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diff --git a/4369.txt b/4369.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1db207e --- /dev/null +++ b/4369.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2370 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Verse of Alfred Lichtenstein, by Alfred Lichtenstein + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Verse of Alfred Lichtenstein + +Author: Alfred Lichtenstein + +Posting Date: July 26, 2009 [EBook #4369] +Release Date: August, 2003 +First Posted: January 18, 2002 +Last Updated: February 6, 2008 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERSE OF ALFRED LICHTENSTEIN *** + + + + +Produced by Michael Pullen + + + + + + + + + + +The Verse of Alfred Lichtenstein + +(a critique by Lichtenstein himself) + + + + + +I + +Because I believe that many do not understand the verse of +Lichtenstein, do not correctly understand, do not clearly understand-- + + + + +II + +The first eighty poems are lyric. In the usual sense. They are not +much different from poetry that praises gardens. The content is the +distress of love, death, universal longing. The impulse to formulate +them in the "cynical" vein (like cabaret songs) may, for example, +might have arisen from the wish to feel superior. Most of the eighty +poems are insignificant. They were not presented to the public. All +except one (one of the last) That is: + + I want to bury myself in the night, + Naked and shy. + And to wrap darknesses around my limbs + And warm luster. + I want to wander far behind the hills of the earth. + Deep beyond the gliding oceans. + Past the singing winds. + There I'll meet the silent stars. + They carry space through time. + And live at the death of being. + And among them are gray, + Isolated things. + Faded movement + Of worlds long decayed. + Lost sound. + Who can know that. + My blind dream watches far from earthly wishes. + + + + +III + +The following poems can be divided into three groups. One combines +fantastic, half-playful images: The Sad Man, Rubbers, Capriccio, The +Patent-Leather Shoe, A Barkeeper's Coarse Complaint. (First appeared +in Aktion, in Simplicissimus, in March, Pan and elsewhere). Pleasure +in what is purely artistic is unmistakable. + +Examples: The Athlete: in the background is a demonstration of a +view of the world. The Athlete... means that it is terrible that a +man must also intellectually move his bowels.--Rubbers: a man wearing +rubbers is different without them. + + + + +IV + +The earliest poetry forms a second group: + +Twilight + +The intention is to eliminate the difference between time and space +in favor of the idea of poetry. The poems want to represent the +effect of twilight on the landscape. + +In this case the unity of time is necessary to a certain degree. +The unity of space is not required, therefore not observed. In +twelve lines the twilight is represented on a pond, tree, field, +somewhere... its effect on the appearance of a young man, a wind, a +sky, two cripples, a poet, a horse, a lady, a man, a young boy, a +woman, a clown, a baby-carriage, some dogs is represented visually. +(The expression is poor, but I can find nothing better) + +The author of the poem does not want to portray a landscape that is +thought to be real. The poetic art has the advantage over painting +of offering "ideal" images. That means--in respect to the Twilight: +the fat boy who uses the big pond as a toy, and the two cripples on +crutches in the field and the woman on the city street who was +knocked down by a cart-horse in the half-darkness, and the poet who, +filled with desperate longing, is thinking in the evening (probably +looking through a skylight), and the circus clown in the gray rear +building who is sighing as he puts on his boots in order to arrive +punctually at the performance, in which he must be funny--all these +can produce a poetic "picture," although they cannot be composed like +a painting. Most still deny that, and for that reason recognize, for +example, in the "Twilight" and similar pictures nothing but a +mindless confusion of strange performances. Others believe, +incorrectly, that these kinds of "ideal" pictures are possible in +painting (for example, the Futurist mish mash). + +The intention, furthermore, to grasp the reflex of things +directly--without superfluous reflections. Lichtenstein knows that +the man is not stuck to the window, but stands behind it. That the +baby-carriage is not screaming, but the child in the baby-carriage. +Because he can only see the baby-carriage, he writes: the +baby-carriage cries. It would have been untrue lyrically had he +written: a man stands behind a window. + +By chance, it is conceptually also not untrue: a boy plays with a +pond. A horse stumbles over a lady. Dogs swear. Certainly one must +laugh in an odd way when one learns to see: that a boy actually uses +a pond as a toy. How horses have a helpless way of stumbling... how +human dogs express their rage... + +Sometimes the representation of reflection is important. Perhaps a +poet goes mad--makes a deeper impression than--a poet stares stiffly +ahead-- + +Something else compelling in the poem: fear and things that resemble +reflection, like: all men must die... or: I am only a little book of +pictures... that will not be discussed here. + + + + +V + +That Twilight and other poems take things strangely (The comic is +experienced tragically. The representation is "grotesque"), to +notice the unbalanced, incoherent nature of things, arbitrariness, +confusion... is not, in any case, the characteristic of "style." +Proof is: Lichtenstein writes poems in which the "grotesque" +disappears, without notice, behind the "ungrotesque." + +Other differences between older poems (for example, Twilight) and +later ones (for example, Fear) in the same style are detectable. One +might observe that ever increasing idiosyncratic reflections about +landscape clearly break through. Certainly not without artistic +purpose. + + + + +VI + +The third group consists of the poems of Kuno Kohn. + +Alfred Lichtenstein + +(Wilmersdorf) + + + + The Athlete + + + A man walked back and forth in his torn slippers + In the small room + He inhabited. + He thought about the events + About which he was informed by the evening paper. + And sadly yawned, the way only that man yawns + Who has read much that is strange-- + And the thought suddenly overcame him, + Like a timid person who gets gooseflesh, + And the way the person who stuffs himself + Starts to burp, + Like a mother in labor: + The great yawn might perhaps be a sign, + A nod from fate, + To lie down to rest. + And the thought would not leave him. + And then he began to undress... + When he was stark naked, he lifted something. + + + + Rubbers + + + The fat man thought: + In the evening I gladly walk in rubbers, + But also when the streets are clean and spotless. + I am never entirely sober in