Courage’s personae cherishes transcendental triumphalism of Christianity: “hatred against the sin but love for the sinner”. Brecht’s heroine is a stalwart embodiment of craftiness, shrewdness, canniness and resourcefulness.
Brecht chastises and lambastes Mother Courage’s inhumanity towards the dead body of Swiss Cheese. This inevitably chilling climax crystallizes theatre audiences, readers and critics of modern European drama. Despite dumb, Kattrin, the guardian of goodness’ precautionary vigilance of crisis and her sacrificial martyrdom symbolizes an astounding climax without deus ex machina. Yuvette’s transformation into a colonel’s lady from a camp whore epitomizes pragmatism and materialism unlike other characters and their mise-en-scenes.
Unlike Mother Courage, Yuvette’s femininity and womanhood salvages to the brink of prosperity by discarding the world of squalor. Terrifying and endless struggles of Mother Courage breaches armistice and beseeches war feeding enterprises. Brecht’s characterization of soldiers and generals, stewardesses and butlers, harlots and whores, peasants and tradesmen harnesses twentieth century realistic traits of surviving a doggerel world. Warmongers are victimizers whose fatalistic preying dawns upon the human beings possessing virtues as pacifists and abolitionists of wars. Emotional appeal and theatrical flair of the tragical drama is the exposition of crucial roles cast by the victimized and traumatized as embodied by Mother Courage and Her Children.
Further Reading, References and Endnotes
Brecht On Theatre Translation by John Willett, From the Mother Courage Model, pp. 215-221
Five Great Plays Mother Courage and Her Children pp. 207-215, Stephen Unwin, A Guide to the Plays of Bertolt Brecht, Bloomsbury.
“SORRY, I KNOW I’M NEW AT THIS, BUT ISN’T THAT CANNIBALISM?” I ask Carol through the mouth opening of my black latex bondage hood as I turn my head around to look up at her. Before she can answer, I add, “And if it is cannibalism, how does that fall into any of the BDSM categories?”
I’m lying on my stomach on a crumpled bed in a cheap dingy Motel 6 suite while Carol sits comfortably on the back of my bare upper thighs with her bent legs firmly straddling my hips. She wears shiny black thigh-high faux leather boots attached by garter straps to a tightly-laced black vinyl corset. In her right hand she grips the shaft of a braided black leather flogger, now rested at her side after our light warm-up session, while holding silver metal nail clippers in her left hand. After I turn my head around, she thrusts the nail clippers into my face and snarls at me.
I joined this BDSM dating website just a week ago after a long spell of unsuccessful online dating through more mainstream sites in the two years since my divorce. Though I’d never tried BDSM, or anything too kinky, I’ve always been drawn to pushy domineering women (and vice versa) so I figured BDSM may be my bag. After a little internet research, I registered on the site as a “sub” (submissive) seeking a relationship with a “dom” (dominant), hoping for a match. Carol is my first date.
Carol is angry now and glares down at me through the small eye openings of her face mask. “Do you even know what BDSM stands for, you submissive little bitch?” she asks me harshly while raising her right hand and flicking her wrist so that the leather tails of her flogger fly back behind its neck.
“Yes,” I reply eagerly. I’m exhilarated and energized by the threat of another flogging. “I googled ‘BDSM’ last week before I registered on the website; it’s an acronym for bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism.” My heart rate picks up in excitement and anticipation as I watch Carol brandish her flogger.
“You forgot domination and submission, you fucking imbecile,” Carol barks at me while cocking her right arm and readying the flogger for another downward attack.
I acknowledge her with a quick nod. “I understand, but domination and submission are redundant of other letters already in the BDSM acronym so they’re included under the D and S letters for discipline and sadism. It’s just cleaner that way instead of having duplicate letters.”
Carol rolls her eyes at me with an exasperated smirk while lowering the flogger to her side. “OK, Wordsworth, so which of those BDSM letters are you?”
