SEASONS

Frühlingsanfangsvorfreude

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Frühlingsanfangsvorfreude

Das Spiel des Lichtes und das Spiel der Winde
auf goldnem Haar und goldnem Mauermoos,
die Käferlandschaft rauher brauner Rinde
und große Schmetterlinge, schwerelos…

Hundertmal dieselbe Runde drehen,
wenn zuletzt die Lebenskraft verfällt,–
aber nie hat man sich sattgesehen,
nie am Erdkreis noch am Himmelszelt!

Blaue Gaukeleien: Himmelssplitter!
Feuerfarbne Falter: Funkenflug!
Vogelchor, Geläute und Gewitter,–
niemals trinken Aug und Ohr genug.

Christina Egan ©2023

The title means “Looking forward at the beginning of spring” in one word: “spring-beginning-forward-joy”! A poem about old age, full of hope and zest. It was written on spring equinox, after a walk round the block with a very aged person. Poignantly, soon after, the person grew too weak for walks.

The Komodo Dragons

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

The Komodo Dragons

The roots of the forest are trembling,
the branches are frosted with fear.
The jeeps and the tanks are assembling.
The komodo dragons are near.

Their skin’s like the ice on the river,
they graze and they raze all that breathes.
The roofs of the cottages shiver.
The earth has gone silent. She grieves.

The earth has lost too many children
before the full moon could return.
The komodo dragons are grinning.
The roofs of the cottages burn.

The stable aflame and the steeple –
the ice on the river now thaws.
This is not the war of the people.
This is the triumph of the jaws.

Christina Egan ©2022

This poem was published (as The Comodo Dragons) in the Haringey Community Press (circulation 15,000) in May 2022.

Photograph: Dezidor, CC-BY-3.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Komodo dragons got their name because they appear to be mythical creatures, but are real animals, huge lizards which can devour their prey almost without trace.

Two years ago today, the Ukraine was brutally attacked by the military machinery of another country.

When we fear with and grieve with the Ukraine, there are always echos of the Second World War, the First World War, and other wars. My verse is influenced by the famous sonnet Andreas Gryphius wrote in the midst of the Thirty Years’ War, Thrähnen des Vaterlandes / Anno 1636 (Tears of the Fatherland).

A Speck in the Dark

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A Speck in the Dark

Grey buildings, grey branches,
black streets in the rain…
Dark coats and pale faces,
white sky yet again.

Drained off is the rainbow:
there’s shade and there’s rust.
Smudged world in the window,
and noon feels like dusk.

There: sunrise is flashing,
an orange-red spark,
with sky-blue unfolding –
a speck in the dark!

Western bluebird, Washington State. Photograph: Vickie J Anderson. CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

The bluebird’s alighting
on quivering twigs;
the buds were awaiting
a signal like this!

The bluebird is glowing,
alive and alert,
and colours are brewing
in heaven and earth.

Christina Egan ©2018

A January poem from a northern part of Europe… The bluebird does not live here, but it got into the poem because its feathers are of a luminous orange and blue like the sun and the sky!

Still Here (Still striding)

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Still Here

Still here:
still striding into the drizzle
across the buzzing roads
and straight across the green
with my hair getting frizzy
and my eyes getting dazzled
by the purple orbs
on the tale pale thistles

Still off-screen:
mounting the white cliff
of the sky-scraper
with my own eyes
still off-air
echoing the whistle
of the lime-green parrot
with my own voice
still off-map
facing the buffets
of the wilful winds
with my own face

Still no gloss
on top of the gloss
still no sheen
on top of the cream
upon the click of a button
the command of a machine

Still here:
still pounding
the moistened pavement
with my own feet
still brushing
the sparkling bush
with my own hands
still whispering
some half-rhymed lines
with my own lips

Christina Egan ©2023

Abstract painting of bright squares and rectangles in blue, green, orange, and yellow tones.
Paul Klee: Polyphony (1932). Kunstmuseum Basel.

For my birthday, I am posting some recent verse, which came to me during an enjoyable walk on a dull summer’s day.

I still live largely without social media, and I have still never had a smartphone, nor a motorised vehicle.