rubbers. + I hold the cigarette in my hand. + My soul skips in little rhythms. + And all one hundred pounds of my body skips. + + + + The Patent-leather Shoe + + + The poet thought: ah, I have enough trash! + The whores, the theater, and the moon in the city, + The dress-shirts, the streets, and smells, + The nights and the coaches and the windows, + The laughter, the street-lights and murders-- + I'm really fed up now with all the crap, + Damn it! + Whatever will be will be--it's all the same to me: + The patent leather shoe Hurts me. And I take it off-- + People might turn around, surprised. + Only it's a shame about my silk socks... + + + + Smoke on the Field + + + Lene Levi went out in the evening, + Mincing, her skirt bunched up, + Through the long, empty streets + Of a suburb. + + And she spoke weeping, aching, crazy, + Strange words, + Which the wind tossed, so that they popped, + Like pods. + + They made bloody scratches on trees, + And, shredded, hung on houses + And in these deaf streets + died all alone. + + Lene Levi went out, until all + The roofs made their crooked mouths grimace, + And the windows and the shadows + Made faces + + They had a completely drunken good time-- + Until the houses became helpless + And the mute city passed + Into the broad fields, + Which the moon smeared... + + Little Lene took out of her pocket + A box of cigarettes, + Weeping took one + Out and smoked. + + + + Dreaming + + + Paul said: + + Ah, but who wouldn't want to drive a car forever-- + We burrow our way through high-stemmed woods, + We pass by spaces that seem endless. + We pass through the wind and attack the towns, which speed up. + But the odors of the sluggish cities are hateful to us-- + Ah, we are flying! Always alongside death... + How we despise and scorn him who sits on our lives! + Who lays out graves for us and makes all streets crooked--ha, we + laugh at him, + and the roads, overcome, die with us-- + Thus we shall auto our way through the whole world... + Until, on some clear evening + We find a violent ending against a sturdy tree. + + + + The Sad Man + + + No, I have no capacity for life. + I could be considered foolish-- + Today I am not going to the restaurant. + I am after all this time weary of the waiters, + Who scornfully bring us, with their smug grimaces, + Dark beer and make us so confused + That we cannot find our home + And we must + Use the foolish street lights + To prop ourselves up + with weak hands. + Today I have bigger things in mind-- + Ah, I shall find out the meaning of existence. + And in the evening I shall do some roller skating + Or go at some point to Temple. + + + + Capriccio + + + Here is the way I shall die: + It's dark. And it has rained. + But you can no longer detect the imprint of the clouds + Which up there cover the sky in soft silk. + All streets are flowing, black mirrors, + Over the piled up houses, where streetlights, + Strings of pearls, hang shining. + And high above thousands of stars are flying, + Silver insects, around the world-- + I am among them. Somewhere. + And sunken, I watch very seriously, somewhat pale, + But rather thoughtful about the refined, heavenly blue legs of a + lady, + While an auto cuts me to pieces, so that my head rolls like a red + marble + At her feet... + She is surprised. And swears like a lady. And kicks it + Haughtily with the dainty heel + Of her little shoe + Into the gutter. + + + + The Turk + + + A totally perverse Turk bought for himself, + Out of grief for the recent death + Of plump Fatme, his favorite wife, + From his white-slaver, two former mannequins, in quite good + condition-- + You could almost say: brand new-- + Just imported from France. + When he had them, he sang, in celebration of himself: + + Sit down on my thighs. + Hold me around my loins. + With your sweet tongues + Stroke my tearful cheeks. + Ah, you have such beautifully bejeweled + Eyes and such clear hands, + Weariest of my wives, + And such long, gentle legs. + Tomorrow I buy six pairs of new + Stockings of the thinnest silk + As well as very small, black silk shoes. + And in the evening you will dance + Soft, false dances + In the new silk shoes + And new silk stockings. + In the garden. In the sun. + Close to the water. + But at night I'll have you whipped + By four smiling eunuchs. + + + + Hugo von Hofmannsthal's Barber + + + I stand this way on cloudy winter days + From dawn to dusk and I soap heads, + Shave them and powder them and speak + Indifferent words, stupid, foolish. + Most heads are completely shut, + They sleep limply. And others read again + And look slowly through long lids, + As though they had sucked everything dry. + Still others open the red cracks of their mouths wide + And tell jokes. + For my part, I smile courteously. Ah, I hide + Deep under these smiles, as though in a coffin, + The terrible, repressed, wise complaints + About the fact that we are forced into this existence, + Jammed in, firmly and inescapably trapped + As though in jail, and we wear chains, + Confusing, hard, that we do not understand. + And the fact that each man is distant and estranged from himself + As though from a neighbor whom he does not know at all, + And whose house he has always only seen from the outside. + Sometimes, when I am shaving a chin, + Knowing that a whole life + Is in my power, that I am now master, + I, a barber, and that a missed stroke, + A slice too deep, cuts off the round, cheerful head + That lies before me (he is thinking of a woman, + Books, business) from his body, + As though it were a loose button on a vest-- + I am overcome. Then the feeling came over me... this animal. + Is there. The animal... both my knees knock. + And like a small boy tearing paper + Without knowing why, + And like students who kill gas lamps, + And like children who turn so red + When they tear the wings of captured flies, + So I would like to do the same, + As if it were a slip, + To make a scratch with my knife on such a chin. + I would too gladly watch the red stream of blood spray. + + + + Spring + + + A certain Rudolf called out: + I have eaten too much. + Whether it's healthy is very questionable. + After such a greasy lunch + I really feel uncomfortable. + But I belch beautifully and smoke + Cigarettes now and then. + Lying on my heavy belly, + I chirp nothing but songs of spring. + Longingly, as though on a ramp + The voice squeals from the throat. + And like an old lamp + The wind blackens the bitter soul. + + + + A Barkeeper's Coarse Complaint + + + It's enough to make me throw the chair through the panes of the + mirror Into the street-- + There I sit with raised eyebrows: + All bars are full, + My bar is empty--isn't that terrific... + Isn't that strange... isn't that enough to make you puke,,, + The damned jerks--the miserable phonies-- + Everyone goes right by me... + Bloody mess... + Here I am burning gas and electricity-- + May God and the devil damn me to hell: + Damn It all... why is my bar the only empty one... + Grumpy, reproachful waiters standing around-- + It is my fault-- + Not one damned person comes to the door-- + Cramped in a corner I sit with a hopeful face. + No customers come.