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"BALLADS, T O E M S , SONQS **

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WO L F B I E R M AN N
T H E WI R E H A R P
BA L L A D S | P O E M S | SO N GS
WI TH MUSI CAL SCORES
1 K A N S I. A I ' ED 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, Wolf
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 extra
marital 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 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 Biermanns
work, skillfully translated the texts and fitted
the songs and ballads to Biermanns own
musical scores.
A HE L I N AND K U R T WO L F F BO O K
H A R C O l ' R T , B R A C E & WO R L D . I NC.
7>7 Third Avenue, 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 HARP
B A L L A D S / P O EM S / SO N GS
T R A N S L A T E D B Y ERI C BENTLEY
IkEl
A H E L E N AND K U R T WO L F F BO O K
H A R C O U R T , B R A C E & WO R L D , I NC . , 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 Die Drahtharfe.
TRANSLATORS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My initial debt is to the person who took me to Biermanns apart
ment 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 May 3
The Ballad of the Drainpipe Layer Fredi Rohsmeisl
of Buckow 5
The Ballad of the Old Women of Buckow g
The Ballad of the Sweet Cherry Season in Buckow 11
Small-Town Sunday 13
PORTRAITS
Mr. Brecht 19
Comrade Julin Grimau 21
The Ballad of the Letter Carrier William L. Moore
of Baltimore 23
The Barlach Song 27
Ballad on the Poet Francois Villon 29
BERLIN
Ascension Day in Berlin 37
My Tenement Bride 39
Ballad of Bite-Crazy Barbara 41
Brigitte 43
At the Ear Nose and Throat Doctors 44
Rhyme Trauma 45
Berlin 47
Early Morning 48
REASSURANCES AND REVISIONS
The Singers I naugural Address 51
Fairground on the Rhine 53
The Family Bath 55
Toys 57
Last Variation on the Old Theme 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
Nothing To I t 79
ADDITIONAL POEMS
Germany: A Winters Tale (Part One) 83
Legend of the Soldier in World War I I I 87
Morning Dictum of General Ky 89
General Kys Dream 90
Question and Answer and Question 91
Notes 95
THE B UCK OW BAL L ADS
THE FIRST OF MAY
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THE FIRST OF MAY
To 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
Their home is in the town
(Where such things abound)
New is the first of May
As yet there is no hay
The cows still eat the oaten straw
The writing in the cowsheds white
Though red the proclamation:
Milk and butter here are made
And peace with every nation.
And peace with every nation.
3
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Th Hallad Of he Branppt Laytr Fit Si tfvhsmesi
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THE BALLAD OF
THE DRAINPIPE LAYER FREDI ROHSMEISL
OF BUCKOW
1
This 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
The 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.
2
And while he so wildly was dancing the Twist
And the music was hot and the beer was warm
Two 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 hadnt done a thing
And he had on his light blue suit.
I ve seen people beating, and theres no doubt
What I saw was sometimes a bit far out.
But does that help us? No.
5
3
Then Fredi Rohsmeisl went for them both
Two 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.
4
And 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
To 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 doubt
What I heard was sometimes a bit far out.
But does that help us? No.
6
5
He 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
Hes had ityes, sirree!
I ve heard people cursing, and theres no doubt
What I heard was sometimes a bit far out.
But does that help us? No.
6
Then 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
The dance so hotly danced was the Twist
The state attorneyin full view
Of Freditried the new dance too.
I ve seen people changing, and theres no doubt
What 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
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THE BALLAD OF
THE OLD WOMEN
OF BUCKOW
The old, old women of Buckow
Wait long, long hours for fish.
The PGH of the fishermen
Delivers the fish much fresher
Than the HO, oho, than the HO, oho!
Thats why the women of Buckow
Stand in line from 5 a .m .
The 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.
Thats why the women of Buckow
Stand in line from 5 a .m .
The old, old women of Buckow
Sound off against the State
Since it has fresh fish
Only on Saturday.
The 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.
That made the women of Buckow
So angry and so wet.
9
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THE BALLAD OF
THE SWEET CHERRY SEASON
IN BUCKOW
The little room beneath the roof
Has table, chair and bed.
