Covid's Metamorphoses by Maë Schwinghammer

Lisa Schantl

(Briciole, painting by Monica Ferrando)

BUCH.eins

I.

Unterm fenster reißt die straße mir auf. aufgetrennt wie an einem fortlaufenden faden wandelt sich der gehsteig zum graben. Ich ziehe mich ins innerste zurück. Von einem rohen gemenge aus regentrunknen wolken bedeckt, greift der himmel nach mir. An mir hängend das träge gewicht.

          Begrab mich mit offenen augen, flüstere ich dir ins ohr, aber du                schläfst schon. Niedergedrückt und überströmt von schweren      gedanken. Im traum dann der versuch, ein straßennetz auszumalen,          gewundene ufer zu benennen, um sie später bei wiedererwachen                                                                                  ansteuern zu können.

Die decke wie mächtiger schnee zwischen uns aufgesteppt. Eine mäßigung der kälte, die der nachtwind hereinträgt. Aurora ist das licht der kirchuhr am platz, reich an glanz die fenster durchflimmernd. Einzig im luftraum regt sich leben: vögel und letzte flugmaschinen. Die erinnerung an honig tropft auf die zunge.

                                                                                                  1 – 88: die weltentstehung

II.

Von der welt ins eigene gelöst, wie ein fisch aufgefächert. Ein ausgekocht formloses sein, der sud wüst und die ebenen teller ermögen nicht zu fassen. Ein neues gebilde heftet sich in den blick, zu erkennen nur für jene, die zwischen den gräten lesen. Der lenz ist nicht länger ewig, es reicht zu wissen, es könnte der letzte sein.

                 Die erde gibt nicht länger selbst, sie verlangt, ihr die frucht zu entreißen, zumindest legen wir ihr diese wörter in den schlund. Die abschüssigen gräben senken sich, graben sich tief und tiefer ein.      Zufrieden dennoch mit denen waren, die voller zwang entnommen                    wie pralle brombeeren im mund blutrot bis blau zerplatzen.

Geschmälert folgte die zeit uns dieses jahr hindurch, ungleichmäßig und flüchtig jede glut, jeder eisbrand. Wohnungen wurden höhlen, vor den mündern gesträuch und überkreuzte zweige. Ein seufzen ging durch jede etage, die küchenfenster zum gang hin erzählten vom sinn in den gesichtern. Dem vormaligen frühling entfloh die scham.

                                                                                                                       89 - 130: lycaon

III.

Erlesenes papier brachte hinterlist, die verruchte begier des besitzes. Wie segel entfaltete sich das kostbare gut am heimlichsten platz. Auf den fluren versteckt und in erwartung von schatten, jedes wühlen ans licht ein anreiz. Stiegen herauf kehrten die jüngsten heim, entsetzte brut, dem lebenzugewandt.

   Das ist der ort, den ich mich getrau zu nennen. Mir entströmt gemüt               im gerede, ein verderb dem menschengeschlecht. Eine flut ins                        hain, ihr halbgötter. Euch die bescheidene erde, die euch                      beschiedene. Ein murren. Starr dringt mir das säumnis zu                                      ohren, ungastlich bricht die dämmerung herein.

Halb lebendig, eins allein. Der blitz versendet an alle länder, verhüllt mit triefenden wolkenschwingen das gewölbe. Ein gekrach da draußen, die saat des jahres ist verloren. Beruft ströme und beseitigt dämme. Ein ausweg dem verderben, unverrückt drängen wir über den first, denken dabei: wellen, schont uns.

                                                                                                   130 – 290: flut über deukalion und pyrrha.

IV.

Begrab mich mit offenen augen, erinnerst du. Weites gefild, siehst du. All den tausend eine, all den tausend einer. Im bett wallen die bläulichen wirbel, verliert sich fallend die flut, im schlamm finden wir laub. Wie leer es sieht, verödet, schaurig quellen uns tränen in das zurückgelassene schweigen. Das meer rafft, und da steht wieder die welt.

               Wäre dir zu mut, könntest du? Folge dir sterblich. Getaucht in         frühere grenzen unsres geschlechts, getaucht und besprengt. Hüllt  euch und löst eure kleider, wir wollen sie hinter uns werfen. Kurz nur       währt die fügung, alles gestein, mann, frau, ein wurf ausharrend in            mühsal. Gib mir den beweis, woher der ursprunggenommen ist.

