Chapter 1

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