The sheets are fresh and white; the walls
Are blue; the floors are red.
This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time
The trees line the road as you see
This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time
Co-operatives own every tree
And on each tree a sign can be read:
TH E PEOPLES PRO PERTY IS PRO-TEC-TED!
In the night, in the night,
And especially: in the night.
The guests are young and beautiful
The hostess old and beat
And when a guest leans out the window
He sees the little street.
The street in Buckow at sweet cherry time
The trees line the road as you see
This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time
Co-operatives own every tree
And on each one this sign can be read:
TH E PEOPLES PRO PERTY 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 time
The trees line the road as you see
This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time
Co-operatives own every tree
And on each one this sign can be read:
TH E PEOPLES PROPERTY 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:
Were servicing our chicks ourselves!
And offered to beat me up.
This was in Buckow at sweet cherry time
The 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:
TH E PEOPLES PROPERTY 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!
I ts empty here.
The summer is cold.
Were getting old.
Miss Rosa has veal.
I ts 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 TV today?
Watching 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.
Watching T V today?
Yes I m watching T V today.
13
Small-Toum Sunday
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PORTRA I TS
MR. BRECHT
Three years after his death
Mr. Brecht was walking
From the Huguenot Cemetery
Along Friedrichstrasse
To his theater.
On the way he met
One fat man
Two fat women
One boy.
What, he thought,
Arent these the eager beavers
From the Brecht Archive?
What, he thought,
Are you still not finished
With all that crap?
And he smiled
His insolent-modest smile and was
Content.
19
Conrad &Julian Chmau
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LlilES AAIb YET I S Go/JE. HE LJt/ES Aa/2 YET U Goa/E
COMRADE JULIN GRIMAU
Oh, sister!
When dawn is gray in Madrid
While here the men are still sleeping
J ulin Grimau is dying.
Oh, brother!
When dawn is gray in Madrid
While here the sun rises bleeding
J ulin Grimau is dying.
Oh, mammal
When dawn is gray in Madrid
Before we are reading our newspapers
J ulin Grimau is dying.
Oh, comrades!
Madrid is red at dawn
Julin Grimau lives on with us!
He 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.
He protested against the persecution of the Negroes.
He was shot after one week.
Three bullets struck him in the forehead.
SUNDAY
Sunday he rested, William L. Moore,
After a week of work.
He was a letter carrier, thats all.
His home was Baltimore.
MONDAY
Monday, a day in Baltimore,
To his good wife, said he:
I m through delivering letters, my dear
I ts touring the South I would be.
BLACK AND WH I TE, UNI TE, UNI TE!
He wrote on a sign
And J I M CROW MUST GO, MUST GO!
And he set out alone.
23
TUESDAY
Tuesday, a day on the train going down,
Many asked William Moore:
What is the sign you got there with you?
And wished him luck on his tour.
BLACK AND WHI TE, UNI TE, UNI TE!
Written on his sign . . .
W E D N E S D A Y
Wednesday, through Alabama that day,
William Moore went on foot.
Long is the road to Birmingham
And his feet hurt him a lot.
BLACK AND WHI TE, UNI TE, UNI TE! etc.
T H U R S D A Y
Thursday, the Sheriff stopped William Moore
Told him: But you are white!
Niggers are none of your business, he said.
Fellow, just think of the price!
BLACK AND WHI TE, UNI TE, UNI TE! etc.
24
FRI DAY
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!
BLACK AND WH I TE, UNI TE, UNI TE! etc.
S A T U R D A Y
Saturday, this day was frightfully hot
And a white woman came
Gave him a drink and secretly said:
You and I think just the same.
BLACK AND WH I TE, UNI TE, UNI TE! etc.
LAST DAY
Sunday, a blue blue day, and he
Lay in the grass so green
Three red carnations, crimson as blood,
On his pale forehead were seen.
BLACK AND WH I TE, UNI TE, UNI TE!
Written on his sign.
And: J I M CROW MUST GO, MUST GO!
And he died quite alone.
He wont remain alone.
25
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THE BARLACH SONG
Oh, Mother, close the windows, do,
The rain is surely coming
And yonder is the bank of clouds
That 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,
The rats are surely coming
The 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,
The rain and rats are coming
And through the cracks that we forgot
They all will soon be crowding.
