Eng Krichsfantasie
Aus Australien
Oh, so mer, Krichsgott, so mer! wat gëtt aus eisen Dreem!
De Kinnek ass am Gruef an de Millionär doheem;
De Keeser bei den Truppen, den Zar ass un der Front.
Oh, so mer, Krichsgott, so mer! Wie gëtt rëm net geschount?
An d'Queen stréckt Strëmp fir d'Truppen, an d'Keeserin scho laang,
Si wëssen net méi wéi anerer, wéi all dat ugefaang.
Blesséiert kämpfs de virun, oder kämpfs dann ëm däi Brout;
Wien fält gëtt ënnert anere begruef — déi Doudeg bei déi Doud.
Jonk Wittfra fënnt vläicht nach e Mann, déi al bleift alt eleng —
An all d'Natioune vun der Welt hunn rëm hir Krichszäit-Pläng!
Mee éier et rëm sou wäit ass, Gott, so, wat soll aus eis ginn!
Milliounen op der Kampfeslinn, wou mir knapp d'Hallschent sinn!
Du hues, oh Gott, d'Welt grouss erschaf, duerch eis ass kleng se ginn.
Mir hunn net wéi virdru geschafft, eis d'Spill war grell a wüst,
A sou hu mir eis Stied gebaut, wéi Waarzelen un der Küst.
Aus Europa
D'Hex hat sech an hir Hiel verkroch, um Bierg stoung de Prophéit;
D'Zigeiner waren an dem Won, d'Matrousen héich op Séi;
A senger Fotell de Sophist, rett ganz bestëmmt keng Séil;
D'Fabrikesklave schaffe vill, grad wéi de Bauer um Feld;
Am Wanter schaffen d'Fraen dann fir en Zéngtel vun dem Geld;
Déi Al huet d'Kand versuergt, fir dass d'Mamm schafft ewéi e Sklav;
Dat Klengt, dat louch a senger Wéi, de Grousspapp an dem Graf.
De räiche Mann, deen huet genäipt, Wäin, Fleesch am Iwwermooss;
D'Madamm souz an der Kutsch adrett; an d'Houer op der Strooss,
D'Gesiicht bemoolt, huet sech vum Schnéi net ofhale gelooss.
Déi Räich an Déck hunn 't iwwerdriff, vill Misär ass geschitt —
Den héchste Gott huet näischt gesot, an op der Welt war Fridd!
Um Bierg huet de Prophéit gehëmmst, en houscht seng Longe prett,
Well hie war al a louch scho bal op sengem Doudebett;
Hien huet gekuckt an huet gesinn, de Stär vun Nazareth.
"Zwee Dausend Joer si vergaang, een Dausend," huet e gesout,
"Een Honnert Joer si vergaang, a kuckt! de Stär ass rout!
An d'Zäit ass endlech do," e béit säi groe Kapp mat Nout,
En huet sech op de Bierg geluecht — an domat war en dout.
Den Oststär dee war rout, jo rout dat war en, ëmmerhin —
Am Süden hu mer op de Roude Stär wéi ëmmer guer näischt ginn.
(D'Prophéite stierwen Hongers hei, oder zu Doud gesoff.)
D'Hex grommelt an dem Lach nach ier et richteg hell ass ginn
Si huet e krommen Aascht geholl, zitt duerch de Leem eng Linn,
Si huet gewuddert a gekëmmt, wéi Hexen alt sou sinn.
"Véier Kanner," sot si dunn, "déi komme gläich op d'Welt;
Véier — Baurekanner all — ëm eis ass 't schlecht bestellt.
Aus äermstem Haus, europawäit," huet si erausgejaut,
"An all d'Natioune vun der Welt, déi zielen dann hir Doud'!"
Italien huet seng Kanner krut — an d'Welt, déi fierft sech rout!
D'Schëff
Deng Welt, oh Här, war wäit fir eis, an d'Kricher wäit ewech!
An d'Zil war grad sou no, oh Här, haut oder éiweglech!
De Bam deens du geplanzt war staark a gutt Baumaterial.
(Wann däischter mol den Himmel war hues du d'Hand drop gehal.)