I think about this for a moment, then reply, “Well, like I said, I’m new to this so I’m still trying to figure out which BDSM subgenre suits me best,” then add, “But under any conceivable definition of the BDSM categories, I really don’t think that cannibalism qualifies.”
Carol purses her shiny black glossed lips then nods in agreement. “OK,” she responds hesitantly, “But it isn’t really cannibalism per se if I just want you to eat my toenails and not any actual body part.”
I flash Carol an empathetic smile, then try my best to ease her obvious discomfort without being patronizing. “Well,” I explain patiently, “I never took an anatomy class but I do think that toenails are considered a body part. I mean, think about it, they may not have nerve endings or sensitivity but they couldn’t exist without a human to attach to – right?”
Carol nods coolly, reluctantly acknowledging my sound logic. “OK, but going back to the BDSM categories, if the point is to inflict pain on me when you remove my toenails, then I think that’s either sadism or masochism even if the eating part is technically cannibalism.”
I nod politely then ask as diplomatically as possible, “Well, if you want me to inflict pain on you, then why are you handing me nail clippers? Aren’t those supposed to clip your nails painlessly instead of just ripping them off your toes, and thereby inflicting pain? I don’t mean to be difficult, Carol, but it just seems like me using nail clippers on you is antithetical to the whole BDSM routine.” I pause then add, “And also, if you’re the ‘dom’ and I’m the ‘sub’ in this scenario, then aren’t you the one supposed to be inflicting pain and not me?”
Carol looks down at me silently. Her large brown eyes – so fierce and confident just moments ago – now look sad and doleful like a puppy lost outside in the rain.
Unable to restrain myself after sensing Carol’s vulnerability (and smelling weakness), I pounce like a jungle predator: “Carol, I don’t mean to be rude – and I’m sorry to be so forward – but have you ever done this before?”
Carol blushes deeply and turns her head to avert her eyes from mine.
I feel Carol squirm uneasily on top of me and sense her embarrassment like a sharp pang in my chest. I feel horrible knowing that I’ve humiliated and disrespected Carol in her “dom” role, and I can tell that I’ve violated some cardinal rule of BDSM etiquette. Maybe this isn’t my game after all.
Thinking quickly, I do my best to backtrack and rehabilitate myself with Carol. “I’m so sorry, Carol, I don’t mean to be a prick, I’m just new to this – it’s literally my first date since I joined the BDSM website – so I’m still not really sure how it works. If you’re still feeling your way along here too, that’s totally cool – we’re both taking this journey together, like exploring a new city that we’ve never visited before.”
Carol relaxes and I can feel the tension drain from her body. She pulls off her face mask and looks at me with a shy grin. “Actually, yeah, I am new to this. It’s only my third BDSM date. The first guy made me slap him with a hog crop then peg him with this silicone strap-on that he brought to the hotel in his backpack, and the second guy cut himself on his ankle spreader bar then just ran out of the room.”
She sighs deeply then continues, “But they both felt so sure about what they wanted that I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to do my toenail thing,” and adds, “With you I just felt so much more relaxed and confident, like I could ask you for anything and you wouldn’t judge me.”
Tears begin to well up in Carol’s eyes. She ungrips her leather flogger, which falls lightly onto the bedspread, then raises her right hand to her face and wipes the budding tears from her eyes before they can cascade down her flushed cheeks.
I turn over on the bed then pull off my bondage hood and lay it beside me on the bedspread so that Carol and I are facing each other. I reach my right hand to her face and gently stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “I get it, Carol, I really do – and I’m sorry to make you feel so self-conscious and uncomfortable. That’s really not my intent.”
Carol lowers her face and gazes down at my bare chest while nodding slowly. She reaches her hands out and removes the small metal clamps that she’d fastened to my nipples during our warm-up session. I feel a warm tear drop from her face to my solar plexus and watch it trickle down over my side, gaining speed as it passes over my rib cage then onto the bedspread. “Most guys I meet just aren’t into my toenail thing, so that’s why I joined the BDSM site. I just thought maybe I’d meet someone who’s more open to it.”
