Prix Laurence - Bettembourg Prix Laurence 2019 - Luxembourg

Prix Laurence 2019

Suglia Cosimo - De Café um Bock.

It is human’s nature to yearn for the unnatural.

A voice lured him to unknown parts of the old city. His feet enchanted, his ears hooked to the bait of music. He forgot the parking bill and his tiredness and the uncomfortable tie around his neck, for in that moment pain was secondary. De Café um Bock greeted the lost traveller.

He wouldn’t have entered the bar. As a candidate to be the future Luxembourgish prime minister, it is not well seen strolling into hidden beer dispensaries, which in return is strange, considering the proud local drinking culture. He entered.

The smell of cigarettes and red wine and old wood decorated the tiny inside. Few drunks had already given up and the counter had become their dedicated sleeping spot. The barman gazed at the stranger.

A woman, gorgeous in her nature, played the rundown piano. Her skin was well-toned, her hair long and dark, and her blue dress resembled Puglia’ soft ocean waves. His gaze was robbed, her being was charm enough to embrace and squeeze his heart. As the door slammed back into place, he awakened from his slumber. The singer smiled at him with a certain notion of contend.

He sat down, wanted a Bofferding and got a Diekirch, and asked the barman: “Moien, sorry, could you tell me who she is?”

“Ani Sulem,” slurred the barman in reply. It was obvious, some of the alcohol has embraced the motherly care of his mouth. He pointed to the window. It said; Ani Sulem, Every Thursday Night, Music, followed by about ten red exclamation marks.

He took a sip from his beer, wiped the foam from his upper lip. Placed it back on the counter and heard how the seat near him scraped the wooden floor. The woman sat with equal grace besides him. His heart has grappled its way up his throat.

“How come a man like you, is in a place like this?” She questioned the stranger. Her legs were crossed.

He panicked. He loosened his tie, fumbled around his neck and mumbled: “Eh, to be honest…your voice,” he penetrated her eyes and gulped.

“Aren’t you cute, prime minister,” she grinned.

“Wait, you know me?” he asked, while his eyebrows tried to touch each other.

She started to laugh, her hand hiding her smile. “Mister Freud Gies, the population’s favourite,” she took a sip from her Crémant, “your face is plastered around the city, dear.” She winked.

Freud’s embarrassment was clearly visible. He took a sip anew, followed by a sturdy laughter and a long night.


Saturdays were boring. They were strangely annoying. All he did was watch the news, respond to emails and sign some papers. He yearns. Repeatedly. Freud sighed, for the tenth time in less than twenty minutes.

He looked through the newspaper. Houses riddled the page, and as he went deeper the prices raised themselves. He underlined some with a blue pen, engraved with his name. Quite difficult to find a good one in the city. They were either too expensive, or run down, and even though he had not to worry about money, his education shines through.

He was annoyed, sad maybe and his patience also wore off. At first, he did not question it, he wanted to give her the privacy she needed. But at what point turns kindness into scepticism? Parents importance is undeniable, but every Saturday? He hasn’t even met them, and it has been what? Two years?

He played with the ring on his finger. She didn’t even show up for his inauguration. Granted, that was barely after that night, and she wasn’t ready yet to go public, could tarnish his career. Which it did not, who cares what the stupid papers say, or what she works as. For all he cares she could do what ever she wants, he would support her in every endeavour.

There was, however, one thing he wanted, and as his position tells, he was incredible in acquiring them; answers. He can’t do it anymore, plagued by demonic dreams and jealousy, he will confront her as soon as she returns.

He took the ring from his finger and put it on the table.


Screams engulfed the condo. Good thing the neighbours were in vacation or else the grand duchy’s police would have some work at hand.

“I simply can’t tell you Freud,” her face was wet, not from rain or sweat, but from sadness. She knew deep down this is it.

“What god damn hidden secret you have that you can’t even tell your fiancée?” his response wasn’t loud, a bit aggressive maybe, but the obvious winner of the facial emotion fight was despair.