-- + The food rots, the wine and bread. + I might as well shut the joint. + And cry myself to death. + + + + A Trouble-making Girl + + + It's certainly late. I must earn something. + But they're all going right by today with smug expressions on their + faces. + They don't want to give me a single good-luck penny. + It's a miserable life. + If I come home without money + The old lady will throw me out. + There is hardly anyone on the street any more. + I am dead tired and freezing. + I was never so miserable in my life. + I move around here like a piece of meat. + Finally someone comes over: + An extremely well-dressed man-- + But in this life one can't tell much + By appearances. + He's also quite older. (they have more money, + Young ones tend to cheat you.) + We are face-to-face. + I raise my clothes above the knee. + I can get away with that. + That's the big draw.. + Like flies to the light + The guys are drawn to us goats... + The John is certainly standing over there. + He is staring. He winks. Now I'll go right by him... + I think: he will give me a big piece of gold. + Then I get drunk in secret on expensive liquor, + That's still the best: sometime--alone + To be drunk quietly, for myself-- + Or I can buy new shoes... + I won't have to go around in mended socks-- + Or... sometime I won't go out walking the streets. + And take a rest from the guys-- + Or... I'm already looking forward to this... + I'm so happy-- + Here comes Kitty. + And scares the man off. + + + + The Drunkard + + + One must guard oneself ever so carefully against + Howling, without any reason, like an animal. + Against pouring beer over the faces of all the waiters, + And kicking them in their faces. + Against shortening the disgusting time + Spent lying in a gutter. + Against throwing oneself off a bridge. + Against hitting friends in the mouth. + Against suddenly, while dogs bark, + Tearing the clothes off a well-fed body. + Against hurling into any old beloved woman's + Thighs one's dark skull. + + + + A Lieutenant General Sings + + + I am the Division Commander, + His Excellency. + I have attained what is humanly possible. + A lovely consciousness. + In front of me + Important people and chiefs of regiments + Bend their knees, + And my generals + Obey my commands. + God willing, my next command will be + An entire military corps. + Women, drama, music + Do not interest me much. + Compared to parades and battles, + That does not amount to much. + Would that there were an endless war + With bloody, howling winds. + Ordinary life + Has no charm for me. + + + + + Falling in the River + + + Drunk, Lene Levi walked + In the neighboring streets nightly + Back and forth, screaming, "auto." + Her blouse was opened, + So that one saw her fine, fascinating + Underclothing and skin. + Seven horny little men ran + After Lene. + + Seven horny little men chased + Lene Levi for her body, + Thinking about what it costs. + Seven men, otherwise very respectable, + Forgot their children and art, + Science and factory. + And they ran as though possessed + After Lene Levi. + Lene Levi stopped + On a bridge, catching her breath, + And she lifted her blurred blue + Drunken glances in the wide + Sweet darkness above + The street lamps and the houses. + Seven randy little men though + Caught Lene's eye. + + Seven randy little men tried + To touch Lene Levi's heart. + Lene remained unapproachable. + Suddenly she jumped up on the railing, + Turns up her nose at the world for the last time, + Joyfully jumps into the river. + Seven pale little men ran, + As quickly as they could, out of the place. + + + + A Poor Man Sings + + + Those were fine times, when I still + Walked in silk socks and wore underpants, + Sometimes had ten marks to spare, in order + To hire a woman, bored in the day + Night after night I sat in the coffeehouse. + Often I was so sated that I + Did not know what to order for myself. + + + + Twilight + + + A fat young man plays with a pond. + The wind has caught itself in a tree. + The pale sky seems to be rumpled, + As though it had run out of makeup. + On long crutches, bent nearly in half + And chatting, two cripples creep across the field. + A blond poet perhaps goes mad. + A little horse stumbles over a lady. + A fat man is stuck to a window. + A boy wants to visit a soft woman. + A gray clown puts on his boots. + A baby carriage shrieks and dogs curse. + + + + The Night + + + Sleepy policemen waddle under streetlights. + Broken beggars grumble when they sense people. + On some corners powerful streetcars stutter. + And plush cabs drop into the stars. + Among rough houses whores hobble back and forth, + Sadly swinging their ripe behinds. + Much sky lies broken in these dried-out things... + Whiny cats painfully shriek bright songs. + + + + The Cabaret in the Suburbs + + + The sweaty heads of waiters tower above the room + Like lofty and powerful capitals. + Lice-ridden boys giggle nastily. + And shining girls give painfully beautiful looks. + And distant women are so very excited... + They have hundreds of red, round hands, + Still, large, without end + Placed around their high, motley bellies. + Most people are drinking yellow beer. + Grocers, their cigarettes burning, gape. + A fine young woman sings vulgar songs. + A young Jew plays the piano with great pleasure. + + + + The Trip to the Mental Hospital + + + Fat trains go down loud tracks + Past houses, which are like coffins. + On the corners wheelbarrows with bananas squat. + Just a bit of shit makes a tough kid happy. + The human beasts glide along, completely lost + As though on a street, miserably gray and shrill. + Workers stream from dilapidated gates. + A weary person moves quietly in a round tower. + A hearse crawls along the street, two steeds out front, + Soft as a worm and weak. + And over all lies an old rag-- + The sky... pagan and meaningless. + + + + Into the Evening + + + Out of crooked clouds priceless things grow. + Very tiny things suddenly become important. + The sky is green and opaque + Down there where the blind hills glide. + Tattered trees stagger into the distance. + Drunken meadows spin in a circle, + And all the surfaces become gray and wise... + Only villages crouch glowingly: red stars-- + + + + Interior + + + A large space--half dark... deadly... completely confused... + Provocative!... delicate... dream-like... recesses, heavy doors + And broad shadows, which lead to blue corners... + And somewhere a sound that clinks like a Champagne glass. + On a fragile rug lies a wide picture book, + Distorted and exaggerated by a green ceiling light. + How--soft little cats--piously white girls make love! + In the background an old