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
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
(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
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
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
Dasein
(Herbstanfang)
Gleich einem lichtgefleckten Fichtenpfad,
bevor die ersten schweren Tropfen fallen,
erstreckt sich der Septembernachmittag
vor uns, als sei die Welt ein Wohlgefallen.
Wir dürfen auf die Wolkenschiffe steigen
und mit dem Bussard über Wipfeln stehn!
Obgleich die Strahlen sich ab morgen neigen,
wird unsre Schale langsam sich erhöhn.
Die Dächerschar erglüht im ersten Dämmer,
das Auge badet sich in buntem Glück…
Wir können unser Dasein nicht verlängern,
vertiefen aber jeden Augenblick.
Christina Egan © 2019
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2013.
Mond und Morgenstern
Du könntest den Mond berühren,
den Mond und den Morgenstern.
Ich harre an offenen Türen;
du schaust nur herüber von fern.
Versäumst du die kostbare Stunde
des herbstlichen Sternschnuppenfalls?
Ich stehe mit bebendem Munde,
als seist du die Mitte des Alls.
Ich möchte dir näher begegnen,
bevor uns der Sommer entsinkt,
anstatt eine Hand zu segnen,
die nur im Vorübergehn winkt.
Ich sah, daß in deinen Augen
verlorenes Mondlicht liegt.
Ich möchte so gern an dich glauben…
Ich hätte dich gerne geliebt.
Christina Egan © 2018
Three Weeds
(August Tanka)
I.
Tall weed in the crack,
its flowers like little suns,
its shadow of ink.
The proud weed and its shadow,
its echo: beauty enough.
II.
Cushion by the path,
tiny purple trefoil leaves
embroidered with stars.
The drought has tinted the green,
drawn up the blood of the earth.
III.
The dandelion
bursting from between the slabs,
yellow, pure yellow.
This brief bright blossom calls out,
clear like brass, like a tuba.
IV.
Three weeds I noticed
finely stitched onto the stone,
shreds of tapestry.
Three weeds I noticed today
and how many did I not?
Christina Egan © 2018
Observations from the great heat and drought of summer 2018. If only we took the time to see, to listen, to feel…
Unplanned addition to the garden. – Photographs: Christina Egan © 2020.
Warten auf den Frosch
Warme nasse Nacht:
Ich will sehn, wie der alte Frosch
in den Teich springt!
Hockt er da drüben, glänzend?
Ach, bloß ein Bündel Blätter…
Waiting for the Frog
In the warm wet night
I want to watch the old frog
leap into the pond!
Is he crouching there, shiny?
Oh, just a bundle of leaves…
Christina Egan © 2016
For another tanka about frogs in honour of Basho, see In Starless Night.
Frog pond. Note the tiny tadpole! Photographs: Christina Egan © 2014.
Purple Wine
I.
Deep purple and pure is this wine,
the midsummer’s fire condensed,
expanding inside me, immense:
your kiss – you are finally mine.
II.
There’s twenty-one words on the paper,
of wine and a night I forgot:
yet flowers and fruits bore my plot,
your kiss sparkles many years later…
Christina Egan © 2005 (I) / 2020 (II)
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2016.
Christina Egan 