She lowered her head, her sight focused on the light green rug beneath her. She bought that rug. The condo was already comfortable, yet it was similar to a unused colouring palette. So, in a convincing stride (one without discussing it with Freud, of course) she impregnated the rooms with her colourful quirkiness. Freud wanted to be mad, but the smile on Ani’s face was remarkable. He would describe it as soothing almost.

“Freud,” she murmured, “there was once a man I really loved. He was more than a man, a leader, one that could build a city from the ground up.” She moved over to the L-formed couch and sat down. Freud followed and sat himself in front of her.

“He was quite like you,” she leaned over to the wooden coffee table and took a napkin, “and similar to you he asked for answers. However, I wasn’t ready to tell him.”

“So?”, asked Freud. Despair became concern, he put his hand on her thigh.

Ani cleaned her nose with the napkin and continued: “So, one Saturday he followed me, and saw my secret,” She looked Freud in the eyes, “the stare he gave me, was that of disgust. I was hurt, hurt like never before.” Her skin resembled a map with long rivers.

Her tone trembled, “I love you Freud, but I don’t want to lose you.”

A condescending laugh emerged from Freud’s mouth. He laughed, shook his head and couldn’t even look into Ani’s eyes.

“We’ve been together for two years, and that is how much trust we have built?” He stood up, showed his back to Ani and stroked the front of his face.

He turned around and looked at her, “Do you think so little of me? Do you really, absolutely think I would just give up on this because you have some little secret. Let me be the judge of that!” he exclaimed.

Ani was shocked. She stopped crying at once, and her body felt as if a car just had hit her. Confusion was reign. She became furious.

“You fucking asshole, why are you like this?” she grabbed his hand and both walked to the bathroom. Ani let water into the bathtub and undressed herself, still being obviously mad.

Freud did not want to, he was mad, anxious and confused, and yet the blood rose. He kept his clothes on, this became a complete fever dream.

Ani climbed into the bathtub and with ferocity said: “Watch, fucker.” Her legs glowed a bright blue and slowly changed shape, followed by her hands and her hair turned a light green, similar to the rug in the hallway. Freud was unreadable, his mouth and eyes began to grow, and his breath stumbled. Ani’s legs turned into an ocean blue fish tail and her hands had fins between the fingers.

She looked away from Freud, her gut instinct told her to not look at his face, she usually does not repeat her mistakes, but sometimes emotions take over.

Freud walked over to her, sat on the edge of the bathtub, analysed the creature up and down. He took Ani’s hand and said:



Melusina found her Siegfreud.


ageschéckt den: 19:04 Fri, 18 January 2019 vum: Suglia Cosimo


Prix Laurence 2019

Suglia Cosimo - Al Realitéit

Et ass net Alldag dass een Informatioune kritt déi engem säi Liewe fir ëmmer ännert. Informatiounen déi engem seng ganz Realitéit nei gestallt. Dobäi ass dat schwéierst déi Informatiounen iwwerhaapt wouer ze huelen, mee ganz éierlech, wat soll ee soss maachen als se wouer ze huelen? Se ignoréiere, se verstoppen an der Déift vu sengem Gehir, oder einfach d'Aen zouhale bis alles eriwwer ass? Sou einfach ass dat net wann déi nei ageféiert Realitéits wiesselt Informatioun engem direkt virun der Nues setzt.

An da muss een sech och nach d'Fro stellen; Wat mécht ee mat dëser neier Realitéit? Besonnesch, an et muss een et mat immens héijer Bedeitung widderhuelen, besonnesch dann, wann een iwwert siwwenzeg Joer laang mat der aler Realitéit zesumme gelieft huet. Eng Wunneng wou ee säit Kand dra wunnt an engem dobäi Begleet bis dass een Erwuessen ass, verkeeft een och net dem Drëttbeschten.

Wat also wann ee géif engem Erzielen dass den Här Heiseng genau dat doe materlieft huet? Et ass jo net esou dass een Achzegjäregen, dee viru kuerzem seng Fra verluer huet, bei him am Gaart en faarwegt Ee fënnt an dat opzitt, als net geckeg erkläert gelt. En huet sech em dat Ee gekëmmert mat dem Rescht Léift deen en senger Fra nach wollt ginn. Et konnt him awer och kee soen dass aus dem Ee e klengen, rout gefierften Draach mat schaarfen Zänn eraus géif briechen. Den Här Heiseng hätt bal vu Verwonnerung an neiem Realitéitsbezuch, seng Fra besicht.