Eng héich, riicht Kifer hues d'eis ginn fir d'Schëff stabil ze man
Eis lénge Seeg'le ware staark, zolidd a fest gespaant.
Du hues eis d'Eisen aus der Minn an och vill Wësse ginn,
Wéi een e richtegt Schëff erbaut hu mir duerch dech gesinn.
Deng Welt, oh Här, war ëmmer wäit, an d'Himmelszeechen no;
An all deng Stären hunn eis gutt op eisem Wee gelootst.
Graziéis ewéi en Albatross, ganz liicht a riichter Linn,
Dat Schëff do war déi edelst Saach, déi d'Welle jee gesinn.
A wann der Mënsche Wahnsinn dann am Krich emol verläscht
Dann hoffen ech, dass op dem Mier dat Schëff erëm erwächt.
Et war eis net genuch, oh Här, et war eis ni genuch;
Mir hunn d'Elektresch dir geklaut, de Stolz ass eise Fluch!
Fir eis a fir ons Laascht ze dro'n hues du e Päerd eis ginn,
Mee mir hu misse Fléie woen an tauchen ënnenhin.
Mir hunn op hell'ger Plaz gesicht, no deem wat kee Mënsch brauch
Däin Ierger huet eis Stied gepaakt — mir stoungen op dem Schlauch.
Mir hunn däi Waasser an deng Loft fir "Energie" geplëmmt
An däin Elektreschspäicher gëtt elo och nach gefëmmt.
Mee enges Daags — do brauche mir — se allen dräi bestëmmt!
A wann s du fir eist Dreiwe gär e gudde Grond lo häss
Dann hae mir deng Beem riicht ëm, an drécke Ligepress.
Eis cool Titanic sollt der Welt vun eisem Fortschrëtt soen
An all hir Läiche leie räich mat Schmock um Mieresgronn.
Aus Virwëtz, Muechtgier oder Stolz, fir Tosch oder fir d'Truh,
Mir wollten alles wëssen an och kënnen, sou wéi s du!
Vu Pol zu Pol duerch d'Loft geschoss eis Kommunikatioun —
Eis Booter déi zerstéieren gewëssenhaft all Toun.
Mir hunn op Krich riicht higeschafft, fir dass all Schwëster-Land
Bis zum Knéi am Blutt vum Mënschekand eis Wierker bréngt zuschand!
Wëll an deem ganz verduerwene "Fridd" — méi schlëmm wéi richtege Sträit —
Hu Mënschlechkeet a Liewensfreed an d'Messer mir gehäit.
D'Klacken an d'Kand
De Gong ass an dem Tempel — am Tuerm dinn d'Klacken Uecht;
Am Dschungel soen d'Tromm'len — am Duerf den Zär gutt Nuecht;
An d'Vullen déi s du all geschaf erënneren un deng Muecht.
Huet jee e Staatsmann Land gerett, jee Wëssenschaft eng Séil?
Konnt jee en Tuerm vu Babel, jee Krichs-Tromm hale stéil?
Nach manner Hochzäitsklacken — a Péise bleiwe stéil?
Huet jee e ganz klengt Këndchen — gebuer gesond a staark —
Och nëmme fir eng Stënnchen, dir net grouss Éier gemaach?
Wann hatt mat senger Rësel fir säi stolze Papp gelaacht?
Am Doum huet d'Klack eng Weilche Paus, a Stolz a Sënn si Schold
Si huet all Kinnekshochzäit nach gelaut mat vill Gedold
An och gelaut fir all déi Leit, déi daper si gestuerf
(Si huet dat aalt Joer ausgelaut, dat neit eragehuef.)
Du hues, oh Gott, d'Welt grouss erschaf, duerch eis ass kleng se ginn.
An iwwerall kënnt Blutt gelaf, well mir sou clever sinn!
Millioune fanne lo hiert Graf, eng Kugel riicht se hin,
Well mir sou clever sinn.