Mannigfaltig das verbliebene, der keim einer wenig und weniger festen gestalt. Manche, eben erst ersonnen, gedeihn als teil klumpiger erde, über die das reh flüchtig flieht in deine schläfen. Geziemt sich, zu treffen, beschwert, entfacht, verlangen zu weichen, säume nicht und wecke: liebe.

                                                                                                            290 – 495: daphne.

V.

Genüge, wie der lufthauch, der nachruft: bleib, ich folg dir und falle nicht, erkennst du. Was sein wird, was ist, du weißt und weißt nicht. Kein mann vom gebirge bin ich oder hirt, kein mann bin ich. Im ruhigen busen schlägt die wunde ins offene feld der erwartung. Erschöpft die wellen gewahrend.

               Verwandle! Ach, gegeben und flüchtig ist diese gestalt. Grund     meiner lähmung, ein hain, der sinn umschließt. Rastlos sanft treiben       mich ströme sodann wieder hinab zum meer, ich ermüde. Wenn du      alles bist, so ist mir alles fern. Betrauert die flut, verborgene gelüste,                  und ich fürchte die schatten. Sie greifen um sich, greifen aus                                                    grotten in meinen hain, in mich hinein.

Wir erschrecken vor der eigenen stimme, nehmen ton und wiegen ihn in mündern. Wachsame augen gezwungen zu kreisen, den kranz aus fichtennadeln tragen wir ins schilfmeer. Die schar entweicht, zersprengt vor dem in die nacht strahlenden zeichen. Und ich stürme hinfort, greife nach den himmelsherzen, die mich treiben.

                                                                                                             495 – 779: io & phaeton.


BOOK.one

I.

Beneath the window, the street breaks open for me. Unseamed, like a loosening thread, the sidewalk transforms into a trench. I withdraw into the innermost. Covered by a crude crowd of clouds, drunk on rain, the sky reaches for me. Sagging from me the inert weight.

  Bury me with open eyes, i whisper into your ear, but you have already fallen asleep. Weighed and poured down by heavy thoughts. Dreaming,                       then, of the attempt at drawing a system of roads, naming                   winding shores, to be able to aim for them at a later time of                                                                                                  awakening.

The blanket stacked between us like heavy snow. A mitigation of the cold that the night’s winds drag inside. The church clock’s light on the square is the aurora, flickering through the windows with a rich glow. Only in the air space life stirs: birds and last flying machines. The memory of honey drips on the tongue.

                                                                                                  1 – 88: the creation of the world.

II.

Detached from the world into the self, like a fish, fanned out. A boiled out, shapeless being; wild brew that the flat plates can’t hold. A new image attaches itself to the sight – only recognizable for those who throw the bones. Springtime does no longer last forever, knowing that it might be the last is enough.

           Earth does no longer give voluntarily, she demands that we seize                         her fruits; in any case, we put these words into her maw.            The sloping trenches are sinking, digging themselves in, further                and further. Yet we are satisfied with those taken by full force,                bursting like brazing brambles crimson to blue in our mouths.

Depleted, time followed us through this year, irregular and elusive every blaze, every ice burn. Apartments became caverns, shrub and criss-crossed branches in front of our mouths. A sigh passed every floor, the kitchen windows opening onto the corridor told of the faces’ meanings. Shame escaped from the former spring.

                                                                                                  89 – 130: lycaon.

III.

Selected paper brought treachery, the lascivious desire of possession. The precious good spread like sails at the most secret place. Hidden in the corridors and in anticipation of shadows, every rummaging for light an impetus. Ascending the stairs, the youngest returned home, horrified brood, facing life.

                  This is the place which i dare to name. My temper flows out             in the chatter, decay for humankind. A flood into the grove, you            demigods. For you the humble earth, the one destined for you. A grumbling. The failure comes firmly to my ears, dusk falls inhospitably.

Half alive, one alone. The flash of lightning transmits to all lands, covers the vault with soaking wet wings of clouds. What a brawl outside, the year’s seed is doomed. A way out of decay, we push across the crest unwaveringly, thinking: waves, spare us.

                                                                                                  130 – 290: flood over deucalion and pyrrha.

IV.

Bury me with open eyes, you remember. A vast realm, you behold. For all of the thousand one female, for all of the thousand one male. The bluish swirls whirl in bed, the flood falls lost, we find foliage in the mud. How empty it sees – deserted. Tears well us eerily into the abandoned silence. The sea swells, and here again stands the world.