Awer, an dat muss een erwänen, den Här Heiseng hat eng gewësse Stäerkt déi di meescht Mënschen net besetzen; en ass en zimlech oppene Mënsch. An souguer wann en am Ufank geschléckt huet, an och villäicht e puer Deeg Mokrämp hatt, huet en den Rot erzunn. Net nëmmen huet en eng nei Realitéit entdeckt, mee och nach en Sënn. E Sënn deen en mat senger ganzer Kraaft ausüübt, bis zum Schluss vu sengem Liewen.

Villäicht ass Skeptesch sinn net schlecht, mee den Optimismus erlaabt eis Informatiounen sou ze verschaffen dass nei Dieren eis och kennen neie Sënn am Liewe ginn.





ageschéckt den: 19:22 Fri, 18 January 2019 vum: Suglia Cosimo


Prix Laurence 2019

Suglia Cosimo - Tiny Grey Bovine

It stood there every night while it chewed grass and bathed in clear moonlight. A rather small creature clothed in musty grey fur that tangled down to its hoofs. I was not really sure, but it resembled a bison or a yack which had been shrunk, at least threefold. I could tell it had not been a cow for it showed no utter. Closer inspection had led me to believe this, because the straws of grass tickled the bovine’s nose and I would hear a severe grunt, as if the creature had been annoyed. It had been strangely human.

The first time I observed Jerky (as I have named him) it felt surreal. Its motionless movements of the mouth and dark enlightenment of the moon disturbed me to the core of my stomach. I jumped up, naked, because I looked out of the window from the top bathroom of my condo. The bathroom, situated beneath the roof, had windows positioned to such a degree that my head barely peeked outside. The bottom part of my body hid behind a mustard-coloured wall. From that day on, I would repeat this cycle: Come home from university, eat, take a shower and observe Jerky.

Soothing might be the more rational explanation of this tradition. I would ask myself questions, such as: “How come he is so tiny?”, “How come I don’t see him in daylight?”, “Who do you belong to, little friend?”, and finally, “Am I a pervert for looking at a undergrown cow-creature naked, late at night?”. The last question can easily be answered: no.

However, he became my sort of therapeutic venting tool. I would go outside with a foldable chair and sit in front of the metal fence. The bovine trotted towards me every time, and I fed him some questionable treats. He would eat everything. While he enjoyed the different snacks, I would tell him stories or philosophical subjects that swarmed through my mind, and he would always listen. I think the part about Murakami’s book had been his favourite, because he stopped licking my hand and looked at me with his green eyes.

This kept up for quite some time. Until one night I marched down the steps of the front garden, down the street to the pasture and a foreign entity sat in front of the fence, it occupied my space. It had been a woman, probably my age, lean with short black hair and an intellectual beauty. Her ears were decorated with pitch black piercings and her fingers hugged by a row of similar coloured rings. My shadow, thrown by the bright moonlight, darkened her left side, and she turned around to look at me. She tilted her head, closed her eyes and smiled. It disturbed me to the core of my heart. I jumped up, feeling naked.

“Hey, sorry I took your space!” The woman exclaimed, her voice tiny yet energetic.

“No…don’t worry.” I managed to produce.

The woman stood up from her olive-green camping chair and thrusted her hand in my general direction, “I am Emily. Nice to meet you!”

I shook her hand and could feel the wetness of my hand, which made me cringe.

“Sorry, this must be increasingly creepy to you. I live over there,” she pointed in a direction but I didn’t look, I was concentrated on her blue eyes, “I have been watching you, coming here for quite some time and you always looked like you had some fun with this little guy over here,” with her thump horizontal to the sky she pointed towards Jerky, “I thought I would join you guys sometime,” she smiled.

I sat my folding chair near hers, took out Jerky’s snacks and talked to both of them. The naked feeling I had before vanished, and warmth took reign of my body. I went to bed at six in the morning and skipped class the day after.