Dëst Gedicht ass aus dem Lawson sengem Band My Army, O, My Army! And Other Songs [Meng Arméi, oh meng Arméi, an aner Lidder] vun 1915. Wéi d'Buch an d'Bicherbutteker komm ass, war den Éischte Weltkrich zanter laange Méint amgaang an et war ofzegesinn, dass en och den nächste Chrëschtdag nach net eriwwer wier. Den Auteur gesäit mat Horror, wéi esou vill jonk Männer der Propaganda vun de Massemedien an hire respektive Länner nolauschteren, an an de "Krich, deen all de Kricher en Enn setzt" zéien, nëmme fir als Versuchskanéngercher vun der moderner Artillerie, den Tanks an den nei entwéckelte chemesche Waffen hiert Liewen ze loossen. Den Dichter a Sozialist kann nëmmen hëlleflos nokucken, wéi en Tsunami vu Leed iwwert d'Welt eraschléit. Hie kann d'Ursaachen erkennen, zuguer benennen, mä verhënnere kann hien se esou wéineg ewéi all déi aner. Der Hybris vun de Krichsdreiwer, déi um Doud vu Millioune gutt verdingen, huet hien näischt entgéint ze setzen. Zuguer déi angeblech héchst Machthaber ‒ Kinnek, Keeser an Zar, deenen een esou gär d'Schold un allem Onbill gëtt, sinn un der Front, och d'Queen stréckt brav Strëmp fir d'Zaldoten a versteet d'Zesummenhäng net méi wéi d'Aarbechterin an der Fabrik, wärend de Millionär, deen d'Fiedem am Hannergrond zitt an deen als eenzegen um Krichsgeschéie verdéngt, sécher doheem sëtzt. An esou fannen Milliounen hiert Graf, "well mir sou clever sinn."
An de leschte Versen schléit de Lawson de Bou zu sengem Gedicht Deemools, wéi d'Welt nach sou wäit. Gott huet d'Welt grouss erschaf, "duerch eis ass kleng se ginn." Eng Krichsfantasie ass iwwer honnert Joer al, mä trauregerweis ass et ëmmer nach en aktuellt Gedicht vun enger Welt, wou all d'Ressourcen ouni ee Gedanken u muer verbraucht ginn: "Mir hunn däi Waasser an deng Loft fir "Energie" geplëmmt / Grad wéi d'Elektresch aus dem Kär war 't net dofir gegrënnt." An erëm gesäit de Lawson och d'ëffentlech Medie vu senger Zäit an der Schold wann e schreift: "Dann hae mir deng Beem riicht ëm, an drécke Ligepress."
Mä trotz der schwéierer Zäit an dem stelleweis desillusionéierten Toun, deen en uschléit, wollt sech de Lawson seng positiv Astellung erhalen, wéi d'Dédicace vir am Buch weist: "Ouni Erlabnes mengem generéise Patréiner op zwou Erdhallefkugelen, dem Grof Beauchamp, fréier emol zu Nei Südwales, zouerkannt. Hien war "ze demokratesch fir dëst Land, dat e leede sollt". Bei menger üblecher Unerkennung fir de Bulletin wëll ech virun allem dem Verleeër James Edmond e grousse Merci soen. Den "Jimmy" ass fort an dat wëllt Afrika wou e senger Gesondheet nojuecht (an net onschëllegen Déieren), ech hoffen, d'nächst Joer erëm säin alt Grommelen, méi haart wéi jee, aus dem Verlagsstull ze héieren."
Dësen Text sollt eigentlech meng kleng Rondrees duerch dem Lawson seng Gedichter ofschléissen. Eng Bäckesch Dosen vun der beschter australescher Poesie, déi d'Themen, déi dem Dichter um Häerz louchen, illustréieren. Mä e Mënsch, op deen ech gäre lauschteren, huet fonnt, dass d'Buch op enger méi positiver Nout sollt ophalen. An dofir kënnt no dëser Krichsfantasie nach e méi fréit Gedicht, dat de Lawson 1892 geschriwwen huet. Et ass 1918, véier Joer vru sengem Doud, an sengem leschte Gedichtband Selected Poems of Henry Lawson erauskomm. Ech setzen et ouni Kommentar heihin, et schwätzt fir sech selwer. Op der nächster Säit, mat engem grousse Merci fir Ären Interêt un dësem Buch, Wann den Hënner duerch schéngt.