What is in store for us
We have so much to dread
And down to earth from heaven
Angels are falling dead.
27
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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
The 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 him
How 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.
I f he forgets the words I prompt
Him out of Brechts Threepenny.
1
29
2
My 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.
I ts 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
The 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.
While stealing or while kissing he
Fine shameless songs would sing
As free as bird in wood; but now
He sits there stammering.
The vodka schnapps from Adlershof
Just brings on his migraine.
ND is hard for him to read
The German gives him pain.
They taught him Latin when he was
A child at school but when
Villon got older he preferred
The speech of simpler men.
3
31
4
I f Mary visits me at night
Frank Villon, for our sins,
Goes strolling on the Wall 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 Walls 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 un
derstanding for us two.
32
5
But nothing here can long be hid
And out came the whole story.
Theres Order in our land just as
I n 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 DDR,
Youll hear your countrys call.
Is it not truenow dont be scared
That for about a year
There has lived here a certain Frank
Fillonk whos got red hair?
Hes a subversive and at night
Has offered provocation
To border guards. At this point I
Made this mild declaration:
33
6
With his fresh songs hes tried to make
Of me an agitator.
I can tell you in confidence:
I do not like the traitor.
I f 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
BERL I N
Ascensin Day in Berlin
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ASCENSION DAY
IN BERLIN
The kids in the yard play happily
Princess, murderer, peoples cop.
They do not have to go to school:
Todays Ascension Day.
The kids in the yard play noisily
Bedecked with rags and tatters.
They play at bride and cosmonaut
I n a spaceship of cardboard.
The kids play noisily, happily.
The yard becomes a theater.
At 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 bride
Lives on the sixth floor
And when the town belows still gray
Here up above theres sunshine.
My 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.
I f I m lonely she likes to have
A little fun with me.
A hundred stairs lead the way
To my tenement bride.
I f 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 l l a d o f i t c Crazy Barbara
! k - K- - - 1- - - ^
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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
That 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 thi nki ng of
well, not of Marie.
42
BRIGITTE
I went to you
Your bed was empty.
I wanted to read
And thought of nothing,
To go to the movies
And knew the film.
I went to a bar
And was alone.
I was hungry
And 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 man
Who 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
I t didnt hurt him
Hed been drinking so.
And over the ice
The cold made me run
Through the alleys to you
To whom all this is unknown.
43
AT THE EAR NOSE
AND THROAT DOCTORS
Just 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: its the name of the veil
By which the pleasure of the eyes
Conceals itself.
The sky is full of apples
Apple pie
Apple tree
Adams apple
Adenoidal
Adenauer.
44
RHYME TRAUMA
Lots of people full of fight
Clung fast to Bus Number Nine
And you wore your cap so white
Which 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: tonight
I will take a little bite
Of youto wash my wounds. All right?
But here comes the Number Nine
Which also could use a wash sometime.
45
Bt R L I
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R - L a/ , you AL L TOO G E R .-M A M L A SS I LL Woo YOU / T H M Y

LYRE i DUR HA J2)> ARE SO COA RSE-GRAS2>j A - LAS FROH Th


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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
I n the West the Walls a tough one
And in the East are my good friends
The North wind is a rough one.
Berlin, I m coolly courting you
Youre blond if not bewitching
Your skys a rather bitchy blue
To 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
REA SSURA NCES
AND REVI SI ONS
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
The 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 Marx Engels Platz
A backfiring shell, a dumpling stuck fast in the fat neck
Of the responsible, who fear nothing so much as
Responsibility.
Well then
would 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
I f 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!
Lets 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.
I n the summer war
They lie among flowers
And shoot people.
At the Christmas Fair
They stand among people
And shoot flowers.
The people whove been shot down
Are gathered up by death.
The flowers that have been shot down
Are gathered up by the girl.
The ferns are shooting up.
My son is shooting up.
Ferns
Are protected by laws for the conservation of Nature.
When at long last will our nature protect us
So people like us will not be shot by
People like us?
53
The Family afk
A O
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THE FAMILY BATH
Every Saturday the fat and jolly father
Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles
To 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
I n the ancient iron bathtub
With the spotty white enamel.