Emily studied German literature and it showed. Her constant rambling of Tod in Venedig was quite charming, nevertheless. One thing we could agree on, however, was the ingenuity and beauty of Neil Gaiman. And so, I was caught again in a new cycle.

Gradually, however, Jerky didn’t appear at night. He would be gone for a day, a week and then months. We were worried, but on the nights, he wasn’t there, I was able to spend even more time with Emily. Sometimes, we would go and eat fast food. Sometimes, we would watch a movie. Sometimes, we would make love beneath the usual moonlight. Until we stopped our daily visit.

Don’t get me wrong. I miss Jerky, and I can’t get the feeling of my chest that he was there to bring us together. As if he was sent by some mysterious surreal power to bring her and me together. Our cupid was a small, musty, grey-haired cow-like creature that endorsed daily hand licking. And, as I am writing this, thirty years after the disappearance of Jerky, I don’t even know if he was real, but he will forever be real in our hearts, our love and our children.



ageschéckt den: 21:02 Tue, 22 January 2019 vum: Suglia Cosimo



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LiteraTour 2019

vum 22. Abrëll bis de 5. Mee 2019
zu Beetebuerg

De Lies-Festival fir Iech all!
14 Deeg BeeteBuerg - BicherBuerg

7. Editioun vum LiteraTour a
5. Editioun vum Prix Laurence

D'Finallen vum Prix Laurence mat de Live-Liesungen am Café Littéraire:

12 - 17 Joer: 27. Abrëll, 14.30 Auer
18 - 26 Joer: 28. Abrëll, 14.30 Auer

Déi 3 Anthologien vum Prix Laurence 2015/16, 2017 an 2018.
Dir kritt se op der Gemeng Beetebuerg.


Kënnt am Abrëll 2019 eraus:
D'Anthologie vum Prix Laurence 2018.
Présentatioun: 23. Abrëll, um 18 Auer, an der Librairie Ernster (Stad).

*  *  *

Kleng Lecture, déi Iech vläicht weiderbréngt:


-  Wir sagen uns Dunkles
Die Liebesgeschichte zwischen
Ingeborg Bachmann und Paul Celan
DVA, 2017


-  Nemesis
Roman, rororo, 2018


-  A Grace Paley Reader
Stories, essays, poetry

Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2017

-  Manchmal kommen ...
Gedichte, Schöffling & Co, 2018


-  Die schönsten Streichhölzer der Welt
Englisch - Deutsch, mit den Gedichten
aus Jim Jarmuschs Film Paterson
Dieterich'sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 2017


-  Spitzen
Gedichte. Fanbook. Hall of Fame.
edition suhrkamp, 2018


-  Die Live Butterfly Show
Gedichte, Hanser Berlin, 2018


-  Infiniment proche
Poésie, Gallimard, 2015


-  Femmes poètes de la Beat Generation
éditions Bruno Doucey, 2018


-  Picknick in der Nacht
Gedichte, Hanser, 2016


-  An den Ufern der Dunkelheit
Gedichte aus Palästina
Fischer Taschenbuch, 2013


-  Warum ich nicht im Netz bin
Gedichte und Prosa aus dem Krieg
Suhrkamp, 2016


-  Das Buch der klassischen Haiku
Hrsgb. Jan Ulenbrook
Reclam, 2018


-  Let Them Eat Chaos
Sollen sie doch Chaos fressen
Lyrik, edition suhrkamp, 2018

-  Hold Your Own
Gedichte, Suhrkamp, 2016

-  Worauf du dich verlassen kannst
Roman, Rowohlt, 2016


-  Fjorde
Lyrik, édition g. binsfeld, 2018


-  Fass mich an
Beats, Punchlines, Bitchmoves
édition g. binsfeld, 2017


-  Autopsie
Roman (op lëtz.), Ultimomondo, 2014

-  Abrasch
Poesie, éd. phi, 2013

(1957 - 2018)

-  Fuchs im Aufzug
Erzählungen, capybarabooks, 2017


-  Déi 20 kleng Bicher am "Schuber"
aus der Collectioun smart
Erzielungen, éd. Kremart, 2017

Auteuren 2019


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