edition black square

Poetry / text and reading

Felix Philipp Ingold
Andrea Heuser
Heinz Czechowski
Ferdinand ScholzAchim Raven
Ralph Thenior
Christian Rose
Benedict Ledebur
Franz Josef Czernin

Felix Philipp Ingold

Twenty-three poems

ISBN 978-3-939511-68-7
Book with audio CD (author reading)
76 pages, CD running time 41:30 min
22,80 € (D) / 29,80 sFR (CH) / 23,80 € (A)

It is here today ... Let it be repeated: "It is here today" as in an earlier poem. With a loud i- and ü-bells. So spring again. Green already bagged in the defrosted one
Hills. In truth it rests at this point

a felled giant. Something small and but
gigantic. Instep and crown and the left one
Describe the shoulder blade as a fidgety one
Stroke the coming south. While
still - and again today -
the vocabulary from that poem trickles over and ("the ugly ambiguous poultry") keeps going quite boldly "until then". Here!

 Author reading

Patience, like happiness, is exhaustion. Always as if someone alone ("he"
or "you") bury all the snow. But neither you nor him is the clock

to hold up as a mirror. Because an eternity (or just the boredom afterwards)
has no time. No and so on. No or something like that. Both - clock like eternity - are standing
individually for the round cube. Together
for a tie between
Hatchet and body. Is this really born
so he just stays
- as Figura indicates - borrowed until morning.

 Author reading




Felix Philipp Ingold

works - after many years of teaching and research - as a writer, journalist and translator in Zurich and Romain-môtier;
for his literary endeavors he received the Petrarca Prize for Translation, the Ernst Jandl Prize for Poetry, the Great Bern Literature Prize, the Manuscript Prize, the Erlanger Prize for Poetry as Translation.
His most recent publications include the volumes “Tagesform” (poems, 2007), “Gegengabe” (prose and poetry, 2009), “Fascination of the foreign” (essay, 2009), “Apropollinaire” (poems and commentaries, together with Stanley Chapman , 2008).

Andrea Heuser

before disappearing

I inflicted YOU on myself
and now you don't want to heal in me
because everyone tries to shut you up
you would have opened up before

so you are me
under the skin quite and
the only big question
no disaster so far
do not cut no cardiac arrest

just getting used to it slowly
of the deafness
of the veins at the push of a button

THROW upside down in the meadow, and
legs, stems pruning, leaves and flowers
mowing down bulky grass, grabbing cool grass, and
be completely in heat, bloom belly and breast tickling
beetles backwards, earthy, earth, in earth, and

clover-sweet, bird droppings, sun-spotted, butterfly-beating
eyelashes, streaks, snails, feces, and

Ants, everything, feel everything, touch, peck while crawling
sniff, trace, flowers, and

wind, spurs, moths, bumblebees, wings, birds, everything
everything be neck, be heaven-, THROW, throw yourself, and

Andrea Heuser,

born 1972 in Cologne, lives today as an author
and literary scholar in Munich. Literary works in the field of poetry, prose, libretto and musical theater. promotion about German-Jewish literature before and after 1989. For your work 
Andrea Heuser also received several prizes and grants, among others the sponsorship award of the International Lake Constance Conference for Poetry (2006) and the Wolfgang Weyrauch Prize (2007). “Before disappearing” is her first independent volume of poetry.

Benedict Ledebur


in the garden

ulterior motives look at you with my eyes,
and I'm already in a thunderstorm in the mountains.
because what I see of you, I want to climb too,
not just to escape levels in me and their sultriness.
it does not hit us from bright heaven when we resent
and gentle rain also has its clouds until it pours:
what you want from me, you must also want from your mood,
and that which flows in the background when we talk about the weather,
swells into a torrent when it thunders over your mountains.
yes, blown off, and snails - stretch their feelers:
it has rained, everything is dripping and is a bit cooler.