A Fantasy of War
From Australia
Oh, tell me, God of Battles! Oh, say what is to come!
The King is in his trenches, the millionaire at home;
The Kaiser with his toiling troops, the Czar is at the front.
Oh! Tell me, God of Battles! Who bears the battle's brunt?
The Queen knits socks for soldiers, the Empress does the same,
And know no more than peasant girls which nation is to blame.
The wounded live to fight again, or live to slave for bread;
The Slain have graves above the Slain — the Dead are with the Dead.
The widowed young shall wed or not, the widowed old remain —
And all the nations of the world prepare for war again!
But ere that time shall be, O God, say what shall here befall!
Ten millions at the battle fronts, and we're five millions all!
The world You made was wide, O God, the world we made is small.
We toiled not as our fathers toiled, for sport was all our boast;
And so we built our cities, Lord, like warts, upon the coast.
From Europe
The seer stood on the mountain side, the witch was in her cave;
The gypsy with his caravan, the sailor on the wave;
The sophist in his easy chair, with ne'er a soul to save;
The factory slaves went forth to slave, the peasant to the field;
The women worked in winter there for one-tenth of the yield;
The village Granny nursed their babes to give them time to slave;
The child was in the cradle, and the grandsire in his grave.
The rich man slumbered in his chair, full fed with wine and meat;
The lady in her carriage sat, the harlot walked the street
With paint upon her cheek and neck, through winter's snow and sleet.
We saw the pride of Wealth go mad, and Misery increase —
And still the God of Gods was dumb and all the world was Peace!
The wizard on the mountain side, he drew a rasping breath,
For he was old and near to life, as he was near to death;
And he looked out and saw the star they saw at Nazareth.
"Two thousand years have passed," he said. "A thousand years," he said.
"A hundred years have passed," he said, "and, lo! the star is red!
The time has come at last," he said, and bowed his hoary head.
He laid him on the mountain-side — and so the seer was dead.
And so the Eastern Star was red, and it was red indeed —
We saw the Red Star in the South, but we took little heed.
(The Prophet in his garret starved or drank himself to death.)
The witch was mumbling in her hole before the dawn was grey;
The witch she took a crooked stick and prodded in the clay;
She doddered round and mumbled round as is the beldame's way.
"Four children shall be born," she said, "four children at a birth;
Four children of a peasant brood — and what shall come on earth?
Four of the poorest peasantry that Europe knows," she said,
"And all the nations of the world shall count their gory dead!"
The babes are born in Italy — and all the world is red!
The Ship
The world You gave was wide, O Lord, and wars were far away!
The goal was just as near, O Lord, tomorrow or today!
The tree You grew was stout and sound to carve the plank and keel.
(And when the darkness hid the sky Your hand was on the wheel.)
The pine You grew was straight and tall to fashion spar and mast.
Our sails and gear from flax and hemp were stout and firm and fast.
You gave the metal from the mine and taught the carpenter
To fasten plank and rib and beam, and sheath and iron her.
The world You made was wide, O Lord, with signs on sea and sky;
And all the stars were true, O Lord, you gave to steer her by.
More graceful than the albatross upon the morning breeze.
Ah me! she was the fairest thing that ever sailed the seas;
And when the madness of mankind burns out at last in war,
The world may yet behold the day she'll sail the seas once more.
We were not satisfied, O Lord, we were not satisfied;
We stole Your electricity to fortify our pride!
You gave the horse to draw our loads, You gave the horse to ride;
But we must fly above the Alps and race beneath the tide.
We searched in sacred places for the things we did not need;
Your anger shook our cities down — and yet we took no heed.
We robbed the water and the air to give us "energy,"
As we'd exhaust Thy secret store of electricity.
The day may come — and such a day! — when we shall need all three.
And lest Thou shouldst not understand our various ways and whys,
We cut Thy trees for paper, Lord, where-on to print our lies.
We sent the grand Titanic forth, for pleasure, gold and show;
And all her skeletons of wealth and jewels lie below.
