It could be Celan's poem, which I think is translated as 'A tree, leafless'
(for Bertolt Brecht) - I'm quoting from memory - come in between, or at
least that the Rich piece is strongly suggested by the Celan. I don't know,
though, the date of the Rich poem ,and of course it might precede the
Celan, which was about '66 or '67.

On 22 December 2011 00:50, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:

>  The Adrienne Rich poem is quoted in a psychotherapy conference paper my
> wife
> has been reading, and the paper-giver connects it with the earlier Brecht
> poem.
> I hope it's a good translation of the Brecht - I haven't even got a name
> for the
> translator.
>
>
>  To Those Born After
> by Bertolt Brecht
>
>
>
>         I
>
> To the cities I came in a time of disorder
> That was ruled by hunger.
> I sheltered with the people in a time of uproar
> And then I joined in their rebellion.
> That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
>
> I ate my dinners between the battles,
> I lay down to sleep among the murderers,
> I didn't care for much for love
> And for nature's beauties I had little patience.
> That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
>
> The city streets all led to foul swamps in my time,
> My speech betrayed me to the butchers.
> I could do only little
> But without me those that ruled could not sleep so easily:
> That's what I hoped.
> That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
>
> Our forces were slight and small,
> Our goal lay in the far distance
> Clearly in our sights,
> If for me myself beyond my reaching.
> That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
>
> II
>
> You who will come to the surface
> From the flood that's overwhelmed us and drowned us all
> Must think, when you speak of our weakness in times of darkness
> That you've not had to face:
>
> Days when we were used to changing countries
> More often than shoes,
> Through the war of the classes despairing
> That there was only injustice and no outrage.
>
> Even so we realised
> Hatred of oppression still distorts the features,
> Anger at injustice still makes voices raised and ugly.
> Oh we, who wished to lay for the foundations for peace and friendliness,
> Could never be friendly ourselves.
>
> And in the future when no longer
> Do human beings still treat themselves as animals,
> Look back on us with indulgence.
>
>
> What Kind of Times Are These
> by ADRIENNE RICH
>
> There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
> and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
> near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
> who disappeared into those shadows.
>
> I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be
> fooled
> this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
> our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
> its own ways of making people disappear.
>
> I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
> meeting the unmarked strip of light—
> ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
> I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
>
> And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
> anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
> to have you listen at all, it's necessary
> to talk about trees.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------
> This email was sent from Netspace Webmail: http://www.netspace.net.au
>



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