Then his wife after the chil
dren 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
To prepare the weekly bath
So his chil-
so his chil-
So his children will be clean.
55
With his good wife now he plays
Blue Mediterranean.
In the Nineteen Forties he
Spent a couple weeks down there
Major of Herr Adolf Hitler
Now hes only playing war
With his good wife in the Med
iterranean.
Every Saturday the fat and jolly father
Takes the coal scuttle and scuttles
To 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
Mother is tint anyiohere
not anywhere
not
56
TOYS
With the train
We learn how
To go to Grannies.
That is fun
With the doll
We like to eat soup
Ti l l were full
That is fun
With the ball
We make Peters
Bear take a fall
Hes a dumb one
With the pussycats
Paul learns to scratch
Little Ann
Which is fun
With the armored truck
We learn how
Train
Doll and soup
The 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 God
No man is wholly lost Be gentle in your verdict!
Be gentle! Be gentle, citizens, Christians!
Adolf Hitler loved his dog
Adolf 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 ruin
The generals who brought ruins
Have placed a girdle about the bloody waist
Of (oh!) Germany the pale mother
And I wont stand for it
And I wont stand for it!
58
Everything, everything will be missing:
Soup in the pot
Salt in tears
Tears in eyes
The eye in the head
The head on the trunk
And death will be missing, yes
Even death will croak
There will be nothing left to die
The hope of death is snatched from the people
Have mercy on death
Men, 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.
I f their left hands are caught in a buzz saw
They write with their mouths.
Theorylibel and eulogy
Stands naked and ashamed
On the pedestal of the Nation
With 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
Happy men.
I n my songs you want to hear me
Raise high the terse tone
Of bliss. The diamond
The little diamond
You want me to enlarge
I nto a block of mountains.
I m to dish out the moment of highest pleasure
I n your single-course dinner.
You shout for the red wonder cook
And when I bring you my rich foods:
Potatoes
Beefsteak
Pineapple
Olives
White bread
Garlic
Finely chopped chervil
And 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 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 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
r r p e p - g s E f
r P P P P P
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I A/ THElA HEAfiTi CRAY ASH - E s.
ARS YOU SA Via/G. UP YOJF
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FOOL WHO 2>AY BY 2>AY S/TS 3 - S/DE THE R/ - VR
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WA/ - TnJCs FO THE WA-TSRS TO ST oP FLOW - / aJ C
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WH ICH FLOW ON FOR \ ! - E / l ?
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 water
Very soon will cease to flow
But in springtime when the ice melts
The 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 Social
ism wins the victory
Not tomorrow: Now! For ne\ er
Too soon comes Liberty.
And the remedy for Social
ism (this bit I shall roar!)
Is still more Socialism
ST I L L MORE, 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,
The 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!
The thousand enchanted witches
Picked out the skys 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
That 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
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
which
I f they dont 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,
And even for the deepest pain of love
Our hearts are still weak, and weak still
Are our loins.
So, many a slim young fellow
Is crushed by this great big beautiful woman
In gaudy nights of love. Yes,
2
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
Dont 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
I n that you leave to us
The new beginning!
RECKLESS ABUSE
1
1, 1, 1
Am 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!
The Collective is on the wrong track
I am the individual
The Collective has become isolated from me
Dont glare at me so understandingly!
Oh yes, I know very well
Youre waiting with earnest certitude
For me to swim
I nto 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
I f I were to smile gently
At every fat lie
You would think me
A wise man
I f I were to overlook injustice
The way you overlook your wives
You would have folded me to your bosom long ago
3
Not to call the child by its name
To smother pleasure and
To swallow pain
To walk the Middle Way
On the outermost edge of the battlefield
To call the swamp now sea, now dry land
All 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
2
72
Wish to preach Communism at me
And are the I nquisition on happiness. You
Drag souls to the stake! You
Tie 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!
