Read Ebook: The Verse of Alfred Lichtenstein by Lichtenstein Alfred

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Ebook has 223 lines and 14601 words, and 5 pages

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

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

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

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

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