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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

Alfred Lichtenstein was a German poet and writer known for his expressionist works. Born on August 23, 1889, in Berlin, he studied law at the University of Berlin. His works often reflect the grim realities of early 20th-century Europe and the senseless horrors of World War I. He volunteered for military service at the outbreak of WWI and was subsequently killed in action on September 25, 1914. Lichtenstein's legacy lives on through his poignant and often haunting poetry.

Alfred Lichtenstein

The Athlete

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

A Poor Man Sings

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Cloudy Evening

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Elegant Morning

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

English

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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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

The Pier-Glass

Lost manor where I walk continually
A ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood;
Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers
And gliding steadfast down your corridors
I come by nightly custom to this room,
And even on sultry afternoons I come
Drawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.

Empty, unless for a huge bed of state
Shrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry
(A puppet theatre where malignant fancy
Peoples the wings with fear). At my right hand
A ravelled bell-pull hangs in readiness
To summon me from attic glooms above
Service of elder ghosts; here at my left
A sullen pier-glass cracked from side to side
Scorns to present the face as do new mirrors
With a lying flush, but shows it melancholy
And pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.<...

Robert von Ranke Graves

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein