Yellow Fire
(April Haiku)
*
Little rust-red leaves,
no, blood-red in the sunlight,
there, throbbing with life!
*
White stars are floating,
above the ancient tombstones,
on the slanting tree.
*
Little lime-green leaves
running along the hedges,
look, like yellow fire!
*
Christina Egan © 2017
Illustration from
‘Children’s games throughout the year’
(1949) by Leslie Daiken.
The Aqueduct of Summer
A mighty bridge delivers, arch on arch,
the elixir of life: the light, the sun.
More yellow blossom blinks beneath each arch.
A milestone stands before arch twenty-one:
Hic aequinoctium, hinc lucis pars.
From equal night and day, the light has won.
This is the aqueduct of summer: March.
Proserpina returns with Phaeton’s run!
Christina Egan © 2016
Phaeton is an ancient sun god and Proserpina (or Persephone) a spring goddess who returns from the underworld for the duration of summer.
You will find German poems on the spring equinox at Westminster Bridge, Mitte März and on the autumn equinox at Der letzte Tag des Sommers ist gekommen and Hält die Waage Nacht dem Tage.
The Latin quotation is made up…!
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.
The Spell of Spring
When seven geese arise and fly
in magic patterns through the sky,
the silver rings of cloud will blush,
the orb of sparse young green glow lush.
When seven geese cry out and glide
from wintertide to summertide,
we’ll pass an arbour like an arch
and be transformed by mighty March!
You have become my you, and I,
your you, and our hearts float high,
when seven geese sail out of sight
into the secrets of the night.
Christina Egan © 2015
Image from: Japan nach Reisen und Studien by J. J. Rein (1881-86). Provided by the British Library through Flickr.
Rhymes
No, our names don’t rhyme well,
we come from far-off lands –
but neither rhyme nor reason
can censor our hands,
those hands that seem created
to grasp the chance, to grasp
each other, tight and quiet,
as if two souls could clasp.
Yes, hills from hills are distant
and can’t wed as they would,
they cannot warp and wander –
but people could and should.
Christina Egan © 2004
Known
I’ve smelt the rarest rose of snow,
I’ve tasted of the sun’s last glow.
I’ve met you on a cloud-veiled ridge,
perhaps the planet’s highest bridge.
I’d looked out long. And now I’ve seen.
I’ve once been loved. I’ve known. I’ve been.
Christina Egan © 2004
The thought that people, unlike mountains, can get to each other across distances, goes back to a Greek proverb.
Photograph: “Kegelspiel” by N8mahl at the German language Wikipedia. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons.
The Palms and the Poet
The palm-trees where the poet lingers
stretch out a thousand feathery fingers
and offer sweetest dates.
The shoulder-high ones’ shining tresses
give to the passing knight caresses,
the tall ones, sprinkled shades.
They weave their silken wings together
to shield him from the weighing weather
and point him to the wells.
He seems to smile, but does not notice
the leaves nor fruits, for in his throat is
a spring of syllables.
Christina Egan © 2005
Huge Harp
The weeping willow
is smiling in the sunshine,
dancing in the wind.
You sit by the pond beneath,
as if inside a huge harp.
Christina Egan © 2017
The tanka’s image of the poet beside a large harp or lyre, as if he were sitting inside, was inspired by stained-glass windows or illuminated manuscripts showing King David performing the psalms he is said to have composed.
Photographs: Christina Egan © 2014 / © 2018.
If Only It Could Happen
If only it could happen
More real than before
If only it could happen
Once more, oh, just once more
More than a memory
There never to return
More than a fantasy
There never to be born
If only it could happen
More real than before
If only it could happen
Once more, oh, just once more
More than an accident
From sadness or despair
More than an overspend
Of pity or of care
More than a fairground ride
Of wild delight, distress
More than a mounting tide
Of wandering tenderness
If only it could happen
More real than before
If only it could happen
Once more, oh, just once more
If only it could happen
And swallow up the past
If only it could happen
As lasting as it’s fast
If only it could happen
As lasting as it’s fast
More than a flower, gay,
Unfurling just to die
More than a night, a day,
A lonesome lullaby
If only it could happen
More happy than before
I think I’ll let it happen
Once more, oh, just once more
I think I’ll let it happen
Once more, oh, just once more
Christina Egan © 2006
Photograph: Montpellier, France, in midwinter. Christina Egan © 2010.
Eat the World
When you get older,
you want to eat the world
for breakfast.
When you get older,
you want to consult the radiant prophets
in the high sky-blue windows,
to soak up the tranquil cathedrals
of soaring silvery tree-trunks,
before the acid turns all of this
into sooty ruins.
You want to sprint to the station tonight
and jump on the train, shooting
through tunnels, under the city,
under the ocean, under the mountains,
through to the other side of the earth!
You want to slip into sleek capsules
to float up slopes, up skyscrapers,
up cliffs, up lighthouses,
up towards the clouds and
through the clouds!
When you get older,
you feel as if you could almost fly
into the sun already.
Christina Egan © 2017
Photograph: Prophet Hosea, window in Augsburg Cathedral, around 1100. By Hans Bernhard (Schnobby) (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons.
Park in December
Dead leaves everywhere,
thousands of them, outstretched hands,
discarded prayers…
*
The crystal goblet
of the winter sky, brimful
with frosty white wine.
*
On denuded twigs
millions of minute buds
hovering in limbo.
Christina Egan © 2012
Hollow Oak
(Anglo-Saxon spell)
Under the circle of branches,
under the tent of the tree,
inside the ring of the brambles,
sit on the roots with me!
Sit on the roots emerging
under the perfect round,
crouch by the tree-trunk surging
hollow from hallowed ground.
Under the circle of oak-leaves,
under the tent of the sky,
blue like the lakes in the valley,
come and sit closer by.
Sheltered by tangled brambles,
held by the hollow oak,
tingled by ancient prayers,
kiss me and kindle hope!
Christina Egan © 2018
(Epping Forest, Essex)
feuerrad
das eichenlaub vergeht in goldesglanz
als sich das feuerrad der sonne senkt
die eiche hebt die wurzeln wie zum tanz
indes sie ihre hundert äste schwenkt
der eichenstamm rotiert als starke nabe
in jenem reigen zwischen tag und nacht
sein hohlraum bildet eine honigwabe
vom drachenzahn des brombeerstrauchs bewacht
die eiche streckt sich stolz am waldessaum
der sich zum wasserreichen tale neigt
wie gold und kupfer loht der alte baum
der tagstern sinkt das mondrund aber steigt
Christina Egan © 2018
(Epping Forest, Essex)
Illustrations: Anglo-Saxon disc brooches. Author: BabelStone [CC BY-SA 3.0], from Wikimedia Commons. — 12th century depiction of the world, illustrating a work by 11th century author Hildegard of Bingen.
The Odd Word
In this noise this dust this waste
of the traffic the toil
the relationships the part-time
part-heart commitments
the remorseless rap from the radio
the news of murder and treason the trash
worth millions of dollars the scraps
of subtle philosophy the divine
passionate percussion solos
something went missing
and the problem is
we don’t miss it.
In a café full of words and music
like lightning
somebody mentions Hölderlin
(a poet who went mad
after they had treated him
in a lunatic asylum)
and I remember his odd expression
‘the God’
odd isn’t it
‘the’
must be Classical Greek
I’ll clarify that.
Christina Egan © 1998
—
The phrase ‘words and music’ allude to
a poetry event where I met my partner!
At a later reading, I presented this poem.
Christina Egan 