man and a silk handkerchief. + + + + Morning + + + ... And all the streets lie smooth and shining there. + Only occasionally does a solid citizen hurry along them. + A swell girl argues violently with Papa. + A baker happens to be looking at the lovely sky. + The dead sun, wide and thick, hangs on the houses. + Four fat wives screech in front of a bar. + A carriage driver falls and breaks his neck. + And everything is boringly bright, healthy and clear. + A gentleman with wise eyes hovers, confused, in the dark, + A failing god... in this picture, that he forgot, + Perhaps did not notice--he mutters this and that. Dies. And laughs. + Dreams of a stroke, paralysis, osteoporosis. + + + + Landscape + + + (for a picture) + With all its branches a slender tree casts + The shine of darkness around poor crosses. + The earth stretches out painfully black and broad. + A small moon slips slowly out of space. + And next to it strange, unapproachable, huge + Airplanes hover heavenward! + Sinners filled with longing look up, with belief + And tear themselves out of their tombs. + + + + The Concert + + + The naked seats hearken strangely + Alarming and quiet, as though there were some danger. + Only some are covered with a person. + A green girl often looks into a book. + And someone else finds a handkerchief. + And the boots are disgustingly encrusted. + A sound comes from an old man's open mouth. + A young boy looks at a young girl. + A boy plays with the button on his trousers. + On a podium an agile body rocks + To the rhythm of its serious instrument. + On a collar lies a shiny head. + Screeches. And tears. + + + + Winter + + + A dog shrieks in misery from a bridge + To heaven... which stands like old gray stone + Upon far-off houses. And, like a rope + Made of tar, a dead river lies on the snow. + Three trees, black frozen flames, make threats + At the end of the earth. They pierce + With sharp knives the rough air, + In which a scrap of bird hangs all alone. + A few street lights wade towards the city, + Extinguished candles for a corpse. And a smear + Of people shrinks together and is soon + Drowned in the wretched white swamp. + + + + The Operation + + + In the sunlight doctors tear a woman apart. + Here the open red body gapes. And heavy blood + Flows, dark wine, into a white bowl. One sees + Very clearly the rose-red cyst. Lead gray, + The limp head hangs down. The hollow mouth + Rattles. The sharp yellow chin points upward. + The room shines, cool and friendly. A nurse + Savors quite a bit of sausage in the background. + + + + Cloudy Evening + + + The sky is swollen with tears and melancholy. + Only far off, where its foul vapors burst, + Green glow pours down. The houses, + Gray grimaces, are fiendishly bloated with mist. + + Yellowish lights are beginning to gleam. + A stout father with wife and children dozes. + Painted women are practicing their dances. + Grotesque mimes strut towards the theater. + + Jokers shriek, foul connoisseurs of men: + The day is dead... and a name remains! + Powerful men gleam in girls' eyes. + A woman yearns for her beloved woman. + + + + Sunday Afternoon + + + Packs of houses squat along rotten streets, + Around whose hump a gray sun shines. + A perfumed, half crazy little poodle + Casts exhausted eyes at the big world. + In a window a boy catches flies. + A badly soiled baby gets angry. + On the horizon a train moves through windy meadows: + Slowly paints a long thick stroke. + Like typewriters hackney hooves clatter. + A dust-covered, noisy athletic club comes along. + Brutal shouts stream from bars for coachmen. + Yet fine bells mix with them. + On the fairgrounds where athletes wrestle, + Everything is dark and indistinct. + A barrel organ howls and scullery maids sing. + A man is smashing a rotting woman. + + + + The Excursion + + + (Dedicated to Kurt Lubasch, July 15, 1912) + + You, I can endure these stolid + Rooms and barren streets + And the red sun on the houses, + And the books read + A million times ago. + Come, we must go far + Away from the city. + Let us lie down + In this gentle meadow. + Let us raise, threatening yet helpless + Against the mindless, large, + Deadly blue, shiny skies, + The fleshless, dull eyes, + The cursed hands, + Swollen from crying. + + + + Summer Evening + + + All things are seamless, + As though forgotten, light and dull. + From the sacred heights the green sky spills + Still water on the city. + Glazed cobblers' lamps shine. + Empty bakeries are waiting. + People in the street, astonished, stride + Towards a miracle. + A copper red goblin runs + Up towards the roof, up and down. + Little girls fall, sobbing + From the poles of street lights. + + + + The Trip to the Mental Hospital (II) + + + A little girl crouches with her little brother + Next to an overturned barrel of water. + In rags, a beast of a person lies gulping food + Like a cigarette butt on the yellow sun. + Two skinny goats stand in broad green spaces + On pegs, and their ropes sometimes tighten. + Invisible behind monstrous trees + Unbelievably at peace the huge horror approaches. + + + + Peace + + + In weary circles a sick fish hovers + In a pond surrounded by grass. + A tree leans against the sky--burned and bent. + Yes... the family sits at a large table, + Where they peck with their forks from the plates. + Gradually they become sleepy, heavy and silent. + The sun licks the ground with its hot, poisonous, + Voracious mouth, like a dog--a filthy enemy. + Bums suddenly collapse without a trace. + A coachman looks with concern at a nag + Which, torn open, cries in the gutter. + Three children stand around in silence. + + + + Towards Morning + + + What do I care about the swift newspaper boys. + The approach of the late auto-beasts does not frighten me. + I rest on my moving legs. + My face is wet with rain. + Green remains of the night + Stick to my eyes. + That's the way I like it-- + Even as the sharp, secret + Drops of water crack on thousands of walls. + Plop from thousands of roofs. + Hop along shining streets... + And all the sullen houses + Listen to their + Eternal song. + Close behind me the burning night is ruined... + Its smelly corpse burdens my back. + But above me I feel the rushing, + Cool heaven. + Behold--I am in front of a + Streaming church. + Large and quiet it takes me in. + Here I shall stay for a while. + Immersed in its dreams. + Dreams out of gray + Silk that does not shimmer. + + + + Bad Weather + + + A frozen moon stands waxen, + White shadows, + Dead face, + Above me and the dull + Earth. + Throws green light + Like a garment, + A wrinkled one, + On bluish land. + But from the edge + Of the city, + Like a soft hand without fingers, + Gently rises + And fearfully threatening like death + Dark, nameless... + Rising + Without sound, + An empty slow sea swells towards us-- + At first it was only like a weary + Moth, which crawled over the last houses. + Now it is