Prix Laurence - Bettembourg Prix Laurence 2020 - Luxembourg

Prix Laurence 2020

Thiel Jelena - Dies Irae / Fumées de Térébenthine

Je vois la blanche éternité

Comme un canevas devant mes yeux

«Vas-y, remplie-moi, joue dieu»

Le créateur est un bourré.


Plus tôt le vide m'a appellé,

et dit: «Mon admiré Monsieur,

si tout ça devient ennuyeux

recommence une fois, mais en bleu!»


On dit: Dans l'amour et la guerre...

Du pigment martial pour la terre

Le fil rouge verse de mon pinceau.


Relie fiction et le réel,

cette sanglante histoire éternelle!

Si je n'aime plus, je suis bourreau...


ageschéckt den: 15:42 Sat, 18 January 2020 vum: Thiel Jelena


Prix Laurence 2020

Thiel Jelena - The Owl and the Raven

In the vast and everchanging chasm between nowhere and everyplace they sit, the two constants. He’s tall, dark-haired, an ominous figure with empty eye sockets. In turn, her face is ageless in a way that it seems to wax and wane infinitely, so that when you have pinpointed her features as those of a young girl, they have already flowed into the shape of an old crone in the process looking.


They have spent their time overlooking many deeds great and terrible and oftentimes both, along with thrice as many that were just incredibly, mundanely boring.


Often they sit and haggle, and when sometimes their goals may feel at odds, that is where unlikely rebellion thrives, gods and masters are successfully shunned, and peace finally reigns.


You may imagine these times as a great big cosmic chess game on a planet-sized board, except that, no matter what some might tell you about the grand scheme of things, the kings and the pawns here are equal on all accounts.


He’s very close to winning. Two or three moves and he’ll be done, and then he’ll put on the smug face he reserves for special occasions. He does it on purpose.


It had started out in the age of heroes and, then, it had been fine to let him win sometimes— he was her little brother after all. But only as he started doing it more and more and getting better and better across centuries, millennia, aeons, she realized just how much it made her want to punt him into the sun.


In these times when the lowly wipping-boys rise, she is living out her Cain instinct on a global scale, which is as sensible as it gets when Death himself kneels before you and your brother, occasionally asking for a pay raise or vacation time.


“You’re in Check,” he drawls finally, leaning back into the chair he willed into existence (It’s made of Time, and very relaxing to lean into).

She hadn’t failed to notice. Every fiber of his eternal being seems to be aflame with satisfaction. It streams from his soul and pours out of his empty eyes, giving his black hair a deep blueish tinge and his insufferability a clear boost. He’ll triumph on his own this time.


Fate tuts. She is not having it. First, this one belongs to her. Second, she ought to not let her brother’s ego inflate too much, because unfortunate things tend to happen if it does. Unfortunate for the simple folk, mind you.


It’s not always like this. Sometimes their interests align, sometimes things just go too well, sometimes men are blinded by lust or rage or pure unadulterated hubris, noticing the pebble that is to trip them up only in falling.


She would be lying if she said there wasn’t some perverse, wretched beauty in it. Something deep inside her— and it takes a herculean effort of cognitive dissonance to overlook— relishes the carnage. Goes giddy at the sight of blood, wine-dark, smeary, and disgusting; how it gushes rhythmically from an opened carotid, clockwork intricacies of the mortal body revealed, how it mingles with pulpified grey matter in the remains of a smashed-in cranium, paints entire battlefields, villages, rivers, and cradles with its vivid hue.


There is something incredibly intimate about ramming a dagger into someone’s flesh.


She would not be better than him though, giving in to base desires like that. He likes to go down and have a bit of fun sometimes, a hands-on approach. Sit overhead watching as it all goes sideways, an artful conductor to a symphony of chaos and misfortune.


And chaos is what he does best, really. All it takes is a little whisper in the right person’s ear, a small twisting of the senses, and they’re done for. She, herself, she’s more discreet. Less overt with it. She weaves an intricate tissue of destiny, determinism, and ineffability; sturdy white cloth to wipe your soiled hands on.