I still try to live an authentic life: walking for miles and travelling overland, reading plenty of print and writing letters by hand, growing my herbs and cooking from scratch…

Der Nebel hebt sich

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Der Nebel hebt sich

(Schloß Fasanerie bei Fulda)

Der Nebel hebt sich,
und der Rauhreif auf den Weiden,
feine Spitze, glitzert auf.

Aus dichten Fichtenschirmen sprühn
kapellenglockenhelle
Stimmen ohne Zahl.

Ein Vöglein folgt, dort oben, sieh,
mit dunklen Flügeln, gelber Brust,
ein Sonnenstrahl!

Ein niedrer Wolkenstreif muß weichen,
und der bleiche Mond, des Dunkels Geist,
desgleichen.

Der ausgelaugte Himmel blaut,
der federnd-feste Boden taut,
gurgelt und gärt…

Noch wehrt der Winter sich,–
bezwungen ist er schon.
Die Erde atmet wieder tiefer…

Und wer nur auf den Hügel steigt
und schaut und hört und spürt,
kriegt neue Kraft und Lust!

Christina Egan © 2017

A new poetic form: three lines in each stanza, with irregular lenght and irregular rhymes — but each stanza having ten stressed syllables, with one unstressed syllable in between, making the flow of the language regular, natural and musical at the same time!

The poem was written on February 14th. The Rhön mountains have a harsh climate with long winters characterised by cold and snow and fog. All the more is spring welcome, even the early signs of it…

Northern Marsh

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Northern Marsh

Beyond the Roman highway lay
the marshes, lush and veiled and vast,
on gravel and on sun-baked clay,
a northern, watery mirage.

The never-ending summer’s day
had lured me to a gentle ridge;
the brushwood seemed without a way,
the pools and brooks without a bridge.

And yet I knew that people dwelt
amidst the shimmering, shifting maze…
My flung-out road was but a belt
around an untamed country’s waist.

Christina Egan © 2020

cartwheels

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

600 poems posted on this site !

cartwheels

cartwheels of stars
sparkling spilling
turning rolling
sinking back
into the black

and then comets
shooting up –
comets up-
side down!

goldfish in the sky
shooting swerving
flapping lurching
dropping back
into the black

drops of molten gold
like prayers
for the new year
to the Unknown God

Christina Egan © 2017

Snow, Slow / Schnee, langsam

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Patio with some plants at far end covered in thick fresh snow.Snow, Slow
(Christmas Haiku)

Snow, slow, abundant,
covering the sleek black soil
like icing-sugar.

*

Flames of real candles
in the darkened room, like stars
visiting the earth.

*

Tinsel billowing
on the fir-twigs, as if stirred
by an angel’s wing.

***

Schnee, langsam
(Weihnachtshaiku)

Schnee, langsam, reichlich,
fällt auf blanke schwarze Erde…
wie Zuckerstaub.

*

Wachskerzenflammen
im Dämmer… wie Sterne,
herniedergestiegen.

*

Lametta flattert
an Zweigen… wie angerührt
von Engelsflügeln.

 Christina Egan © 2017

 

Real candles, even made of beeswax, are still common on Christmas trees in Germany, and lametta is used more sparingly and usually silver, reminiscent of snow.

Thick snow is nowadays a rare phenomenon in England… Note the tiny Christmas tree taken out after the festive days (and later planted into the soil!). – Photograph: Christina Egan © 2018.

A Lonely Star

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Decorative paper, black with ripples in grey, white, purple.A Lonely Star

A lonely star surveys the streets.
The dark is brownish, blurred by lamps.
The cold is damp and slowly creeps
through draughty windows, long-locked doors.
Bats flit about like ghostly hands.
A blinking helicopter roars;
the city stirs and sighs and sleeps.
The star looks down and frowns and stands.

Christina Egan © 2017

 

Decorative paper. Image provided
by British Library through Flickr.

The Purple Grape

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

The Purple Grape

The purple grape,
soaked with a whole summer,
bears more than sweetness in it:

secret sparks
which will burst on your tongue,
which will rise like fire
to your temples, your wrists.

The purple grape’s flesh,
crushed, filtered, fermented,
harbours a truth,
a dark and dense
and undiscovered truth,
a relentless ruler.

Find dreams flipping over
into life, find sun
running through your veins,
find the more
you were made for.

Christina Egan © 2006