Bertolt Brecht translations of Holocaust Poems

The Burning of the Books

by Bertolt Brecht

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the Regime

commanded the unlawful books to be burned,

teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.

Then a banished writer, one of the best,

scanning the list of excommunicated texts,

became enraged: he’d been excluded! 

He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,

to write fiery letters to the incompetents in power --

Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen --

Haven’t I always reported the truth?

Now here you are, treating me like a liar!

Burn me! 

Parting

by Bertolt Brecht

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We embrace;

my fingers trace

rich cloth;

yours only threadbare fabric.

A quick hug:

you were invited to the gay soiree

while the law’s minions relentlessly pursue me.

We talk about the weather

and our eternal friendship. 

Anything else would be too bitter.

Radio Poem

by Bertolt Brecht

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You, little box, held tightly 

to me,

escaping,

so that your delicate tubes do not break;

carried from house to house, from ship to train, 

so that my enemies may continue communicating with me

on land and at sea

and even in my bed, to my pain;

the last thing I hear at night, the first thing when I awake,

recounting their many conquests and my cares, 

promise me not to go silent all of a sudden,

unawares.

The Mask of Evil

by Bertolt Brecht

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A Japanese carving hangs on my wall --

the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer. 

Not altogether unsympathetically, I observe 

the bulging veins of its forehead, noting

the great effort it takes to be evil.

Bertolt Brecht Epigrams and Quotations

These are my modern English translations of epigrams and quotations by Bertolt Brecht. 

Everyone chases the way happiness feels, 

unaware how it nips at their heels.

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The world of learning takes a crazy turn 

when teachers are taught to discern!

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unhappy, the land that lacks heroes. 

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hungry man, reach for the book: 

it's a hook, 

a harpoon. 

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Because things are the way they are, 

things can never stay as they were.

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

War is like love; true ...

it finds a way through. 

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What happens to the hole 

when the cheese is no longer whole?

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is easier to rob by setting up a bank 

than by threatening the poor clerk.

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not fear death so much, or strife, 

but rather fear the inadequate life.

�" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Bertolt Brecht, translation, translations, German,  modern English, epigram, epigrams, quote, quotes, quotations

Franta Bass: The Little Boy With His Hands Up

Frantisek “Franta” Bass was a Jewish boy born in Brno, Czechoslovakia in 1930. When he was just eleven years old, his family was deported by the Nazis to Terezin, where the SS had created a hybrid Ghetto/Concentration Camp just north of Prague (it was also known as Theresienstadt). Franta was one of many little boys and girls who lived there under terrible conditions for three years. He was then sent to Auschwitz, where on October 28th, 1944, he was murdered at age fourteen.

The Garden
by Franta Bass
translation by Michael R. Burch

A small garden,
so fragrant and full of roses!
The path the little boy takes
is guarded by thorns.

A small boy, a sweet boy,
growing like those budding blossoms!
But when the blossoms have bloomed,
the boy will be no more.

Jewish Forever
by Franta Bass
translation by Michael R. Burch

I am a Jew and always will be, forever!
Even if I should starve,
I will never submit!

But I will always fight for my people,
with my honor,
to their credit!

And I will never be ashamed of them;
this is my vow.
I am so very proud of my people now!

How dignified they are, in their grief!
And though I may die, oppressed,
still I will always return to life ...

Cleansings

by Michael R. Burch

Walk here among the walking specters. Learn

inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave

to bone this tightly if their hearts believe

that G-d is good, and never mind the Urn.

A lentil and a bean might plump their skin

with mothers’ bounteous, soft-dimpled fat

(and call it “health”), might quickly build again

the muscles of dead menfolk. Dream, like that,

and call it courage. Cry, and be deceived,

and so endure.

                         Or burn, made wholly pure.

One’s prayer is answered,

                                          “god” thus unbelieved.

No holy pyre this: death’s hissing chamber.

Two thousand years ago, a starlit manger,

weird Herod’s cries for vengeance on the meek,

the children slaughtered. Fear, when angels speak,

the prophesies of man.

                                    Do what you can,

not what you must, or should.

                                                They call you “good,”

dead eyes devoid of tears; how shall they speak

except in blankness? Fear, then, how they weep.

Escape the gentle clutching stickfolk. Creep

away in shame to retch and flush away

your vomit from their ashes. Learn to pray.

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