Author: Christina Egan

Loss (Rounded is My Life)

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Loss

Rounded is my life, a jewel
sparkling in the summer rain,
spinning round the hollow axis
of a loss without a gain.

Will you for one moment only
silently pick up my pain,
hold it in your gentle hands and
watch the white and biting flame?

Will you say: I’ve seen you suffer?
Will you say: I’ve felt the same?
If you know me and you tell me,
then I have not lived in vain.

You alone can see the beauty
of this tall and forceful flame,
of this shadow of abundance,
of this ghost of life’s full game…

Shall I pass unknown, unnoticed,
shall I die in pointless pain?
You alone can read my eyes and
call me by my real name.

Christina Egan © 2013

The first half of this poem describes a bereavement or a loss akin to it, like a miscarriage or a divorce. The second half turns this work into a love poem or a religious poem; as often in my work, I keep it open. Some of these lines could therefore be read at a funeral.

It is June again, and in northern Europe, rain is as characteristic of this month as sunshine is, and it can be as pleasant! The season might also relate, as often in my poetry, to the person’s age: someone afflicted by loss in the midst of life, when they should be thriving.

Obsidian Mirror / Orangenzweig

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Obsidian Mirror Mirror made of a deep-black polished stone, on a wooden base.

The moonless night, the iron gate,
between the trees the winding path,
the nameless pond: a polished plate,
obscure and truthful looking-glass –

The moonless night, the nameless pond,
the outline of a cruel fate:
the leaves are shed, the blossom gone –
It is too late – It is too late.

Christina Egan © 2015

 

Orangenzweig

O Traum von Liebe, Traum von Licht
Oranges hanging from branches against blue skyauf einem duftenden Gesicht,
vom kleinen Rosengartenglück
aus einem mächtigen Geschick,
vom Dasein als Orangenzweig,
an Blüte reich und Frucht zugleich,
vom ganz bescheidnen Paradies,
das dir und mir ein Gott verhieß…
O Traum, der niemals untergeht –
Es ist zu spät. Es ist zu spät.

Christina Egan © 2016

 

The two poems contain an echo, and echo each other, in the phrase ‘It is too late’ — ‘Es ist zu spät’, which emphasises the futility of wishes and plans when fate is irrevocably against them.

Obsidian is a very dark and very hard stone. Some ancient civilisations used polished slabs as mirrors. Apparently, they were also employed for fortune-telling!

Photograph: Aztec mirror, Museum of the Americas, Madrid. – Simon Burchell via Wikimedia Commons. – Orange branch: Christina Egan © 2012.

Dem Herausgeber des “Echtermeyer”

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Dem Herausgeber des “Echtermeyer”

Du sammeltest leuchtende Lieder,
den mannigfaltigsten Strauß,
du trugst vom Parnassus hernieder
Gedichte in jedermanns Haus.
Verklungen ist längst deine Stimme,
im Schattenreich deine Gestalt,–
doch fesselst du unsere Sinne
durch eherner Worte Gewalt.

Christina Egan © 2015

Vixi, et, quem dederat cursum fortuna, peregi;
et nunc magna mei sub terras ibit imago.

Virgil, Aeneis IV, 653–654 

The name of this writer, Ernst Theodor Echtermeyer (1805-1844), became proverbial for a standard anthology of German poetry. It went through many mutations, and the latest editions are officially titled “The Echtermeyer”. Without this book, I would not be what I am!

We know little about Theodor’s life, but I have tried to imagine two key moments in his life: when he understands he is in love and decides to marry; and when he understands he is so ill that he must die soon. Theodor an Emilien  is written in the first person singular in 19th-century German.

Theodor an Emilien

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Theodor an Emilien

Mit tausend dicken weißen Kerzen
Prangt der Kastanienbaum am Tor;
Ich steh’ mit hoffnungshellem Herzen
Im späten Dämmer stumm davor.

Der Vogelsang ist längst versickert
Wie Silberspur ins Dunkelblau…
Doch aus dem Gutshaus tröpfelt, zittert,
Quillt das Klavier wie Abendtau.

Ich mach’ im hohen Gartensaale
Den flinken schlanken Schatten aus –
Und werf’ nach jenem Ankerpfahle
Mein Tau mit einem Male aus.

Christina Egan © 2016

 

The old-fashioned names and inflections signal that this is a scene which happened long ago, a romantic story from the times of Jane Austen, set in Germany. There is a true story behind it, and the ending is happy and sad: the young man waiting hopefully outside the manor house in the summer night, Ernst Theodor Echtermeyer, married Lady Emilie, and they had a child, but they both died very young.

May Haiku (Bruce Castle)

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May Haiku
(Bruce Castle)

Glowing orange orbs,
cluster of new-born planets:
this year’s first roses!

*

Dusk, delayed, scented:
the earth emerged from the dark,
bedecked like a bride.

*

Below the half-moon
a low-flying aeroplane
slices up the sky.

*

The tower-clock strikes,
bright, as if an angel called:
Be alive! Alive!

