{"id":1228,"date":"2020-11-22T16:11:02","date_gmt":"2020-11-22T15:11:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/fabienne-elaine-hollwege.de\/wp\/?p=1228"},"modified":"2024-02-01T10:40:09","modified_gmt":"2024-02-01T09:40:09","slug":"wortschrift","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/fabienne-elaine-hollwege.de\/wp\/?p=1228","title":{"rendered":"Wort&Schrift"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Texte, Gedichte & Ver\u00f6ffentlichungen

DE GUDDEN TOUN: Radio 100,7 \/Initiative und Projektleitung: Claude Faber
Mit im Autorenteam: erste Sendung im Januar 2021
Erz\u00e4hlung: www-ech-w\u00ebll-net-w\u00e9i-dir-w\u00ebllt.lena
Link zur Sendung: De Gudden Toun <\/a>

LUCY LOVE: Shortstory auf luxemburgisch; Kremart Verlag
(Lesungen: Op der Schmelz Dudelange bei „BE OFFLINE“\/ Mask\u00e9nada in „Live aus der Stuff“\/ Al Schmelz zu Stengefort)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Gedichte im CAHIERS LUXEMBOURGEOIS 2020<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
\n

Abschied (Gedicht)<\/h3>\n

Dich mir zu entwo\u0308hnen war das Beste
auch wenn die Physis weint
die Psyche atmet vorsichtig auf und scha\u0308lt sich heraus aus der Blase der Unvernunft und des Treibenlassens.<\/p>\n

Diese Insel tut mir so gut, dass ich wehmu\u0308tig werde von ihr zu gehen.<\/p>\n

Als wu\u0308rde die Sonne dort stehen bleiben und mich in Dunkelheit ziehen lassen wo ich doch wei\u00df, dass HIER Nacht ist und der Tag auf dem Festland beginnt.<\/p>\n

Dich mir zu entwo\u0308hnen
und dich nicht mehr neben mir zu wissen scheint logisch
auch wenn mathematische Berechnungen hier nichts zu suchen haben in dieser Vermischung und dem Durcheinanderflie\u00dfen
der Atommoleku\u0308le unserer selbst.<\/p>\n

Als ha\u0308tten wir uns verwandelt in ein Tier.
Mein Ru\u0308cken, dein Ru\u0308cken und dazwischen WIR
mit klopfendem Herzen und weichen Lippen und suchenden Zungen tastende Ha\u0308nde und Ko\u0308rper
die viel zu vertraut der Haut sich entgegenwo\u0308lben.<\/p>\n

Dich mir zu entwo\u0308hnen
dich dort unten zu wissen
und ein Gedankenstrahl, der von mir zu dir reicht und mein Ko\u0308rper, der sich nach unten senkt
um Abschied zu nehmen von dir.<\/p>\n

Ich hier, du dort
und dich wiedersehen wollen und werden
und eine Za\u0308rtlichkeit verspu\u0308ren, die bleiben kann weil ich dich kennenlernen durfte
und ein Haus entdeckt werden will.

<\/p>\n

Goodbye (U\u0308bersetzung: Wiebke Acton)<\/h3>\n

To wean you off me was best
even when the psyche cries
the psyche sighs cautiously and peels itself
out of the bubble of unreason and careless drifting.<\/p>\n

This island is so good for me, that I get wistful leaving it.<\/p>\n

As if the sun stays there
letting me go into darkness
yet I know that night is HERE and day begins on the mainland.<\/p>\n

To wean you off me
and know you no longer next to me seems logical although mathematical equations have no business here in this blending and commingling
of the atomic molecules of our selves.<\/p>\n

As if we transformed into an animal.
My back, your back, and in between US
with beating hearts and soft lips and searching tongues hands fumbling and bodies,
much too familiar, bulging against the skin.<\/p>\n

To wean you off me
to know you down there
and a beam of thought reaching from me to you and my body sinking down
to say goodbye to you.<\/p>\n

Me here, you there
and the desire and conviction to see you again and a sensation of tenderness, welcome to stay, for I got to know you
and a house wants to be explored.<\/p>\n



BUCH:<\/strong> To Live hei\u00dft LEBEN und Liebe hei\u00dft LOVE\/ Verlag \u00c9ditions Guy Binsfeld 2022<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>



Lyrics translated by Wiebke Acton:

Poland Trip
<\/strong><\/p>\n

Poland Trip
<\/span><\/span><\/span>Sitting there drawing with my charcoal pen
<\/span><\/span><\/span>the sun-drenched blue Wroclaw spire
<\/span><\/span><\/span>which lingers in my memory from far away
<\/span><\/span><\/span>sketching gargoyles
<\/span><\/span><\/span>gigantic heads of cunning ugliness
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I thought
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I was freed
<\/span><\/span><\/span>from all vices
<\/span><\/span><\/span>and the memories of weeks gone by, from all the sorrow.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>Sitting in Krakow on the warm stone of the eroded wall
<\/span><\/span><\/span>a shiver of fear took all
<\/span><\/span><\/span>of my body
<\/span><\/span><\/span>and question upon question: Where do I belong?
<\/span><\/span><\/span>Images creeping in, relentlessly
<\/span><\/span><\/span>like misty shrouds of bygone times.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>And I had to bolt the doors of the gigantic hostels.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>The constant roaring of males in corridors,
<\/span><\/span><\/span>this is no place for girls so young,
<\/span><\/span><\/span>asking where they belong
<\/span><\/span><\/span>with their loneliness.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>In Szczecin through lonely alleys I strolled, drugged with sleep,
<\/span><\/span><\/span>befogged at night, drawn by my own turmoil
<\/span><\/span><\/span>– this was a country of lived suffering
<\/span><\/span><\/span>and trampled stories.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>You ground me down, too.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>Me too.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>\u201cWe trace our past\u201d
<\/span><\/span><\/span>searching voices emerged over and over.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>And I?
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I travelled
<\/span><\/span><\/span>week upon week
<\/span><\/span><\/span>in the discord of my personal illness
<\/span><\/span><\/span>from too much love.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>Am I allowed to travel here
<\/span><\/span><\/span>chasing these questions
<\/span><\/span><\/span>when history hovers over these bloodied streets?
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I travel.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I pack my bag once again
<\/span><\/span><\/span>and lodge myself
<\/span><\/span><\/span>in the cheapest hostel
<\/span><\/span><\/span>the most budget night.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>Rusty metal bunk beds in dorm rooms,
<\/span><\/span><\/span>sagging mattresses
<\/span><\/span><\/span>and the secret whimpers of love-making,
<\/span><\/span><\/span>the noisy snoring soaring from a chorus of male throats.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I rack myself to my own oozing scum.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>No dough in my pocket
<\/span><\/span><\/span>No warm meal on the table
<\/span><\/span><\/span>My passport, my rucksack
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I\u2019ll smack
<\/span><\/span><\/span>you in the face, you vermin,
<\/span><\/span><\/span>you deserve it.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>You have nothing more.
<\/span><\/span><\/span>Sitting there
<\/span><\/span><\/span>in the shadow of a country\u2019s pain
<\/span><\/span><\/span>I yearned to return
<\/span><\/span><\/span>to Berlin
<\/span><\/span><\/span>home
<\/span><\/span><\/span>to him.

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

<\/p>\n




<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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