 Author reading


in the beginning everything revolves around wanting to talk
to what goes up in the sea versions,
to sound the letter leaves millions
play in lightning that they should ground,
threatening thoughts hidden from the light
restricting order as confusion evidences.
If the fabrics roll their way, they bend
the models adapt to the costumes of tomorrow,
encircles what is here in the articulated, will be.
all of a sudden, and so drawn, rise
scales up, turns into gestures
the delirious close to the rounds of songs.
choir all suspicion lifts the lyres on,
ends as a rupture, riff in the process of running.

 Author reading

Benedict Ledebur

born 1964 in Munich, lives in Vienna. Studied theology in Friborg, data technology and philosophy in Vienna. Literary criticism and articles in magazines such as Kolik, Waspennest,
new german literature. 2002 Author project in the literary quarter Alte Schmiede, Vienna:
"Knowledge, Metaphysics and Poetry", studies and texts on Giordano Bruno.
Book publications (selection): »Poetisches Opfer«, 1998, Ritter Verlag, Klagenfurt - Vienna;
»ABOUT / TRANS / LATE / LATE«, 2001, Onestarpress, Paris.

Heinz Czechowski

Healed of all miracles

To Mickel

In the end, you know that
There is nothing left. Or is it?
Outlasted us
The walls and
The vaults: Frauenkirche.

I drove, 
To see her again: three
Penalty mandates. Then i saw
In the middle of the sand
The cloned cow. So that

Is she, I thought to myself, who is me 
As a child saw in the middle 
In the cold winter, that
She is not!! I said to myself
In the middle of the city:

Industrial tile roofs
At Cosel's Palais, Steigenberger
Greetings ... Also the kennel:
The stones
Renewed ten times, mashed.

In the end, you know that
There is nothing left. Like animals
Go the mountains
Next to the river. ...

 Author reading

Secret poem

A blackbird is walking in the green grass.
My love belongs to someone else.
The magpies tried to build a nest.
My love belongs to someone else.
The trees unfold the leaves.
My love belongs to someone else.
An armored car is driving on the street.
My love belongs to someone else.
I touch the vacuum cleaner like a lover.
My love belongs to someone else.
The dust nests in the books.
I am listening to Antonín Dvořák's violin concerto
with the famous cadenza by David Oistrach,
But my love belongs to someone else.
My love belongs to someone else.
The fans are making a noise in the pub next door.
My love belongs to someone else.
A gay man talks about drugs on the radio.
My love belongs to someone else.
The clock strikes eight.
My love belongs to someone else.
I'm going to go watch TV now.
But my love belongs to someone else.
The gay says: I've got cigarettes and sex.
My love belongs to someone else.
I won't wash, shave, go out.
Because my love belongs to someone else.
A sentence haunts my sleepless night:
My love belongs to someone else.

 Author reading

Heinz Czechowski,

(* February 7, 1935 in Dresden), died on October 21, 2009, Frankfurt am Main. Founding member of the Free Academy of the Arts in Leipzig. lives in Frankfurt a.Main. From 1958 to 1961 he studied at the "Johannes R. Becher" Institute for Literature in Leipzig, where he was strongly influenced by Georg Maurer (Saxon Poet School). In 1957 the first poems were published in the magazine "Neue Deutsche Literatur". 1961 to 1965 he was an editor at the Mitteldeutscher Verlag in Halle (Saale). and from 1971 to 1973 dramaturge at the stages of the city of Magdeburg. Since then he has lived as a freelance writer. 
Numerous publications and awards.

Ferdinand ScholzAchim Raven

Octave male Sissimo

Go West

High mountains fat people
Landscape landscape Butterkrem
Yodel chips in all waiters
Brown the gentle eye of the cow

Detonate children's plates
Bright silver and clear as a bell
Alpine glow and heavy udders
Riegenführer longing for ...

Wanderer who you can't stand
Wander to America
Everything is everything
Everything else is there.

Big mountains tall people
Butter cream only subcutaneously
Silent shine from the waiters
Not yodelling? the cow does

Only the big kids burst
All plates remain intact
Glow what's not the Alps
And otherwise it's okay too

 Author reading

Stalin's guinea pigs

In the unnameable year thirty-seven 
Squatted all the time 
Stalin's guinea pigs in his stall 
And thought about it. 
Of course, nothing came of it. 
As well as.

