Two Important Lessons by Brecht

 The art of ceasing to teach

Me-ti said: Every teacher must learn how to stop teaching, when the time comes. That is a difficult art. Only a few are able, when the time is right, to allow reality to take their place. Only a few know when they have taught enough. Naturally, it's difficult to watch how the student, whom you've tried to save from making your own mistakes, now makes such mistakes. Difficult as it is, not to get advice, it's just as difficult, not to be allowed to give any.

Concealing failings

Me-ti said: The worst is not having failings, not even not resisting them is bad. What's bad is concealing them. Not to seem what you are, that's unfor- tunate for yourself. To seem what you are not is unfortunate for others. How should anyone go into battle at your side, if you haven't shown them your failings? The effort of appearing to be what you are not already exhausts all your energy for the fight. You're afraid, for example, that your friend might reject you, if he knew you're a coward. But what he needs to fear are only the consequences of your cowardice. He can avoid them better than you can provided he knows about your cowardice. Even someone who tells lies must at least make his best friends aware of it; he's not allowed to lie about that.

-Brecht (Me-ti)

Bach's Concerto No. 1 in C-Minor

 Bach's Concerto No. 1 in C-Minor

by Nâzım Hikmet (1902 – 1963)

(https://youtu.be/ljLi9A0H8H4?si=5rSXFsLu4KHRqnps) 

Fall morning in the vineyard:
       in row after row the repetition of knotty vines,
       of clusters on the vines,
       of grapes in the clusters,
       of light on the grapes.

At night, in the big white house,
       the repetition of windows,
       each lit up separately.

The repetition of all the rain that rains
       on earth, trees, and the sea,
       on my hands, face, and eyes,
       and of the drops crushed on the glass.

The repetition of my days
               that are alike,
               my days that are not alike.

The repetition of the thread in the weave,
          the repetition in the starry sky,
          and the repetition of "I love" in all languages,
          and the repetition of the tree in the leaves,
          and of the pain of living, which ends in an instant
          on every deathbed.

The repetition in the snow -
                the light snow,
                the heavy wet snow,
                the dry snow,
the repetition in the snow that whirls
in the blizzard that drives me off the road.

The children are running in the courtyard;
in the courtyard the children are running.
An old woman is passing by on the street;
on the street an old woman is passing by;
passing by on the street is an old woman.

At night, in the big white house,
               the repetition of windows,
               each lit up separately.

In the clusters, of grapes,
on the grapes, of light.

To walk toward the good, the just, the true,
to fight for the good, the just, the true,
to seize the good, the just, the true.

Your silent tears and smile, my rose,
your sobs and bursts of laughter, my rose,
the repetition of your shining white teeth when you laugh.

Fall morning in the vineyard:
       in row after row the repetition of knotty vines,
              of clusters on the vines,
              of grapes in the clusters,
              of light on the grapes,
              of my heart in the light.

My rose, this is the miracle of repetition -
to repeat without repeating.

Gone

 

Night and snow on the window-panes.
The rails gleam in the white night
reminding you of going
          and never coming back.
In the third-class waiting room
a woman is lying,
      her feet bare,
      a black kerchief round her head.
          I walk up and down.
Night and snow on the window-panes.
Inside some people are singing -
      a song my comrade loved
                            so much.
His favourite song,
his favourite,
his-
Comrades, do not look into my eyes,
I am trying not to weep.
In the white night the rails gleam,
reminding you of going
          and never coming back.
A woman in a black kerchief
      is lying
          in the third-class
          waiting-room,
          her feet bare.
Night and snow on the window-panes.
Somewhere inside they are singing.

Nazim Hikmet

गाज़ा में रंग और धुन

वक़्त चीख रहा है, 

जले खेतों में सेटलर बुल्डोज़र हैं, 

टूटे मकानों में लोहे के सरिये मुड़े हुए हैं, 

कोंक्रिट के जंगल में माँस और खून की गंध बस चुकी है, 

आसमाँ से आग बरसती है

हमारे सपने जल रहे और श्रापनेल धँस गया है रंगों में

रोशनी में कीचड़ है बूटों की, 

हमारी धुन बहरी हो गयी है, 

मेरे दिल में

श्रापनेल का टुकडा धँसा है, 

इसे कैसे निकालूँ? 

निकालूँ या नहीं? 

यही तो खून बहने से रोक रहा। 

खाका ढह गया है, 

पर न मर सकी हैं स्मृतियाँ, 

रंग, खुशबू, मिठास और धुन 

खून से जन्म रही। 

फ़िलिस्तीन भी यहीं से जन्मता है।