I take a deep breath then say, “I thought we really hit it off at dinner – we both love sushi thai and had so much to talk about with our careers and goals and hobbies and everything – but the whole BDSM part of this date is kind of going off the rails and not how I expected.” I add, “Honestly, I don’t even know what to expect, this being my first time and all, but I don’t want this to ruin our date. I really do like you and I hope that you like me. Maybe we can just hit the rewind button and start this part over?”
Carol nods her head vigorously in agreement while wiping her eyes again. She looks relieved and refreshed. “I feel the same way, I really like you and don’t want to screw this up over my toenail thing.”
I smile up at her, pleased with myself for reviving her spirits.
Carol raises her eyebrows then asks with renewed spirit, “Wanna go back to my condo to watch a movie?”
“Sounds awesome,” I reply with a reassuring grin, “Any specific movie in mind?”
“Of course,” Carol replies with a suggestive smile, “Edward Scissorhands … I really like him.”
A few hours later, we’re at Carol’s condo after stopping on the way for gelato. Dressed back in our civilian clothes, we’re nestled together on her living room sofa watching the final scene of Edward Scissorhands, which Carol is thoroughly enjoying. She turns toward me and lifts her far leg over my lap then begins to grind her crotch against my thigh.
“I love this part,” Carol whispers into my ear as she begins to grind harder, “The way that Edward uses his scissors to save Winona Ryder is so fucking hot.”
“Right!” I agree enthusiastically.
The movie ends after Edward stabs and kills that what’s-his-name nerd kid from Breakfast Club (and Sixteen Candles and Weird Science). As the credits begin to roll, Carol purrs into my ear while continuing to grind my thigh, “Wanna play Edward Scissorhands?”
“Sounds great,” I reply. Though I’m not quite sure what this game entails, I don’t want to be a buzzkill again after our date was barely rescued earlier at the Motel 6. Everything is going well now, but I know that can change on a dime with Carol if I say the wrong thing.
Carol beams at me then jumps up from the sofa. “Cool!” she exclaims, “Just stay here while I go put on my dominatrix outfit and get my scissors!”
“Carol, that’s OK,” I say before she runs off to her bedroom. “You don’t have to bother changing your clothes—,”
But before I can finish my sentence, Carol quickly pivots then strikes me with a hard open-handed slap across my face, which immediately stings while my face burns hot. “I’m the one giving the orders, you fucking slave! Now you’ll sit there, keep your goddamn mouth shut and wait for me like mommy’s little boy-whore!”
I curl up on the sofa and nod to her dutifully with my best sad-eyed Edward Scissorhands face, reminding myself to stick to my submissive role in Carol’s exciting new game.
A few minutes later, Carol exits her bedroom decked out in a skintight full-body black vinyl catwoman suit and a new face mask with feline ears protruding from the sides. She struts into the kitchen on black stiletto heels and opens a drawer beneath the marble countertop next to the refrigerator. She looks and then rifles furiously through the drawer with both hands. After about a minute of searching through all her kitchen drawers, she pounds her fist against the countertop and bellows, “Goddamnit! I can’t find my scissors. I must’ve taken them to work and left them there!”
Carol enters the living room, looks at me sternly with the nail clippers that she now holds firmly in her right hand, then points them at me. “I guess these’ll just have to do. Now sit up and take your shirt off!” she commands me.
“Wait a minute, I’m confused,” I say, “Aren’t I supposed to be Edward? And even if you’re Edward, he never used nail clippers.”
Carol nods silently to herself, walks back to the kitchen then returns holding a large carving knife in her right hand with the nail clippers in her left.
“A kitchen knife?” I ask, barely able to conceal my surprise.
Carol clearly is frustrated and looks at me impatiently for a moment before responding. “It’s a knife, why does it matter what it’s supposed to be used for?” Her voice quivers when she shouts out her next command, “Now just shut the fuck up and strip!”