 Author reading



Fernando Scholz

Born in 1952 in Düsseldorf. Previous individual publications: People on the Abyss. Medical thriller (satirical short novel with own illustrations), Gießen 1984, (Anabas), It's always home. Inevitable !, radio play 1991 (WDR). Important poems, Düsseldorf 1997 (Grupello), with illustrations by Misch Da Leiden.

Poetry is sublime nonsense. Because it does not fit into the communal (community-creating) communication of the a priori so iss. / Sarrichdoch !. In other words: in it, just as the poet mediates himself through language, language mediates itself through the poet. Both gain certainty in one another. Or lose them mess. The extent of the poetic possibilities is staggering. They put the poet in a position to roam the language jungles and deserts from the fringes in a predatory manner. Are these margins where the coherence of the linguistic sign is not guaranteed, in the prelinguistic articulations, the semantic interferences, the linguistic-historical sediments? they are everywhere where the crude magic of an indefinite all-sense reigns. The center of language is where discourse and consensus coincide, where the gentle terror of all-determining nonsense reigns, where the black hole of communication devours every articulation. In this impassable terrain, the poet lies in wait to poach in language, driven by the urge to transform everything that is on the way between the edges and the center, the material of poetry. In other words: Before the leap into the language is the wait, before the origin of the poetry is the pun. So: poetry is a strange game. So rather a lot of nonsense.


Christian Rose



it is the cogs in the phalanges
the strings that pull close to the cubit
tell Robert quickly where are these strands going

all touching has not become hard for me
when I finish the tea it gets cold in it

all the children are not as seldom quiet
like your mother you believe my father
didn't tease us all endlessly

CANADA 1977 (Rabid)

on the thirtieth day
dusted the arm buds
sprouts sprouted
the Fliehburg delivered until

is a rose is a thorn
and thirst; the man in it
in it the boy
plays the body speaks
he speaks extremely indistinctly
from longing

Christian Rose,

born 1980 in Neheim, North Rhine-Westphalia, lives and works in Berlin; Study of psychology. Literature Prize of the City of Dortmund 2002

The volume of poetry »Schere« is his first individual publication.


Voices on Christian Röse

“Metamorphoses, metamorphoses are a continuous motif in the poems of this first volume by the poet Röse. The reader is drawn into dreamlike biological changes in shape. The musical language impresses with its clarity and elegance. «(Ralf Thenior)

Franz Josef Czernin

magpies. versions

About the unspeakable Holy Spirit inputting

You unseen lightning, you dark and bright light,
You heart-filled strength, but incomprehensible being!
There was something divine in my mind
That moves and stimulates me: I feel a strange light.

The soul is not so praiseworthy of itself.
It's a wonder wind, a spirit, a weaving being,
The eternal breath-power, the arch-being itself,
That in me ignites this sky-flaming light.

You color-mirror look, you wonderful, colorful shine!
You shimmer back and forth, you are incomprehensibly clear;
The mind pigeon wings? to shine in the sun of truth.

The god-moved pond is also cloudy and clear!
It first wants to shine the spiritual sun against her
The moon, then it rotates, also becomes clear from the ground.

Catherine Regina von Greiffenberg

 Author reading

about the unspeakable (transference)

flashes blindly, hitting me with it, turning it into a nightmare
stormy courage that all the flame in the crack
show my tongues; how it ignites, disempowering me
Burns wildly, to talk, fiery, confronts me, indignant

as bright as dark; I am only myself, but slaughtering myself,
my flesh, the black, in that, glowing on the smack,
is hit; rushed through, roared, striving for life
it makes me enthusiastic spray me, hot, shaping:

oh, good for me, bad from the light is played along
in all the colors, also too colorful, so deluding me
with every glimmer of it, aiming so clearly

brought to areas: what, accordingly, disturbed
forms, breaks, tears in two, quite true,
We rise in the beam, but always turn to me.

 Author reading

Sonnet to Orpheus

O well-mouth, you give, you mouth, 
who speaks inexhaustibly one thing, pure,
You, in front of the flowing face of the water
marble mask. And in the background

the aqueducts origin. Far on
Graves past, from the slopes of the Apennines
do they give you the say, that then
on the black aging of your chin

falls into the vessel in front of it.
This is the sleeping ear
the marble pipe that you always talk into.