4
I will persist in truth
I , the liar
5
I love all of you:
This I set my name to
Rain, hail, or storm
My love for you is warm
But now please leave me alone
On my wrong track
Cut off from the Collective
Yes, I have strange bedfellows
My bedfellow is my wife
And she knows where my heart is
73
S a l l a J Of f h t ! M a n
w
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0 * l C T n S P * A S A M A N W ' H Q S T . P D ! / J \ J / T H H i S
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SHIT. r i W A S 2 > / S - U S - T D Q u i T B Y
i
0 - 4 0 4 0- - - - 0-
[ f i SJ D SO ON, f l WO SO FORTHj EACH TIMS IZf r ht SPOSEO f i V A
WHOLE T O N E ]
Once there was a man
Who stepped in with his foot
Stepped with his naked foot
Right in a heap of shit.
He was disgusted quite
By this one foot of his
And wanted with this foot
To walk not one yard more.
There was no water there
To 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
That foot he hacked right off
Hurriedly with his axe.
He hurried overmuch
I t was the cleaner foot
I t was the wrong foot that
He hurriedly chopped off.
Who cut off both his feet with his own hands.
75
Then he got in a rage
And so made up his mind
To 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
I nexorably 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
cash
I n the bunkers of my skepticism I sit immune
To the radiance of the great obscurantists
And the hatred of yesterday shields me from the storm
Of 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
Torn apart under the wild sky of the neighborhood
Butcher hooks are driven into my belly
Whaling factories float in my eye
On my tongue lies the hope of the hopeless
Feebly my wild dreams flow in the end
I nto the shambles of your schools and offices
Sausage machines greedily swallow my remains
The countryside waits hungrily on the edge of the sea of
houses
And the great wet city licks its chops
Over the well-earned Sunday roast Biermann
77
Mathinj To I t
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torEAi I' M OH F/ vJHftJ ' M OK f i * E _ / RZACt i 3 0 * * 1 A
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NOTHING TO IT
When I m on fire
When 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 freezing
When 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 place
When I m at her place
Clouds come floating down from heaven
Down with the clouds rolls the sun.
Thats what loves like.
Nothing to it.
When I am tired
When I am tired
I reach God down from His heaven
And have Him 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 DDI TI ONA L POEMS
GERMANY:
A WINTERS TALE
(Part One)
I n the German December from East Berlin
To West Berlin flowed the Spree
And I floated in a railway train
High over the Wall 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
This way on foot had been shot.
Many have thrown their youthful flesh
On the wire and the mines.
The riddled bucket leaks when the sub
Machine gun barks from behind.
Not every man is so well built
As the poet Frank Villon
Who got away with a few red spots
Just winestains, says the song.
My minds eye saw a cousin of mine
The impertinent Heinrich Heine
Who swam to Germany from France
With 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
To save embarrassment
West Germans polish and perfume
The German excrement.
And they have managed to succeed
Where alchemy failed, I m told:
In German shit has now been found
The formula for gold.
The DDR, my Fatherland,
However, is very clean
And a return to Nazi ways
Is nowhere to be seen.
With the hard broom of Stalin we
So rubbed our bodies down
The backside now is scratched all red
That formerly was brown.
85
Lcaend of *he Sol di er i n World Uar UJ
y t j j J U
WHEN MO/?-N/s/6 MU/?-MR ROUSED HIS LUST THE SLEEP HE SLEPT A S
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WE SHALL F/ fJ D, KA-REAl. THOUGH COLD THE W/ND.


n
THAT ALL IS WELL-.
LEGEND OF THE SOLDIER
IN WORLD WAR III
When morning murder roused his lust
The sleep he slept was grand:
He lay on his gal, and she could see
The 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.
While love lasts we shall find,
Karen, though cold the wind,
That all is well.
The earth was one great ship of death
One big round open sore
The stars in the sky werent beautiful now
No one saw' them any more.
The angels wings were all burned off
The Lord Gods beard was burned
For lack of souls the Day of Judgment
Had to be adjourned.
87
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 war
The 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.
88
MORNING DICTUM OF GENERAL KY
A government that has nothing more to fear
Than the people
Can last a long time, as long as
The people fears nothing more
Than the government.
89
G E N E R A L K YS D R E AM
But finally the government passed a law
That 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
They 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. To whom is our lying useful?
Many say: I n the long run Socialism
Is quite unavoidable
Good. But whos putting it through?