I’m unable to subdue the laughter that escapes my throat. “But Carol,” I explain in between laughs, “There are special BDSM knives and daggers. Nobody uses kitchen knives. I thought you just wanted to poke around, not carve me up like a pot roast!”
Once again, I push too far and let my mouth get the best of me. “And you still have the nail clippers! Carol, is this whole Edward Scissorhands game just a ploy to get me to eat your toenails again?”
Carol’s face reddens like an electric stovetop while she looks up to the ceiling and screams something unintelligible, then flings her knife and nail clippers across the room at the wall. She drops to the floor with her hands pressed to her face, then turns on her side and begins to weep uncontrollably in front of the sofa.
I hop up and lift her onto the sofa, where she lies down then hugs her knees to her chest and curls up into a ball. She rocks back and forth in this fetal positon while her weeping intensifies.
I wrap my arms around Carol’s shoulders and feel her shaking like a poodle while her violent sobs continue. I try to calm her down with quiet soothing shhh whispers.
After a minute or two, Carol’s sobbing slows down and she looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking bad at this. I’ve never used a knife on anyone before, but watching Edward just gave me the idea and got me in the mood.”
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I whisper softly into her ear while gently caressing her hair.
Carol’s sobs subside while I massage her arms and shoulders to loosen her tension. After a few moments, she looks up at me in embarrassment and says, “Sorry I’m such a hot mess tonight. I’m trying too hard to fit into this dominatrix role and it’s just not happening for me.”
I smile back at her while giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “Tell you what, why don’t we just shelve the BDSM play for tonight and take a bottle of wine out onto the balcony? It’s a beautiful night.” I nod my head toward the balcony with a wink.
Carol sits up on the sofa and looks out the sliding glass door to the balcony, then turns back to me with a smile. “Sounds perfect,” she says with a quiet sniffle. She stands up from the sofa and walks to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and takes two wine glasses from a wood cabinet above the countertop. She walks over to the balcony door, looks over at me with a grin and nods her head toward the balcony. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”
I walk over to Carol and take the wine bottle from her so that she can use her free hand to open the sliding glass door to the balcony while holding the wine glasses in her other hand. We walk out onto the balcony then sit on cushioned chairs on either side of a small patio table where Carol sets down the wine glasses, take the bottle from my hand and pours us each a half glass.
I raise my glass and nod to Carol to do the same. I look out over the balcony rail into the starry black night sky then turn back to Carol with a soft smile. I extend my glass toward hers and toast, “Here’s to our first date, and to your toenail thing.”
Carol giggles as we clink glasses and says, “To our first date, and the end of my toenail thing. I’m over it”
We both turn our heads to look out past the balcony and sip from our wine glasses. I move my hand across the patio table and place it atop hers on the armrest of her chair. We sit quietly and enjoy the comfortable silence while taking in the beautiful night.
My heartbeat slows down and I close my eyes. I feel perfectly calm and at ease. I open my eyes when I feel Carol’s soft warm lips gently kiss my cheek. I look over at her with a smile.
Carol leans up in her chair and moves the patio table forward so that she can pull her chair next to mine. She rests her head against my shoulder. “I’m so glad I met you,” she says as she raises her soft brown eyes to mine.
I squeeze her hand as we drink our wine and gaze out into the serene night sky.
weather wind white woman magic snow squall winter fields
it’s cold by the window. I should move from it. but it’s nice, the view, w/the white earth for the snow and the blue sky yes, a stand of evergreens watching the entire world out there also. white, green, blue. nature wins. even when it’s a bit plain. it has more than the current fashion and gossip. it’s not a surface -level type. the snow rests on the ever faithful wild sumac, the branches of trees reaching out to one another, some awaiting and then assisting and others asking for help. or, is it that the two main ones there are trying to rise fully and together for a painter, a landscape artist w/an easel, to paint their picture? could be. could be. we don’t know everything, you know? the power ceases. probably do to the wind storms wild and furious. I told the white lady. she follows the weather. ‘Hopefully it will go back on,’ she says. and just then it clicks on. I ask her if she has magic, if she performed magic. she says no, but like the sumac trees, I say one never knows,- even if she didn’t know. other levels of existence. maybe in one she is a white witch, who helps people and problems, a healer. white girl magic.