One ear of the earth. Just with yourself
so she talks. If a jug is inserted
it seems to her that you are interrupting her.

Rainer Maria Rilke

 Author reading

sonnet to orpheus. transmission

the mouth that only pours itself into one here,
the source literally states in the torrent,
is, always hollowing out, stone that makes every sound
exhausts the most distant intoxication; steered towards

that what bubbles here, flows, hangs on the sea, on the waves,
on lips, that is: cliffs that fall from there
To case waters open to everywhere now
echoing, to be grasped here: how it sinks

in this vessel, the conch, as it becomes all ears,
very eye that this is flowing under,
coming to word that dissolves over and over again

of all the tongues, that is: countries; always a choir
there speaks of reasons to itself, sank and rises:
interrupts what we are reading, oh, you read?

 Author reading

Franz Josef Czernin

Born on January 7, 1952 in Vienna.
1971-73 studied in the USA
1972 start of literary activity,

since 1978 literary publications in magazines and in Heimrad Bäckers
Linz “edition neue texte”.
1988 Lecturer at Indiana University, USA.
Since 1989 development of the computer program POE, software for analysis
and generation of poetic texts. 1993/94 Graz town clerk.
Lives in Rettenegg in Styria.


Ralph Thenior

Autumn mobile

His Ficktschn

The alien egg bursts in the chest, 
Blood rushes to the retina, too much
Known pictures, Krr all in the brain, 
Pulling hair, blushing and (kch)
Ms. Cent's loudspeaker voice:
Mr. Futt, please go to the Anger management!

... and snoop

Half a cannula is enough, easily
only upscale, soft cotton wool, from quieter
Music swept around, go to the meadow
the thought geese, slow here and
pick up there, knot daisy wreaths,
hop through the forest like fairies 
Corridor, you slip through the door to
Past without fear
until golden adagio the twilight only ...

Cologne, Ethnological Museum 

At the tram stop number 16
a Saxon blows his nose, Salians sneeze, three
Ubier rise, a hun, bass in the brain,
Buttons in the ear, old Carolingian talks about 
Clubs that no longer exist, soap dispensers 
Back then one a, two Latinas chatter rapidly, 
there a hand is drawing Shitso in calligraphy 
on the wall - the day frosty, fragile. 

Archetypes of art in the Rautenstrauch-Joest-
Museum, photos by Bloßfeldt, fresh instinct
a funnel lily, female figure of the Songye
from the Congo - dangerous similarities
obscure the view - the cotyledon head 
the Christmas rose with swan neck powerful
like the god figure of the Nukuoro, Carolines,
- formed from the experience of growing?

Mallorca acne

After a long night of dancing
in the flickering lights to DJ Bobo, acid
put another piece of brain in there, 
if he lies in bed: "Where are you, dear!"
The hemoglobine purr of a robot 
of organic class three gelatinizes time
timeliness and the meaning of the mocker
becomes cloudy; meanwhile sits in the dress
she in front of the mirror and stutters:  

“Mallorca acne, oh dear!
Mallorca acne won't go away. "

Ralph Thenior

1945 born in Bad Kudowa, Silesia. Grew up in Hamburg. After doing community service, several years of traveling, working and writing, then studying translation at the interpreting institute of Saarland University and, from 1974, studying German in Hamburg. Start of literary activity in 1969 with first publications in newspapers, magazines and anthologies, as well as several years of freelance work in radio.

Recently published:
Moment in spring and old man in the winter park (poems). in: Versnetze, the big book of new German poetry, edited by Axel Kutsch, Verlag Ralf Liebe 2008.

Edenkoben pleasure garden. An idyllic farce. in: Vom Ohrbeben zu Edenkoben, edited by Gregor Laschen, Wunderhorn Verlag 2007.

now look into the bird. On poems by Norbert Lange. in: Norbert Lange: Gedichte, edited by Ralf Thenior, Association for Literature 2007.