For fame or for curiosity, for pride and greed or trade,
We sought to know all things and make all things that Thou hast made!
From Pole to Pole we sought to speak, and Heaven's powers employ —
Our cruisers feverishly seek such language to destroy.
We shaped all things for war, and now the Sister Nations wade
Knee-deep in white man's blood to wreck all things that we have made!
For in the rottenness of Peace — worse than this bitter strife! —
We murdered the Humanity and Poetry of Life.
The Bells and the Child
The gongs are in the temple — the bells are in the tower;
The "tom-tom" in the jungle and the town clock tells the hour;
And all Thy feathered kind at morn have testified Thy power.
Did ever statesman save a land or science save a soul? —
Did ever Tower of Babel stand or war-drums cease to roll? —
Or wedding-bells to ring, O Lord — or requiems to toll?
Did ever child in cradle laid — born of a healthy race —
Cease for an hour, all unafraid, to testify Thy grace?
That shook its rattle from its bed in its proud father's face?
Cathedral bells must cease awhile, because of Pride and Sin,
That never failed a wedding-morn that hailed a king and queen,
Or failed to peal for victory that brave men died to win.
(Or failed to ring the Old Year out and ring the New Year in.)
The world You made was wide, O God! — O God, 'tis narrow now —
And all its ways must run with blood, for we knew more than Thou!
And millions perish at the guns or rot beside the plough,
For we knew more than Thou.
This poem is from Lawson's 1915 poetry collection, My Army, O, My Army! And Other Songs. When the compilation hit the bookshelves, World War I had been raging for months and wasn't likely to end by that year's Christmas time either. The author watches in horror as legions of young men believe the propaganda of their respective countries' mass media and enlist in "the war to end all wars", only to become guinea pigs for their newly-created chemical weapons, tanks and artillery. As a poet and socialist, Lawson was able to fathom the reasons for the tsunami of suffering that engulfed the world, he was able to denounce it, but he wasn't able to stop it any more than anybody else. What could possibly be done against the hubris of the warmongers who got rich on the death of millions? Even the supposedly mightiest men of a country ‒ the king, the emperor and the tsar, who routinely get blamed for all the evil that their nation does, are fighting at the front, the queen is demurely knitting socks for the soldiers and doesn't understand the connections any more than the girl working at the factory, while the billionaire who pulls the strings in the background is safely sitting at home and makes a handsome profit out of the calamity. And thus millions perish in the trenches, "for we knew more than Thou".
In the last stanza, Lawson references a line from his poem When the World Was Wide. God made the world wide, but because of mankind, "o God, 'tis narrow now." A War Fantasy is over a hundred years old, but it is, sadly, also a very modern, relevant poem, of an Earth stripped of its ressources, of a race that "robbed the water and the air to give us "energy," / As we'd exhaust Thy secret store of electricity." And again, Lawson denounces the behaviour of the official mass media of his time when he writes: "We cut Thy trees for paper, Lord, where-on to print our lies."
And yet, in spite of the difficult times and the disillusioned tone in some of the verses, Lawson was keen not to lose his good spirits, as evidenced by the dedication of his book: "Dedicated, without permission, to my generous patron in two hemispheres, Earl Beauchamp, erstwhile of New South Wales, who was "too democratic for the country he was sent to govern". In giving the usual acknowledgment to the Bulletin, I wish particularly to thank James Edmond, the Editor. "Jimmy" is away in the wilds of savage Africa hunting health (and not innocent animals), and I hope next year to hear his old growl, with increasing volume, from the Editorial Chair again."
This poem was supposed to end my little tour of Lawson's poetry. A baker's dozen of the finest Australian poetry, illustrating the themes that were dear to the poet's heart. But a wiser person than me advised me to end the book on a more positive note. And so A Fantasy of War shall be followed by an earlier poem which Lawson penned in 1892. It was published in 1918, four years before he died, in his last collection Selected Poems of Henry Lawson. I will leave it without a comment, as it beautifully speaks for itself. On the next page, with a big thank-you for your interest in this book, When Your Pants Begin to Go.