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.

August 23, 1889

September 25, 1914

German

Alfred Lichtenstein

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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

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

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 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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

Alfred Lichtenstein

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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

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