Christine Hoba (Germany)
Christine Hoba, poet from Halle (Saale), Germany
Instead of a biography:
I introduce myself and my art as a gooseberry cace. Gooseberries grew in the little proletarian garden for my parents in the industrial city Magdeburg. They were sour and prickly.
The acidity of the berries, the croo of fruits, the sweetness of sugar, the heat of baking are a metaphor of my art. Beauty an suffering and design rise to poetry.
I was born in Magdeburg in 1961 and live in Halle. I have published four novels, two volumes of poetry and two volumes of short stories.
the forest’s tiny lapdogs,
smelling of mold: I lie
among you, savour
death or life or
phantasm, take a
bite, spread my
lunar wings – mushrooms,
playing to my levitation,
hazardous dishes made from
rain and forest –
leaning together, holding each
other, not able to let the other
one go, half way between god,
woman and rock. they wait in this garden
for the golden time’s return,
but it does not ad will not.
only the rain and the wind and – later –
the winter fretting itself into their
foreheads’ rough grooves.
That is how they bear each other, almost
ruins, messengers of the old
bronze age, scared by the
big-city-noise, the monstrous
rotating, the iron infection
of the valley – they wait for the laural
woods. preliminarilly still, up here
on the porphyry rock hidden
folded paper sachets, which did him good
this steady, nagging folding instead of phrases,
all thee old wounds caused by words on paper
on which he wrote – this addiction to words
he kept them tiny. They finanally had to vanish.
nevr used a magnifier, read again,
what he wrote was no longer
his, was gone he liked those paper
sachets much better the concord of those
who folded, mumbled, hawked.
he liked the forest, its creaking and crinkling,
when he – coatless – walked through
reading steps and trails in the snow
when he lied still just gazing.
Born and raised between gooseberry bushes
Dipped in milk, dusted with flour, sweetened, stirred
Pushed into the fire, in severe heat
And under the song of the devils down here
Baked for a long time, gently embrowned,
Covered with snow, lifted into daylight – round
Like a cartwheel, illuminated by the sun on a white laid table
I stand, wander through you, divided
Into many pieces – palate drum – sweet song –
Stomach`s friend – you are inside of me and I am inside of you
For this afternoon`s gooseberry-celebration –
Translated from German into English by Marco Organo