a black bleeding hole. + It has already buried the city and half the sky. + Ah, had I flown-- + Now it is too late. + My head falls into + Desolate hands. + On the horizon an apparition like a shriek + Announces + Terror and imminent end. + + + + The Sick + + + Evening and grief and lamp light + Bury our death-face. + + We sit at the window and drop out of it, + Far off day still squints at a gray house. + We scarcely touch our life... + And the world is a morphine dream... + Blinded by clouds the sky sinks. + The garden expires in dark wind-- + The watchmen enter, + Lift us up into bed, + Inject us with poison, + Kill the lamp. + Curtains hang in front of the night... + They disappear gently and slowly-- + Some groan, but no one speaks, + Our buried face sleeps. + + + + Cloud + + + A fog has destroyed the world so gently. + Bloodless trees dissolve in smoke. + And shadows hover where shrieks are heard. + Burning beasts evaporate like breath. + + Captured flies are the gas lanterns. + And each flickers, still attempting to escape. + But to one side, high in the distance, the poisonous moon, + The fat fog-spider, lies in wait, smoldering. + + We, however, loathsome, suited for death, + Trample along, crunching this desert splendor. + And silently stab the white eyes of misery + Like spears into the swollen night. + + + + The City + + + A white bird is the big sky. + Under it a cowering city stares. + The houses are half-dead old people. + A gaunt carriage-horse gapes grumpily. + Winds, skinny dogs, run weakly. + Their skins squeel on sharp corners. + In a street a crazed man groans: You, oh, you-- + If only I could find you... + A crowd around him is surprised and grins derisively. + Three little people play blind man's bluff-- + A gentle tear-stained god lays the grey powdery hands + Of afternoon over everything. + + + + The World + + + (Dedicated to a clown) + + Many days tread upon human animals, + In gentle oceans hunger-sharks fly. + Heads, beers glisten in coffee-houses. + Girls' screams shred on a man. + Thunderstorms come crashing down. Forest winds darken. + Women knead prayers in skinny hands: + May the Lord God send an angel. + A shred of moonlight shimmers in the sewers. + Readers of books crouch quietly on their bodies. + An evening dips the world in lilac lye. + The trunk of a body floats in a windshield. + From deep in the brain its eyes sink. + + + + Prophecy + + + Some day--I have signs--a mortal storm + Is coming from the far north. + Everywhere is the smell of corpses. + The great killing begins. + The lump of sky grows dark, + Storm-death lifts its clawed paws; + All the lumps fall down, + Mimes burst. Girls explode. + Horses' stables crash to the ground. + Not a fly can escape. + Handsome homosexuals roll + Out of their beds. + The walls of houses develop fissures. + Fish rot in the stream. + Everything meets its own disgusting end. + Groaning buses tip over. + + + + Winter Evening + + + Behind yellow windows shadows drink hot tea. + Yearning people sway on a hardened pond + Workers find a soft woman's corpse. + Glowing blue snows cast a howling darkness. + On high poles a scarecrow, implored, hangs. + Stores flicker dimly through frosted windows, + In front of which human bodies move like ghosts. + Students carve a frozen girl. + How lovely, the crystalline winter evening burning! + A platinum moon now streams through a gap in the houses. + Next to green lanterns under a bridge + Lies a gypsy woman. And plays an instrument. + + + + Girls + + + They cannot stand their rooms in the evening. + They creep out into deep starry streets. + + How gentle is the world in the streetlights' wind! + How strangely buzzing life melts away... + They go by gardens and houses, + As though very far off there might be a light, + And they look upon every horny man + As a sweet gentleman savior + + + + After the Ball + + + Night creeps into the cellars, musty and dull. + Tuxedos totter through the rubble of the street. + Faces are moldy and worn out. + The blue morning burns coolly in the city. + How quickly music and dance and greed melted... + It smells of the sun. And day begins + With trolleys, horses, shouts and wind. + Dull daily labor cloaks the people in dust. + Families silently wolf down lunch. + At times a hall still vibrates through a skull, + Much dull desire and a silken leg. + + + + Landscape + + + Like old bones in the pot + Of noon the damned streets lie there. + It's a long time since I saw you here. + A young man pulls at a girl's pigtail. + And a couple of dogs wallow in filth. + I would like to go arm and arm with you. + The sky is gray wrapping paper + On which the sun sticks--a spot of butter. + + + + Moonscape + + + The yellow mother's eye burns up there. + Everywhere night lies like a blue cloth. + There is no question that I am sucking air. + I am only a little picture book. + Houses capture dreams of motley sleepers + As though in nets in the windows. + Autos creep like ladybugs + Up luminous streets. + + + + Landscape in the Early Morning + + + The air is gray. Who knows something good for soot? + Next to an ox grazing on the ground + Stands an astonished deeply serious mountaineer. + Soon there is a powerful downpour of rain. + A young boy who is pissing on a meadow + Will be the source of a small river. + What should one do when nature calls! + Be natural. Be yourself. + A poet roams around in the world, + Observes for himself the orderly flow of traffic + And rejoices about sky, field, and dung. + Ah, and he takes careful notice of everything. + Then he climbs a high mountain + Which happens to be close by. + + + + Return of the Village Boy + + + In my youth the world was a small pond, + Grandma and red roof, lowing + Of oxen and a clump of trees. + And all around the huge green meadow. + How lovely was this dreaming into distance. + This absolute nothingness as bright air and wind + And bird cries and fairy-tale books. + Far off the fabled iron snake whistled-- + + + + Summer Freshness + + + The sky is like a blue jellyfish. + And all around are fields, rolling meadows-- + Peaceful world, you great mousetrap, + Would that I might finally escape from you.. O if I had wings-- + One plays dice. Guzzles. Chatters about future countries. + Each person puts in his own two cents. + The earth is a succulent Sunday roast, + Nicely dunked into a sweet sun-sauce. + If only there were a wind... that ripped + The gentle world with iron claws. That would amuse me. + But if a storm comes... It would shred + The lovely blue eternal sky into a thousand pieces. + + + + Afternoon, Fields and Factory + + + I can no longer find a place for my eyes. + I cannot hold my legs together. + My heart is hollow. My head is going to burst. + Mushiness all around. Nothing wants to take shape. + My tongue breaks. And my mouth twists. + In my skull there is neither pleasure nor goal. + The sun, a buttercup, rocks itself + On