The Verse of Alfred Lichtenstein

The work opens with the poet turning the critical eye on his own output, inviting listeners into a candid conversation about why his verses are often misunderstood. The first eighty poems read like familiar lyric meditations on love, death and longing, while a single, longer piece drifts into a night‑filled dream of silence, stars and the “blind dream” that watches beyond ordinary wishes. This opening sets a tone of quiet introspection tempered with a sly, almost cabaret‑like irony.

From there the collection splinters into three distinct currents. One group offers whimsical, half‑playful sketches—a barkeeper’s complaint, a shoe made of patent leather, an athlete whose mind muscles its bowels—highlighting pure artistic pleasure. Another moves toward the “Twilight” series, where time and space collapse into vivid, sometimes grotesque tableaux of ponds, crippled figures and stumbling horses, all rendered in an “ideal” poetic picture rather than a literal scene. The listener is drawn into a layered exploration of how poetry can both reflect and distort reality, balancing humor with a lingering sense of melancholy.