Alina’s mother says that poems fall from her like coins from a golden donkey: seemingly effortlessly and in abundance. Even as a child, Alina had a box where she collected words. Her loft bed was surrounded by boards on which she scribbled poetry in half-sleep. Poetry, for Alina, is an expression of the most important things that can never be accurately put into words. Now, she not only scribbles them in notebooks or on mobile apps, but also writes them on an ancient typewriter – just as they come to her, crossed out, replaced, rearranged…
Alinas Mutter sagt, dass aus ihr Gedichte fallen wie Taler aus dem Goldesel: scheinbar ohne Aufwand und in rauhen Mengen. Schon als Kind hatte Alina eine Schachtel, in der sie Worte sammelte. Ihr Hochbett war umrahmt von Tafeln, auf die sie nachts im Halbschlaf Poesie kritzelte. Poesie ist für Alina Ausdruck der wichtigsten Dinge, die man niemals treffsicher in Worte fassen kann. Inzwischen kritzelt sie sie nicht nur in Notizbücher oder in Handy-Apps, sondern schreibt sie auch auf einer uralten Schreibmaschine – immer genauso, wie sie geboren werden, durchgestrichen, ersetzt, verschoben…
Bury me.
Discard my body and
Bury my brain
Somewhere deep in the fertile soil
Of whatever country you believe
To be mine.
If my mind is already scattered
Make sure my ashes do it alike
And take apart each part of
Who I am,
Leave no two sections
In the same location.
I beg the world
To suck out my soul
With a vaccum
And release it back
To wherever it believes
It came from
Since this place
Surely cannot contain
All the pain that
Accumulated like dust
On the inside of
This body of mine.
Bury me,
I beg.
Discard my body and
Bury my brain
Deeper than the roots
Of whatever tree of life
Had the audacity to bear me.
Allow me to seize
To exist where
My head is not more use
Than a flower vase would be,
Carrying something dead
That surely
Is supposed to live
Among the grass and soil.
Bury me,
I beg you.
Hand me back
To the earth that
Calls herself home.
13/7/23
every day
It’s not every day you find them like this
Wrapped up in each other’s eyes
Singing odes to each other by merely gazing,
Spinning a string that may last through the night
And banishing all scissors from the home,
Mouthing the opposite of a gasp:
The sound of soft silence,
Forgetting the meaning to all words
But one
If this was every day
Nobody would ever be sad