a chimney, its slender stalk. + + + + Rainy Night + + + The day is ruined. The sky is drunk. + Like false pearls, little stumps + Of chopped up light lie around and reveal + A glimpse of streets, a few clumps of houses. + Everything else is rotten and devoured + By a black fog, which, like a wall, + Falls down and is rotten. And the rain + Crumbles like rubble in the grip--thick--gray-- + As though the whole contaminated darkness + Wanted at every moment to sink. + Down in a swamp you see an auto flash, + Like a strange, drunken plant. + The oldest whores come crawling + Along out of wet shadows--tubercular toads. + There goes one creeping by. Over there a pig is being stabbed. + The gushing rain wants to wipe out everything. + But you are wandering through the waste lands. + Your dress hangs heavy. Your shoes are soaked. + Your eye is mad with greed and screaming. + And this urges you on--and you have no peace: + Perhaps in the midst of dark fire + The devil himself appears in the form of a pig. + Perhaps something completely horrible, + Foolish, brutal, nasty is happening. + + + + Period + + + The deserted streets flow in gleaming light + Through my dull head. And hurt me. + I clearly feel that I shall soon slip away-- + Thorny roses of my skin, don't prick like that. + The night grows moldy. The poison light of the lampposts + Has smeared it with green muck. + My heart is like a bag. My blood freezes. + The world is dying. My eyes collapse. + + + + Reflecting upon a Human Lung in Alcohol + + + Without horror you devour dead flesh every day. + And dead blood is a sweet syrup for you. + Aren't you afraid?-- + Indeed your earliest fathers also had, + And before you awoke, + Crammed thousands of the dead into your body. + + However, how deeply frightened must the first person who killed + An animal have been-- + Because, when he saw that what roamed about, + What could jump and cry out and in the moment of death + Still could watch the beseeching world, + In a moment + Was not there. + + + + In the Tuberculosis Sanitarium + + + Many sick people are walking in the garden + Back and forth and lying in the porches. + Those who are the sickest burn with fever + Every wretched day in the hot + Grave of their beds. + Ah, Catholic sisters float + Around wearily in black clothes. + Yesterday someone died. Today another can die. + In the city Fasching is being celebrated. + I would like to be able to play the difference + On the piano. + + + + Signs + + + The hour moves forward. + The mole moves out. + The moon emerges furiously. + The ocean heaves. + The child becomes an old man. + Animals pray and flee. + It's getting too hot for the trees. + The mind boggles. + The street dies. + The stinking sun stabs. + The air becomes scarce. + The heart breaks. + The frightened dog keeps its mouth shut. + The sky lies on its wrong side. + The tumult is too much for the stars. + The carriages take off. + + + + The End + + + Like a white fungus, a lump of wind covers + The green corpse of the lost world. + Frozen rivers form an iron dam + Which holds together the rotten remains. + In a small rainy corner stands + The last city in stony patience. + A dead skull lies--like a prayer-- + Slanted on the body, the black penitential bench. + + + + + My End + + + Half hands hold my fate. + Where will it sink... + My steps are tiny, like those of a woman. + One evening lay waste all dreams. + Sleep does not come to me-- + + + + Song of Kuno Kohn's Longing + + + The folds of the sea crash like whips on my skin. + And the stars of the sea tear me apart. + The evening of the sea is one of screaming wounds for the lonely, + But lovers find the good death of their day dreams... + Be there soon, you with pain in your eye, the sea hurts. + Be there soon, you who suffer in love, the sea is killing me. + Your hands are cool saints. Cover me with them, + The sea is burning on me. + But why don't you help me! But help!... Cover me. Save me. + Cure me, friend and woman. + Mother... you-- + + + + Invasion + + + Decline already-- + But that was quick... + Hardly a trace of rising-- + I have grown above the whole world. + I have become the complete God + And horribly awake. + And now I must cast away death. + My death is mute + And without images... + Without redemption-- + + + + Pathos + + + You don't love me... I have never appealed to you... + Was never your type... + And my hard eyes annoy you, my darling... + I'm too dark for you. And too coarse-- + And my white teeth have such a brutal shine + And my bloody lips are so terribly like sickles. + Ah, what you say-- + Yes you are really right. I set you... free. + ... And early in the morning I am going to an ocean + That is blue and eternal... + And lie on the beach... + And play with a smile on my face, until a death grabs me, + With sand and sun and with a white + Slender bitch. + + + + Love Song + + + Your eyes are bright lands. + Your looks are little birds, + Handkerchiefs gently waving goodbye. + In your smile I rest as though in bobbing boats. + Your little stories are made of silk. + I must behold you always. + + + + The Suicide + + + White, I lie + On the remains of an amusement park + Between jagged buildings-- + Burning flower... shining sea... + Toes and hands + Reach out into emptiness. + Longing tears the weeping body to pieces. + The little moon glides above me. + Eyes grope + Gently into the deep world, + Sunken hats + Wandering stars. + + + + Touched + + + I gladly left + The noisy death of the city, + With its thousands of leering faces, + The yellow night of the alleys. + I stride into the broad, + Silver sky; + The pious limbs glide + Deep into gently being. + I am in the white brightness + Of cloud, meadow, wind. + Am tree, am town, am child... + How wet are my eyes! + Soon the green evening will stand + At its silver end... + I raise blessed hands-- + I want to go to meet it-- + + + + Prayer to People + + + I go through the days + Like a thief. + And no one hears + My heart lament to itself. + Please have pity. + Like me. + I hate you. + I want to embrace you. + + + + Wanderer in the Evening + + + Kuno Kohn sings: + Dusty Sunday + Lies burned to pieces. + Charred coolness + Mothers the land. + Dissolute longing + Gapes once again. + Dreams and tears + Stream upward. + + + + Evening + + + Houses stand stiffly next to their fences. + Let your eyes, last sparrows, flutter. + Bluebottles alight on your face. + Don't you, Kuno, feel the eternal mills-- + The unfeeling one bores holes in your head. + Look once more at the moon, the mustard-pot murderer. + + + + Spring + + + All men are now greedy, + All women are shouting, + Hide yourself in your hump, + Remain alone-- + + + + Kuno Kohn's Five Songs to Mary + + + First Song: + + So many years I sought you, Mary-- + In gardens, rooms, cities and mountains, + In dumps, whores, in acting schools, + In sick beds and in the rooms of mad people, + In kitchen