    If you would feel like it, could you? I follow you mortally. Submerged             in past limits of our gender, submerged and bespattered. Mantle    yourselves and shed your clothes, we want to leave them behind. Fate               lasts only for a moment, everything rock, man, woman, a pitch   enduring in adversity. Show me the proof from whence the origin has                                                                                                   been taken.

What remains is manifold, the seed of a less and lesser solid shape. Some – only recently conceived – prosper as pieces of the clotted earth, across which the deer flees fleetingly into your temples. It befits, to meet, aggrieved, ignited, the urge to retreat, do not miss but wake: love.

                                                                                                            290 – 495: daphne.

V.

Suffice like the breath of air that calls: stay, i follow you and do not fall, you recognize. What will be, what is, you know and do not know. I am no man from the mountains and no shepherd, i am no man. The wound throbs in the calm bosom into the open field of expectation. Discerning the waves exhaustedly.

       Transform! Alas, this shape is given and fleeting. The reason of my       paralysis, a grove enclosing all sense. I drift gently with the currents       back down to the sea, i become fatigued. If you are everything, then          everything is far from me. Mourn the flood, hidden cravings, and                 i fear the shadows. They stretch in all directions, stretch from                                                               the caves into my grove, into me.

We startle at our own voice, appraise the tone in our mouths. Watchful eyes forced to spin, we carry the wreath of spruce needles into the sea of reeds. The flock departs, dispersed by the sign shining into the night. And i rush forth, reach for the hearts of the sky that spur me.

                                                                                                             495 – 779: io & phaeton.


When translating Maë Schwinghammer’s poems, I cannot help but fall into a trance-like state. Their words become my words and with this transition the whole world collapses – not only in the text, but also around me, leaving me in solitude with every carefully chosen phrase of theirs and my interpretation of its meaning. Like the natural phenomenon of a flood which Maë describes in their debut collection Covid’s Metamorphoses (originally in German) – of which also the present poems are taken – their art of writing itself becomes an undertow, pulling me in deeper and deeper. Something lies between the images, something drags, burdens my heart while I digest every line, every poetic formation.

The present poems make up the first of sixteen ‘books’ of the poetry volume, which is to a great deal inspired by and connected to Ovid’s epic called Metamorphoses. In their careful examination of the epic and detailed observations of our present lives in times of crisis, especially in Covid-19, Maë creates a hybrid world of Greek mythology, our contemporary mainstream and their most private experiences. The poems foreground the transformations of society as well as those of the very individual in various stages of their lives, while thematizing the great challenges of our time such as climate change, consumption or gentrification. With subtle word alterations and unexpected turns of phrases Maë illuminates the cracks that run through our society and our own beings, showing us very figuratively where we might have gone wrong and where we still could live up to our own potential.

I am particularly fond of Maë’s erasure of capitalized words in the German original; a style that they have already adopted in their earlier prose texts and that I tried to pick up by the use of a small “i” in my English translation. In exclusively using lower case, except for sentence beginnings, the writer unifies the lyrical I, transforms the personal to a collective, alluding to a sense of a hivemind for the represented reality. Maë’s poems more than anything strive towards a non-binary sphere, kept in balance by an allowance for everything and everyone, in whatever form or function. I hope that my English translation will pull readers into this equalized zone of past, present and future, giving way to physical and mental transformations, just as Maë’s original works keep doing with me.


Maë Schwinghammer (they, them) was born 1993 in Vienna. They studied Language Arts (Creative Writing) and Gender Studies. Most recent the publication of the debut poetry collection Covids Metamorphosen ("Covid's Metamorphoses") in Klever Verlag. They also have publications in anthologies and conference transcripts, as well as performance readings in the Haus für Poesie (Berlin), Akademie der Künste (Berlin), Anatolia Schnitzelhaus (Vienna) and Literaturhaus Wien (Vienna). They are concerned with queer feminism and identities.

Lisa Schantl

Lisa Schantl is the founder and editor-in-chief of Tint Journal and a project assistant at the Institute for Art in Public Space Styria, Austria. She holds a Master’s degree in English and American Studies as well as a Bachelor’s degree in Philosophy from the University of Graz and Montclair State University, New Jersey. She is very interested in cultural work beyond borders and uses each opportunity to engage in intercultural exchanges. Her journalistic and critical work has appeared in Anzeiger, PARADOX, Schreibkraft, The Montclarion, Tint Journal, Versopolis and more, her creative work and translations in Artists & Climate Change, Asymptote, Otherwise Engaged, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Hopper, The Normal Review, UniVerse, among others.

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