Bertolt Brecht

(10 February 1898 – 14 August 1956 / Augsburg)

Radio Poem


You little box, held to me escaping
So that your valves should not break
Carried from house to house to ship from sail to train,
So that my enemies might go on talking to me,
Near my bed, to my pain
The last thing at night, the first thing in the morning,
Of their victories and of my cares,
Promise me not to go silent all of a sudden.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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Comments about this poem (Radio Poem by Bertolt Brecht )

  • Rookie - 58 Points Brian Jani (7/5/2014 3:42:00 PM)

    nice story telling poem.i look forward to reading your poetry (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Andrew Hoellering (12/3/2009 11:50:00 PM)

    Exile from Germany WAS painful for Brecht, who was never happy in the States.
    Despite the lies broadcast by the Nazis, the radio remained his treasured link to his beloved native language. (Report) Reply

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