maids, screaming, celebrations of spring, + In every kind of weather and every kind of day, + In coffee houses, mothers, dancers-- + I did not find you in bars, motion pictures, + Music-cafes, excursions into the summer mist... + Who knows the agony, when I, in the night on the streets, + Cried out for you to the dead sky-- + + + Next Song: + + He who looks for you in this way, Mary, becomes quite gray. + He who looks for you in this way, Mary, loses his face and legs. + The heart crumbles. Blood and dream escape. + If I could rest... if I were in your hands... + Oh, if you would take me up in your eyes... + + + Song of Praise + + Mary you--to think of how + I felt about you... my heavy head sinks-- + Sea only and moon--sea-moon and wind and world-- + White sand encircling your white skin, Mary-- + Your hair... your smile--all around is sea and distress + And shouts and longing and a gentle happiness-- + All this singing, that makes for such weariness... + Doesn't heaven come to us slowly like a mother's song + To the forehead of her child again and again-- + + + Sad Song + + Now I go once again among days, animals, + Rocks and thousands of eyes and sounds-- + The most foreign one. I had to lose you... + Your sinful body, Mary, was so lovely-- + Now I once again in vain look among days, animals, + Rocks and sounds for a trace of you. + Now I also know: I had to lose you... + I did not find you--it was only your name-- + + + Last Song + + Only come, my rain... fall against my face + Yellow street lamps... overturn the houses-- + I don't want unbroken, smooth roads. + Now it is lovely... only in the light of street lamps... + Mary... surrounded with dark rain-- + This is the way it should be. I would like to be with you. + What are mountains and the flat land to me-- + What are cities to me and colorful hypnotic nights-- + Back to the ocean... back to the starry shore. + You are not entirely Mary, whom I sought. + But you are also Mary--boundless... + Beloved... a fool... cursed with longing... + + + + Kuno's Nocturne + + + Every day, when it gets so very dark + That I can read no more, + I walk along the street singing, + Look at every girl... + Whether perhaps--who knows-- + Today of all days a miracle will take place: + That I shall come home redeemed, + Peaceful and forever free... + From such pursuits I come back + To the house tired and confused, + I know a secret remedy + That can extinguish all suffering-- + + + + Going for a Walk + + + Evening comes with moonshine and silky darkness. + The roads become weary. The narrow world widens. + Winds of opium move in and out of the field. + I widen my eyes like silver wings. + I feel as though my body were the whole earth. + The city lights up: thousands of street lamps sway. + Now the sky also piously enkindles its candlelight. + ... Huge above everything my human face wanders-- + + + + Ash Wednesday + + + Yesterday I still went powdered and addicted + Into the many-colored sounding world. + Today everything has long since drowned. + Here is a thing. + There is a thing. + Something seems like this. + Something seems otherwise. + How easily someone blows out + The whole flowering earth. + The sky is cold and blue. + Or the moon is yellow and flat. + A forest has many individual trees. + There's nothing more to cry about. + There's nothing more to scream about. + Where am I-- + + + The Son + + + Mother, don't hold me, + Mother, your caress hurts me, + See through my face, + How I glow and wane. + Give the last kiss. Let me go. + Send a prayer after me. + That I broke your life, + Mother, forgive me. + + + + To Frida + + (Dedicated to L.L.) + + + Walls separate us. + Strange spider webs. + But I often fly, gaunt in my sinking + Hand wringing room, a bleeding chirping twit. + If only you were there. + I am so murdered. + Frida. + + + + Lonely Watchman + + + City and beloved are far behind. + I am so betrayed and alone. + Slowly I move from one + Leg to the other. + Around me strange doors screech. + I reach for dagger and gun. + Ah, if I were only at home + With my mother. + + + + Soldiers' Songs + + + 1 + + It's good and beautiful to be a soldier for a year. + You live longer that way. And one is certainly pleased + With each scrap of time that one snatches from death. + This poor brain, shredded by longing for the city, + Bloody from books, bodies, evenings, + Inconsolably sad and filled with every sin, + Three quarters destroyed already--can only, + Standing at attention and marching on parade, + Swinging arms and legs, + Rust gently in a corner of the skull. + Oh, the stink in a marching column. + Oh, speed-marching across a lovely land in the spring. + + + 2 + + I must come one hour before the others, + Because I have shot badly. + I certainly won't be promoted. + And I must do extra drills as punishment, + Because, while the others, in accordance with orders, + Looked steadily at the caps of those in front of them, + As we were marching under the red sun + Across the shining fields, + I squinted carefully at the little pilot + Who was humming above me like a bee + In the glowing evening sky. + + + 3 + + I know, I know; this life is healthy. + My rifle drill is hardly heard, + But I cut my hand badly. + Instead of the damned barracks yard + I could now be in a meadow. + In front of the assembled troops a man begins + To cry bitterly. + + + 4 + + Sometimes I am afraid: a year is long, + Endlessly long. And always legs swinging... + The whole lovely day spent molding bodies + And parade marching, and firing blanks. + To have to forget the world... that in the evening + One is still senseless, drinking beer, when one goes to sleep + One still feels the heavy helmet on his forehead-- + And at night dreams of sergeants-- + + + 5 + + Even when Sundays and evenings come, + Completely empty and listless I move about, + I am completely glassy-eyed, play with dogs for fun, + Ah, or with little stones that I find, + Weary, without a thought, drag myself through the streets. + I often also stand around at my window, + At loose ends; should I just hang out at the local bar + With my dull comrades, kill my weary + Miserable hours in flickering movie houses + And, to pass the time of day + Look for willing girls: or should I merely + Go back and forth in my room. + I, who ran through the nights like a fool, + Shrieking to the sky, sought a thousand miracles. + + + + Songs to Berlin + + + 1 + + O you Berlin, you colorful stone, you beast. + You cast me with street lamps like briars. + Ah, when one flows in the night through your lamps + After women, silky, plump. + A man gets dizzy from the eye-play. + The little moon-candy sweetens the sky. + When the days struck the steeples. + The head still glows, a red Chinese lantern. + + + 2 + + Soon I must leave you, my Berlin. + Must again travel into the desolate cities. + Soon I shall sit on the distant hill tops. + In dense woods carve your