Raindrops on window, with flowers showing in each drop. Photograph by Kumiko Shimizu on Unsplash.
One Drop of Rain
If one still drop of rain contains a rose and if my eye encompasses your face, a secret crystal must exist that holds the sparkling galaxy in one round space.
Im Dämmer schwebt der neugeborne Mond, ein unhörbares Gutenachtgeläute. Die Amsel, die auf der Antenne thront, ruft sternenklar… Mein Herz zerspringt vor Freude.
II.
Pflücken
Und immer wieder Amsel, Mond und Rose, und immer wieder Wehmut und Entzücken… Und unterm Abendstern das grenzenlose Verlangen, diesen Augenblick zu pflücken.
III.
Xylophon
Ich brauche nichts als diese Vorstadtstraße, den Blattgoldhimmel und den Vogelruf,– und dann das klare Xylophon der Sprache, die Hunderte verklärter Verse schuf.
Noch ist nicht aller Tage Abend, der Sommer noch nicht ausgebrannt, noch will die Feige Frucht dir tragen, entfaltet sich dir ohne Fragen die Erde ohne Riß und Rand.
Noch ist nicht aller Nächte Morgen, noch paßt der Mond in deine Hand! Noch ziehen Störche gegen Norden, noch will der Wildbach überborden… Noch harrt die Perle dir im Sand.
So you thought life was past? It has only begun. For whatever you’ve lost there is something you’ve won. For whatever you’ve missed there is something you’ve learned. It is harvest: persist and reap all that you earned.
This is the word cloud (not of the tags but of the texts) of all English poems posted on this site in the past year. Another year of love and life and leaves… and of mass consumption, mass media, and mass murder.
The poem does what it describes: inventing words, lining them up, and sending them to others to greet them and cheer them up!
The newly coined terms had to be re-created in English – where they do of course not look as impressive. “lindwurmwörter”, for instance, really sounds and looks as long as a dragon, while “dragon’s tail words” looks like three words, even though I added the tail in to get a similar effect in meaning and length.
In England, many people hang Christmas cards up on golden strings. During the festive seasons of 2022/23 and 2023/24, I crafted many greeting cards myself, each of them unique.
Damp wood, damp walls: the world smells of decay. The scented roses are resurgent, yet too many leaves are falling, fallen, wet across the spotless lawn, the winding way. Above Bruce Castle’s reddish parapet and wayward weather-vane, the veil of grey is torn apart to let a dazzling ray caress the clock-face, still for summer set. The light is fierce and will not be subdued, the clock smiles sky-blue with a rim of gold, the grass is glittering and fresh and bold, and then the sky itself triumphs, renewed. All this eclipsing, flash on flash, they pass: the parakeets, a dozen shooting-stars.
A thousand leaves in brownish bronze, a thousand leaves thrust by the wind, a rustling sea… a jostling crowd… And then, with sudden sunset glint, with guileless smile, one reaches out.
Christina Egan 