91
NOTES
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
PGH : the initials stand for Produktionsgenossenschaften des
Handioerks, words which mean production co-operatives of
crafts.
HO: stands for Handelsorganisation, trading organization, the
name attached to government-owned food shops in East Ger
many. And, of course, the exclamations Ho! and Oho! exist
in German as well as in English.
T H E B A L L A D OF T H E S WE E T C H E R R Y SE A SO 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
Julin Grimau was a Communist who was executed under the
Franco regimeat dawn, April 20, 1963.
B A L L A D ON T H E P O E T F R A N O I S V I L L O N
ND: initials of Neues Deutschland, Communist newspaper, writ
ten in the language of functionaries.
DDR: Deutsche Demokratische Republik, or German Demo
cratic Republic.
Kurella: Alfred 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.
AT T H E E AR NO SE AND T H R O A T D O C T O R S
In German, die Mandel 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 Adams apple. (To
fit the new pattern, a haze! nut becomes a pear.) \ denoids sug
gests Adenauer (and vice versa, though the words Biermann
worked with are Mandel and Fernandel).
RHYME T RAUMA
This poem is based on German rhymes which cannot be dupli
cated in English.
THE SI NGER'S I NAUGURAL 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 trans
late Mensch, in one instance, as bab\ .-
T H E F A M I L Y B AT H
Biermann 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. The word pla\ in the English is. perforce, differ
entit is by way of using the first syllable of children to suggest
the blood-<'//r7iing.
L A ST V A R I A T I O N ON T H E OL D T H E M E
Stick em in!: This phrase translates Steck ein! which has been
attributed to General Trettner. at the time this poem was writ
ten head of the West German army. On being asked about the
possibility of mines being placed at the border between East and
96
West Germany, Trettner is supposed to have said, Stick em
in. (He denies it.)
Pale mother: the phrase, as applied to Germany, is taken from
the opening phrase of Brechts poem Deutschland: O Deutsch
land, bleiche Mutter. The 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 SP E E C H
Single-course dinner: the phrase translates Eintopf, a name for a
single-dish meal which was enjoined on everyone on certain days
in Hitler Germany.
R E C K L E SS A B U SE
Yes, I have strange bedfellows: Here, one pun has replaced an
other. The German reads: Ich liege eben schief/ ich lieg bei
meiner 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 OF T H E MA N
The translator has aimed at the metrical primitivity of nursery
rhyme, but in the original a particular nursery rhyme is alluded
to, that begins: Es war einmal ein Mann,/ Der hatte einen
Schwamm . . . (The same nursery rhyme seems to lurk in the
background of Brigitte.)
G E R M A N Y : A W I N T E R S T A L E ( P A R T O NE )
Unpublished in Die Drahtharfe, it appeared in Neuss (sic)
Deutschland, 8 May 1965, a sort of German Private Eye, pub
lished in West Berlin until forced out of business by the Estab
lishment in early 1966. I t 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.
L E G E N D OF T H E SO L D I E R I N WO R L D WAR I I I
Unpublished in Die Drahtharfe, the German text has been tran
scribed from a tape recording. As the title suggests, this song is a
kind of sequel to a poem in Brechts Manual of Piety, Legend
of the Dead Soldier; and the gal of Biermanns opening lines
might possibly be the half-uncovered gal of Brechts seventh
stanza.
98
Wolf 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 Die Drahtharfe (The Wire 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, Wolf Biermann does not consider himself an anti
Communist. 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.
WO L F B I E R M AN N
East German poet and balladeer, was born in
Hamburg 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. The theater wTas dissolved
after two years, and he was forbidden to per
form publicly. I n 1965, his West Berlin pub
lisher, Klaus Wagenbach, published The Wire
Harp, which has sold close to 40,000 copies,
making Biermann one of the most successful
German lyric poets of the twentieth century.
This led to the promulgation of a new law
known unofficially as the lex Biermann
prohibiting East German authors from pub
lishing in Western countries without first
submitting their works to East German pub
lishers and their censorship.
Wolf Biermann continues to live in East
Berlin, barred from public appearances, and
forbidden to publish, record, or travel.
Jacket design by Ken Braren
WO L F B I E R M AN N

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