“Didn’t you see this coming?” The edges of his lips creep upward. “Better luck next time.”


“I don’t think so,” she says. Purrs.


He shakes his head patronizingly. “Don’t try to tell me anything about winning by not playing in the first place. That’s not quite how that works, trust me—“


“I wasn’t being nearly as philosophical. I simply meant to tell you that you should’ve kept an eye on the upper right corner.”


“You—" His face goes suddenly slack. "Oh—"


“Check and Mate, my dear.”


“That one was boring anyways. Did nothing but mumble into his beard about culturally significant rosids and End Times and whatnot.”


“I have something in plan.”


She likes to think that she doesn’t leave anything to Luck, good or bad. It’s all very subjective anyways, and what is bad luck but fate indulging? It’s clear as cristal, laid out before her with the important parts underlined in red ink, twice.


“A rematch?”



ageschéckt den: 21:58 Wed, 29 January 2020 vum: Thiel Jelena


Prix Laurence 2020

Thiel Jelena - The Gravediggers, or: A bit about a plague.

London, (presumably) 1665. Two Gravediggers with shovels, we’ll call them Cuthbert and Humphrey. A bell.



H [Ringing Bell]: Bring out yer dead! [More Ringing] Bring out yer dead! Oh, there’s a young little thing.


C: Here’s a bloke from town council.


H: You know ’im?


C: Made little Fear-God get lashes for stealin’ a cheese.


H: The rascal.


C: The official? Or my hellspawn?—He comes after his mother.


H: [shrugs] Eh.


[More Ringing of Bells, shouting ‘Bring out yer dead’]


C: You know, I think he may be ripe for comin’ to work with me soon. I’ll show him the way around a shovel so he can follow in his father’s footsteps one day.


H: ‘Ow old is he again?


C: Seven.


H: Oh yeah, about time if ye ask me. Shan’t be truant.


[They begin to dig, Humphrey is whistling a seventeenth-century tune that may have more than a passing similarity to John Lennon’s Imagine ]


C: Stop that.


H: Huh?


C: The singin’. Gives me a headache.


H: It helps me work. And not think about the smell.


C: Then sing something else.


H: Don’t you like that one? Everyone likes that one!


C: I’m sick of it. I keep losin’ sleep over them singing it at their little balls in their great big houses. No one cares. People are perishin’ in the streets. It’s the End Times, I tell you. The Cavaliers were the Antichrist and this here is Pestilence on ‘is white horse.


H: I- I’ll sing something else then.


[They keep shoveling. Humphrey whistles We are the world (We are the children….) A first corpse is dragged into the pit.]


C [stopping suddenly]: You know, just lately I’ve talked to a man moanin’ about how the playhouses wouldn’t open. Said he missed the chap from Stratford, and the newer ones too. Very upset about the coffeehouses closin’, and the mollyhouses.


H: What ‘appened with him?


C [Looking into the pit.]  You just dropped him in there.


H: Ah.

[They get back to their work.]


H: I heard tobacco helps ‘gainst the sickness. People swear by it now to escape the bad air.


C: Well I do s’pose there’s not much to do these days beside smoke.


H: Any way you take it—I’m jolly busy.


C: Oh yeah—for them I mean. They want their Nell Gwynn and their cockfights and dishwater ale ‘til the wee morning hours. They wanna painted French Jezebel and a dignified bar brawl to make ‘em feel alive. And who’s kept occupied by that?


H: Well—


C: Us. We have to shovel all the pits.


H: The rats aren’t lazin’ about either.


C: — and the doctors too. They’re like crows without wings, always runnin’ somewhere to go poke a boil or two. I heard some of ‘em aren’t even qualified.




H: I would this plague had never come to London Town.


C: Alas. Even the King chickened out by now. He’s out of town.


H: You know, some say it was those ghastly Huns who first brought it to us, way back. Or the Genovans. Or the Jews…[he thinks about that, just a micrometre away from self-awareness about the general prejudices of the time]

 …when something bad happens people always say it’s the Jews.


