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___Festival 2018___________Europe_Inside_/_Outside___________Wien 24_10 | München 26-28_10

Lubi Barre
(Somalia/USA/Hamburg)
Samstag, 27. Oktober, 19 Uhr
whiteBOX München

*Paris, Frankreich, aufgewachsen in Somalia und Kalifornien.

Lubi Barre ist Dichterin und schreibt kreative Kurzgeschichten zu Sachthemen. Ihre Kurzgeschichte Goodbye wurde in der Anthologie My Old Man veröffentlicht. Sie ist Mitorganisatorin der monatlichen Lesereihe AHAB und der vierteljährlichen internationalen Reihe "Hafenlesung".

Barre ist Mitglied im Writers Room Hamburg, ist Mitarbeiterin des jährlichen BBC Programms "Weekender", und arbeitet derzeit an einer Kurzgeschichten-Sammlung. Sie lebt in Hamburg.


meine drei lyrischen ichs spezial

Born in Paris, France. Grew up in Somalia and California. Lubi Barre is a writer of poetry and creative non-fiction short stories. Her story Goodbye was published in the anthology My Old Man. She co-organizes the monthly reading series AHAB as well as the quarterly international reading series Hafenlesung.

Barre is a member of the residency Writers Room, a yearly contributor to the BBC Weekender, and is currently working on a short story collection. She lives in Hamburg.

TAG
I’m very good at hiding
I hide the knife you cut me with
When another look of contempt
Rearranges your face
I hide my thoughts that are too heavy for you to bear
I tuck them tightly inside
where even I forget them at times
I hide your pain so you can feel lighter
And freer
To achieve other things
Like happiness
I hide your criticisms of me
Your wishes that I was another variation
More, more, more
And sometimes less
I hide my articulation
So that only redundancy comes out
My tongue no longer finding
the right words
I tell you I’m great at hiding
I’ve hidden so much
That I cannot find
Even us

BOUND

Silence silence silence
His words tell me
Bind me
I ask in protest
Can I not express myself?
His words agree
Yet his expressions deceive
Silence they repeat
Your expressions and feelings
Have no validation
If you want to be heard
Then speak my language
Pretty up your feelings
Your pain should always be lesser than mine
I go to throw up my hands
And realize
They are bound

HICCUP
Every once in a while
Like a hiccup
In my minds eye I see them two together
In that one room bar that went from a favorite
To only filled with this memory
I reread those erased messages
That conversation on the sun filled bench
Denying
The guilt flying out of his mouth
As hard rocks, irretrievable
My body remembers the trauma
Like an old wound in cold weather
The loyalty of love
Is fickle

THINGS THAT GROW

plants
(my) anger (sometimes)
distance
trust
bacteria
(my) love (always)
a beard
feelings
the body
knowledge
29 weeks
us