name. + Farewell, Berlin, with your bold fires. + Farewell, your streets full of adventures. + Who has known as much as I have of your pain. + Saloons, you, I press you to my breast. + + + 3 + + In meadows and in pure winds peacefully + Cheerful people may glide along gleefully. + We, however, rotten and poisoned long ago, + Would deceive ourselves with this stepping into heaven + In strange cities I move about without direction. + The strange days are hollow and like chalk. + You, my Berlin, you opium rush, you bastard. + Only he who knows longing knows what I suffer. + + + + Monday in the courtyard of the barracks + + + The heat sticks closely to the gun and to the hand. + It pricks the eyes. Nothing remained forgotten. + The troops stepped, half drunk, into the fire. + The non-coms stand rigidly in front. + The glaring earth is a dead carousel. + Nothing stirs. No one drops down. No streaked sky flies. + Only rarely a hoarse barking tears apart the blue sow + Which lies on the stone barracks. + Now the army leaves me alone. + Who still pays attention to me. They got used + To my strange civilian eyes long ago. + On maneuvers I am half dreaming, + And as we march I compose poems. + + But war comes. There was peace too long. + No more good times. Trumpets screech + Deep into your heart. And all the nights are burning. + You freeze in tents. You're hot. You're hungry. + You drown. Explode. Bleed to death. Fields rattle noisily. + Church towers fall. Flames in the distance. + Winds twitch. Large cities crash. + On the horizon cannons thunder. + Around the hill tops a white vapor rises, + And grenades burst at your head. + + + + Now of course + + + Now of course I put on my straw hat. + Rain has washed the evening blue. + How the world glows! I look up piously, + My hands deep in my trouser pockets. + If the morning drives me home with screams and stones, + Half dead, stripped of my skin, + Yet I'm ready for the night! I shall soon be happy! + Street lamps blaze. Kitchen maids screech! + + + + Elegant Morning + + + The street looks like eternal Sunday. + Lightly summerhouse rests against summerhouse. + Chauffeurs wheel by grandly. + Three fine citizens glide by quietly. + A song flies coolly out a window. + From a distance the wind carries a child's shout. + And in front of the villa of a duke stands, + All dressed up, like a stiff doll, + In a brightly colored scarf, red as a poppy, + The royal Bavarian legal apprentice, + Doctor of Jurisprudence Kuno Kohn. + + + + Farewell + + + It sure was fine to be a soldier for a year. + But it is finer to feel free again. + There was enough of depravity and pain + In these merciless human mills. + Sergeants, Barrack walls, farewell. + Farewell canteens, marching songs. + Lighthearted, I leave the city and capitol. + Kuno is leaving, Kuno is never coming back. + Now, fate, drive me where you will. + I am not tugging on my jacket from now on. + I lift my eyes into the world. + A wind is starting up. Locomotives roar. + + + + Farewell + + + (Shortly before departing for the theater of war) + + for Peter Scher + + Before dying I am making my poem. + Quiet, comrades, don't disturb me. + We are going off to war. Death is our cement. + If only my beloved did not shed these tears for me. + What am I doing. I go gladly. + Mother is crying. One must be made of iron. + The sun sinks to the horizon. + Soon I shall be tossed into a gentle mass grave. + In the sky the fine red of evening is burning. + Perhaps in thirteen days I'll be dead. + + + + Romantic Journey + + + Thousands of stars twinkle in the gentle sky. + The landscape glows. From the distant meadow + Mute marching men slowly come closer. + Only once a young Lieutenant, a page boy in love, + Steps out--and stands lost in thought. + The baggage train waddles along at the rear. + The moon makes everything much stranger. + And now and then the drivers cry out: + Stop! + High up on the shakiest munitions truck, + Like a little toad, finely chiseled + Out of black wood, hands gently clenched, + On his back the rifle, gently buckled, + A smoking cigar in his crooked mouth, + Lazy as a monk, needy as a dog + --He had pressed drops of valerian on his heart-- + In the yellow moon, ridiculously mad, + Kuno sits. + + + + Warrior's Longing + + + I would like to lie in my bed + In a white shirt, + Wished the beard was gone, + The head combed. + The fingers were clean, + The nails also, + You, my tender woman, + Might provide peace. + + + + Prayer before Battle + + + The troops are singing fervently, each for himself: + God, protect me from misfortune, + Father, Son and Holy Spirit, + That no grenades strike me, + That the bastards, our enemies, + Do not catch me, do not shoot me, + That I don't die like a dog + For the dear fatherland. + Look, I would like to go on living, + Milk cows, bang girls + And beat the bastard, Sepp, + Get drunk often + Until my blessed death. + Look, I eagerly and gladly recite + Seven rosaries daily, + If you, God, in your grace + Would kill my friend Huber or Meier, + And not me. + But if the worst should come, + Let me not be too badly wounded. + Send me a slight leg wound, + A small injury to the arm, + So that I may return as a hero, + With a story to tell. + + + + The Grenade + + + First a bright, brief drum roll, + A bang and explosion into the blue day. + Then a noise, like rockets climbing on + Iron rails. Fear and long silence. + Then suddenly in the distance smoke and a fall, + A strange hard dark echo. + + + + After Combat + + + In the sky the howitzers no longer explode, + The cannoneers rest next to their guns. + The infantry pitch tents now, + And the pale moon slowly rises. + On yellow fields in red trousers, the French are ablaze, + Ashen pale from death and powder. + Among them German medics squat. + The day becomes grayer, its sun redder. + Field kitchens steam. Towns are put to the torch. + Broken carts stand at roadsides. + Panting cyclists, hot and tanned, loiter + At a scorched wooden fence. + And orderlies are already moving + From regiment to division. + + + + The Battle at Saarburg + + + The earth grows moldy in fog. + The evening is as oppressive as lead. + Electric sparks crackle and whimper all around, + Breaking everything in two. + Like wretched hobos + Cities are smoking on the horizon. + I lie, God-forsaken, + In the rattling front line of defenders. + Many copper enemy birds + Buzz around heart and brain. + I stand firm in the grayness + And defy death. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Verse of Alfred Lichtenstein, by +Alfred Lichtenstein + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERSE OF ALFRED LICHTENSTEIN *** + +***** This file should be named 4369.txt or 4369.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/6/4369/ + +Produced by Michael Pullen + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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