C: I don’t know, Humphrey…

[finger raised in accusation]

 My money’s on them witches.


H: Witches?


C: Witches, I tell you. Large gatherings in the woods at night. No distance. No decency. Consortin’ with the Devil. Always takin’ baths with weird herbs in ‘em. And they don’t seem to be dyin’ of the plague as much…


H: That seems—


C: Suspicious is what it seems.


H: Fair enough, fair enough…So we’re not the only ones who’ve been busy, then.


C: Busy dying.


H: Busy digging.


C: All day everyday except on Sundays.


H: Half a day off has to suffice. Diggin’s what we’re paid for after all.


C: We get paid?


H: I think.


C: S’ in their best interest. Just think what would happen if we stopped.


H: Oh…


C: Bodies pilin’ up in the streets, the horrible stench spreadin’ the pestilence with even more haste. People would watch their loved ones decay in front of their windows for weeks…You know, the fingers and eyes get nicked by stray animals sometimes.


H: Zounds!


C: It’s a good thing we keep digging, innit?


H: It’s a good thing indeed. Now help me shovel some earth on toppa these blokes, may God rest their souls.


[They pile dirt into the pit. Humphrey is whistling Heal the world]


ageschéckt den: 15:59 Sun, 14 June 2020 vum: Thiel Jelena



Maach elo hei mat

De Concours ass eriwwer!

Mäin Text eraschécken



Wéi kann ech matmaachen?



Flyer 2019


Download Dépliant 2020


LiteraTour 2020


Litertour 2020


De Liesfestival LiteraTour invitéiert normalerweis am Abrëll all d’Frënn vum Buch op Beetebuerg. Dat ass dëst Joer net méiglech. Dowéinst kënnt de LiteraTour bei Iech heem – am Livestream iwwert de YouTube– a Facebookaccount vun der Gemeng an den Internetsite!

Dee ganze Festival ass ofgesot!
Gëtt, wa méiglech, an den Hierscht 2020 verluecht.

De Lies-Festival fir Iech all!
BeeteBuerg - BicherBuerg.

8. Editioun vum LiteraTour a
6. Editioun vum Prix Laurence

Déi 3 Anthologien vum Prix Laurence 2015/16, 2017 an 2018.
Dir kritt se am BicherKueb zu Beetebuerg.

Vum Juli un am BicherKueb zu Beetebuerg an och an Ärer Librairie:
D'Anthologie vum Prix Laurence 2019.
D'Finalisten a Laureaten kréien se heemgeschéckt!

*  *  *

Kleng Lecture, déi Iech vläicht weiderbréngt:


-  Gespräche mit Freunden
Roman, Luchterhand, 2019


-  Allegro Pastell
Roman, KiWi, 2020


-  Auf Erden sind wir kurz grandios
Roman, Hanser, 2019

-  Nachthimmel mit Austrittswunden
Gedichte, engl./dtsch., Hanser, 2020

ERNESTO CARDENAL (1925 - 2020)

-  Transitreisender
Gedichte, Peter Hammer Verlag, 2008


-  Bergeners
Matthes & Seitz Berlin, 2018

mat 15 Joer
3. Präis beim Prix Laurence 2016

-  Lautlos
Roman, éditions guy binsfeld, 2019


-  Holland träumen
Lyrik, éditions guy binsfeld, 2019


-  Marie Adelheid
Eine politische Biografie (1912 - 1919)
éditions guy binsfeld, 2019

Reisen durch die junge Lyrik Europas

-  Hrsgb. F. Italiano, J. Wagner
Anthologie, Hanser, 2019


-  Hrsgb. N. Gomringer, M. Beyer
Anthologie, Voland & Quist, 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


-  Sämtliche Gedichte
DVA, 2013

-  Gesammelte Prosa
DVA, 2006

-  Sarah Kirsch u. Christa Wolf
Wir haben uns wirklich an allerhand gewöhnt
Der Briefwechsel, Suhrkamp, 2019


-  Tieflandsbucht
Die Gedichte, Schöffling, 2018


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


-  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


Auteuren 2020


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