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.

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

Afternoon, Fields and Factory

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Spring

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Cloud

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Signs

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

English

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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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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...

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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!

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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 himelf:

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 garde...

Alfred Lichtenstein