instead she says, ‘On the country roads, because there are long places with no buildings and just fields, the snow gets carried by the wind sometimes and so much, you can hardly see.’ I can see it. in the mind’s eye and also memory, for I’d seen it before several times. wild. maybe just somewhere in the distance a wooden barn on old concrete form. In one place there was a river down the way that followed the road for a bit, and not much else, not much else but that river. what would it have been like to live around those parts? in the summer, and on road trips, people would idealize the areas…and that’s a natural tendency when the birds are singing and a green field pastoral stretches out like a welcoming blanket made by God. but the winter. that would be another story. ice. isolation. and when hills are there somewhere, how to navigate them before the snow ploughs?- and there is less light,- oh many I would think take all our series of electric light for granted. the winter can be bleak. one would have to think of happy things, however silly.
yes happy colourful things. a can of sliced peaches. those things are good but must be loaded with sugar. the sign from a long time ago of two flowers, that spirit showed me, one saying, ‘Swap a smile, trade some cheer,’ and the other continuing, ‘let’s be happy, while we’re here.’ or good sweaters and cotton blankets. novels read that brought the reader into the good and right world of characters and climates. candles. scented candles. music. what else?- what artifacts and cloths, what phenomena and practices to fight off winter and it’s force? maybe the white woman that didn’t practice magic but inadvertently had magic about her, knew. field barn sky. cold long earth. snow squalls. power outages. the deep red of the twelve-month sumac. dreams of the sea, salted and warm, its meandering waves kissing the sands, rolling in with a forever way. that’s a long term relationship certainly, the sand and the sea, the sea and the sand. longer than ‘long,’ but actually ancient. even might as well call such a thing, ‘eternal.’
Caring only that mud prints out bloom petals’ falls
You’ve kissed earthen boards and ashen walls goodbye
Released their sheltering hold with a sigh
You’ve embraced ancient beams dusted with time
Yet still unfold branches in their prime
Nearby skies hold sunset’s fading grace
Less fair than last month’s rosy face
Nearby voices whisper sorrow’s trace
Less sweet than former joy’s embrace
Watch wheel tracks crush velvet blooms below
Watch red lights and whistles stir dust’s flow
See you not how dark words, crowds, and cars oppress
Waiting to fade away
Waiting for your white flowers to cleanse time’s clay
凝固北岸
过了桥就是荒芜
没有安排霞暮的洼沟
与多少声音的凝固
探下去就是水沽
乌鸦旧羽的藏处
你向前去绕过柳树
墨色滩上有你新掉落的意物
你若愿意谨心深入
他便换了颜色尝试着清楚
即使他呜咽将你救赎
你留下的足迹也终究模糊
你在亭下止步的时候
多少双眼见你与他们一样
知晓了自己的短处
别在黑白里分却词数
快走出去写下你
化开沉默的第一眼斑斓
Frozen North Bank
Beyond the bridge, desolation reigns
No twilight pools in hollowed plains
Where countless voices freeze in time
Beneath lies waters old as rhyme
Where crow feathers seek their rest
Moving past willows, heading west
Your fresh thoughts fall on ink dark shore
Should you venture deeper and explore
It shifts its hues toward clarity’s door
Though its weeping might set you free
Your footprints fade eventually
When beneath the pavilion you pause
Many eyes see you as their own because
All share the same mortal flaws
Count not words in shadow and light
Hurry forth and write your flight
Breaking silence with color’s first bright
若芙蓉
你再倾向我吧
我见你在高处开花
你莫急转向东啊
呼喊的西边我刚到达
在转角里与灰尘挣扎
争先来见你呀
你再转头向西吧
我向你近来诉答
你念我回眸笑狭
我念你轻胭掩枝丫
我回时
你朝东南倒下
亲近你发紫的先霎
那些岁月不知晓的涂鸦
长久里只与石台相融洽
你能再把影子擎上檐狭
我能再见你青枝胭花
我的私心挺重的
写了千万个你呀
来证示世上有个我吧
Like Lotus
Turn to me once more,
I prayI see you flowering high away
Don’t rush eastward on your path
The calling west I’ve reached at last
Wrestling dust at every turn
Racing forth your grace to learn
Turn westward once again my wayI come with tales of yesterday
You speak of my shy, turning smile
I dream of your rouge style
Upon return, my heart grows still
You’ve fallen southeast on the hill
Embracing your first purple sheen
Those years’ forgotten scribbles seen
Long melded with stone steps serene
Could your shadow grace the eaves again
Could I glimpse your rose-bloom sway
My heart holds such selfishness deep
I’ve written countless yours to keep
To prove I exist in this world’s sweep
上窗叶
我可能用相遇定义你重新的青绿
我可能见你在昨年的桥底
抚波摆碧
你没停过抚摸砖梯
风没逃过绕转停息
我没停过顺的风来找你
我想我只能矮矮地看你
用高大的思想触及
我想我只能跟青草论高低
我想我要继续深去
见到根柄堆积
才是我储藏心理的坚璧
是的，我携着未名的物体
藏我过去不合实际的思想于根底
我想来年一些成了旁花
再见回忆
在夜里凋落离去
一些成了果
我要它成熟 成为实际
Leaves at the Window
Perhaps I define your renewed emerald
Through the lens of our chance meeting
Perhaps I saw you beneath last year’s bridge
Caressing waves with grace greeting
Never have you ceased stroking stone steps
Never has wind escaped its rest
Never have I stopped seeking you with gentle breeze
I know I can only gaze up at you from below
Reaching toward you with lofty thoughts
I can only measure height with grass so low
I long to venture deeper still
Where stems and stalks amass until
I find the fortress where my heart’s thoughts spill
I carry unnamed treasures deep
Bury my impractical dreams where roots sleep
Some may bloom as flowers next year
When memories appear
Falling away in night’s sphere
Some will fruit in time
I wish them ripe with truth sublime
落绿叶
只有我在人群中低头见你
只有我不再仰头谈戏
我也在雨中与些许人分离
独自走入世间的缝隙
试探自己的支撑力
在那里
我们不须躬身前去
拈起他人遗弃的颗粒
将其在耻笑者的背后堆积
最后成了影子
束缚着我们位移
雨天里
陷困者的脚步走得如此容易
扑向一只没有尾翼的鸟
倒在耻笑者的影子里被人遗弃
扯下一片绿叶
止塞最后的哭泣
Falling Green Leaves
Only I in crowds bow to see you there
Only I no longer look up for flair
I too part from some in rain’s domain
Walking alone through worldly seams
Testing the strength that holds my dreams
There
We need not bow to proceed
To gather grains others leave
Pile them behind mockers’ backs with care
Until we become shadows that bind
Restricting where we’re inclined
In rainy days
The trapped walk with such ease
Rushing toward a wingless bird
Falling forgotten in scorners’ shadows
Plucking one green leaf to seal
The final tears we feel
Su Yun, whose real name is Chen Ruizhe, he is a 17-year-old poet. He is the member of the Chinese Poetry Society. His works have been published in more than ten countries, including the poetry collections “Spreading All Things” and “Wise Language Philosophy” in China, and the poetry collection “WITH ECSTASY OF MUSING IN TRANQUILITY” in India. He won the 2024 Guido Gozzano Apple Orchard Award in Italy.
Appealing for shelter to escape the power of her eyes,
Her neck gasps,
Breaking my pride
Sprinkled over the cheer of her treasures
Ah of her drums!
My songs wave with their rhythm
Smoldering on the tips of her forests
Her scent heavily rains into my lungs,
I breathe the screaming of her vessels,
Sunken in a sad ocean,
Surprisingly
I chase up the birds of her chest,
Being suddenly liberated,
Shaking the ash of the feathers of infatuation,
And on my high walls
Laying the burdens of shyness,
Growing,
Contemplating my sobs,
How many a time I stared into her rivers,
The hidden pearls in there call me
I open her scale in glee
As her fragrance pursues in surrender
A poem by Kareem Abdullah
Translated by John Henry Smith *****
Kareem Abdullah is an Iraqi poet and writer. He was born in Baghdad in 1962. Kareen Abdullah is the author of “Baghdad in Her New Dress” (2015 Book House). His name has appeared in many important Arabian literary magazines and he won Tajdeed Prose Poetry Prize in 2016. Kareem has eight poetry collections in Arabic and his poetry has been translated into many languages.
Sieg Heil!
by Pesach Rotem
Remember Dr. Strangelove?
Dr. Strangelove had an unusual affliction.
He could not stop himself from making a Nazi salute.
He knew that in the United States of America
it was socially and politically inappropriate
to make a Nazi salute
but he did it anyway.
He just couldn’t help it.
Dr. Strangelove was
a fictional character.
It was satire.
It was funny.
Sixty years later and
here comes Elon Musk,
who appears to be suffering
from the same damn affliction
except for a couple of
minor differences:
1. Elon Musk is non-fictional.
2. He is not the slightest bit funny.
November 22, 1963
by Pesach Rotem
I am sitting in Mrs. Hinkley’s fourth-grade classroom.
We are reading the story of Old Yeller, a heroic dog who meets a tragic end.
Suddenly, the P.A. box mounted on the wall squawks.
I expect, naturally, to hear the principal’s voice
but I do not hear Mr. Grant’s voice.
I hear Walter Cronkite’s voice
and it is very serious.
He is saying something about Dallas, Texas.
Is he crying?
Of course not.
Walter Cronkite doesn’t cry.
But it does sound like Walter Cronkite is crying.
It is very serious.
Caesar had his Antony.
Lincoln his Whitman.
Who will eulogize our handsome young prince,
victim of a murder most foul?
Life Lessons
by Pesach Rotem
When I was nine years old,
I had to go to bed at 8:30 every night.
“No fair!” I protested,
“Bruce gets to stay up till 9.”
“When you’re as old as Bruce,” my mother assured me,
“you can go to bed at 9 o’clock.”
It was a trick, of course.
I knew I would never be as old as Bruce.
You didn’t have to be a particularly precocious child to see through that one.
Thus I learned not only to distrust my mother,
but to distrust all grown-ups, everywhere.
An important lesson for every child’s growth and development.
When I was fifty-nine-and-three-quarters,
I had my first heart attack.
It caused significant irreversible damage to my heart,
leaving me in a weakened state, constantly fatigued.
Bruce was hiking the Grand Canyon.
“Yippee!” I shouted to my mother’s ghost.
“I did it! I’m older than Bruce!
Now I can go to bed at 9 o’clock!”
Lesson number two:
Be careful what you wish for.
The Rooster Crows
by Pesach Rotem
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I’ll be gone
— Bob Dylan —
The rooster doesn’t crow at the break of dawn.
That’s just one more lie we were told by our parents and teachers.
The alarm clock crows at the break of dawn.
That diabolical tyrannical mechanical contraption.
Go to school!
Go to work!
No more snoozing!
No more dreaming!
Get up now!
I ain’t no rooster!
When I was sixty-two years old, I moved to Yodfat,
next door to David and Kathy,
their three lovely children,
their beautiful flower garden,
and their chicken coop.
And guess what?
The rooster crows at the break of dawn.
Pesach Rotem was born and raised in New York and now lives in Yodfat, Israel. He is a member of the Voices Israel Group of Poets in English and of the Israel Association of Writers in English. His poem “Kindness” was awarded Honorable Mention in the Reuben Rose Poetry Competition, and his poem “Professor Hofstadter’s Brain” was nominated for a Best of the Net Award.