Christina Egan © 2013

—

You can see a photo of Bruce Castle, Tottenham, London and read some similar poetry in German at Himmelblaue Uhr.

Himmelblaue Uhr (Tottenham)

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Himmelblaue Uhr
(Schloßpark zu Tottenham)

Die Dämmrung senkt sich auf die Flur.
In Vogelsang
tropft Glockenklang
von einer himmelblauen Uhr
an einem himbeerfarbnen Turm.

Die Rosen schimmern wie Laternen.
Von ringsum her
summt der Verkehr.
Ein Flugzeug funkelt zwischen Sternen
und segelt durch Kornblumenfernen…

Die Wetterfahne blinkt am Mast.
Ein Ruf, Gebell,
der Uhrschlag, hell –
Und alle Sorge, alle Hast
kommt zwischen Tor und Tor zur Rast.

Christina Egan © 2016

Manor house in red brick, turret painted in pink, with a red door, white decorations, and a bright-blue clockface, under a blue sky.

You can read similar poetry about a walk on a tranquil evening at May Haiku (Bruce Castle).

This is London, too — not only the steel and glass office blocks and underground tunnels I describe in höhlenmenschen / cavemen and related posts, or the bitter poverty I touch on in There’s door on door. London is, in fact, a particularly green city, and Tottenham a very green part of it.

Bruce Castle, Tottenham, London.
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2014

There’s Door on Door

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There’s Door on Door

There’s door on door of painted wood
with potted plants and polished brass,
there’s row on row of gabled roofs,
there’s brick and plaster, hedge and grass.

There’s floor on floor of balconies,
above the din, above the dust,
inclusive of commodities,
there’s stone and concrete, steel and glass.

There’s door on door, there’s floor on floor,
but not for me, but not for me –
there’s brick and brass, there’s steel and glass,
exclusive of humanity.

There’s door on door, there’s floor on floor,
but not for us, but not for us –
one has a sofa in a store,
one has an archway in the dust.

Christina Egan © 2015

By the Brittle Brown Fence

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By the Brittle Brown Fence

By the brittle brown fence,
bright, arresting the eye,
an explosion of pink,
pure pink!
Low, silent, intense, incessant,
a pillow of raspberry colour,
triumphant trumpet
of early summer:
my azalea
in May!

Christina Egan © 2006

The shape of the poem emulates the content…
and in this display, it is also true for the colour!

Der Baum im Schulhof

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Der Baum im Schulhof
(Marienschule Fulda)

Das Bäumchen stand im rosa Kleid,
das Mädchen stand im blauen;
sie waren fünfzehn Jahre alt
und lieblich anzuschauen,
wenn auch noch zierlich, kindlich gar,
nichts als ein Bündel Blüten…
Im Norden lag ein gelbes Haus,
der Schulhof lag im Süden.

Und als sie sich nun wiedersehn
in eben jenen Mauern,
da sind sie fünfzig Jahre alt
und herrlich anzuschauen,
wie Wolken stattlich hingewölbt
und strahlend unter Schauern:
der Baum im dunkelrosa Kleid,
die Frau im dunkelblauen.

Christina Egan © 2015

—

You can look at the blossoming  Tree in the Schoolyard
and the yellow building online at Marienschule Fulda. 

The story of the schoolgirl and the tree, meeting at fifteen
years old and then at fifty, may work in a translation software.

London, This Moment of May

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment
London, This Moment of May I. London, this moment of May. High stately building, lower part in deep shade, upper part brightly lit, with red double-decker bus passing.A Grand Canyon in grey, imperceptibly turning to purple, with an orange glow on its battlements – but teeming in all its cracks, with foam of blossom and bird-flight, with currents of people and cars. Not a city, but a county, a country, a proud world in itself, the planet in a valley, an open oblong fruit, rich with glistening seeds, in the giant hand of clay hollowed out by the Thames.

Photograph: Christina Egan © 2016

II. It is not mine, this city: I borrowed it. I borrowed it for a home, for a while, I borrowed its language, for good. Or it borrowed me, it borrowed my eyes to mount this tall bus, it borrowed my mouth to sing this new song. I run through its veins of walls and windows, of trees and lanterns… A Grand Canyon in grey. Or it runs through my veins, a pale-purple stream, murmuring, glittering… London, this moment of May. Christina Egan © 2013
The title alludes to the famous line by Virginia Woolf: “… what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.” I happened to write my poem in May, on a red bus…
P.S.: A year later, the climate across Europe has slid further into resentment towards foreigners or strangers of any description, be they war refugees or your next-door neighbours. There is a lot of blind anger and fear of vague entities like ‘Europe’ or ‘Islam’. This is the road to racism and fascism. My essay about my identity as an immigrant to England stayed on the front page of trade union UNISON‘s website for weeks: I dream in English. I come from one country, live in another, and plan to move to a third; yet my main identity is European at any rate!
>>> These poems were published in the Haringey Community Press (circulation 15,000) in September 2022.