ich sammle das goldblatt / Scant Scent

December 29, 2017December 13, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

ich sammle das goldblatt

ich sammle das goldblatt vom himmel
wer hat es gemalt?
den lapislazulischimmer
wer hat ihn bezahlt?

ich sammle den pfeil jener elster
ein schrei und ein flug
ich schneide das bild aus dem fenster
der glanz sei genug

ich fange den wind in den zweigen
bevor er verweht
ich schreibe mit purpur das schweigen
das späte gebet

Sunset over the Bay
of Carthage, Tunisia,
around New Year’s Eve.

Photograph:
Christina Egan © 2013

Scant Scent

The incense of my prayer
turned damp in this dark place,
where layer upon layer
of cloud obscures the grace
of light and breath and warmth,
of ease and joy and strength —
O Lord of Hosts, accept
my incense with scant scent…

Christina Egan © 2017

I Sought the Star / Weihnachtskerzenflamme

December 22, 2017November 25, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

I Sought the Star

Weary was, had wandered far…
Again, it snowed.
Without a doubt, I sought the star
above the road:

The star that had been made for me,
a radiant face,
above the maze of destiny,
above the ice.

I climbed a random rugged hill –
and there it burned!
Above a shelter bright and still
and warm and firm.

And still they glow, the tiny spark
and snowed-in home,
both given to my hungry heart
by faith alone.

Weihnachtskerzenflamme

Wie eine Weihnachtskerzenflamme strahlt
dein sanftes schmales Angesicht,
auf dem sich langersehnte Freude malt,–
so hell bist du und ahnst es nicht.

Wie hoheitsvolle Rosenknospen stehn
die Hände in dem goldnen Licht,
so zart, als würden sie im Wind vergehn,–
so weich bist du und weißt es nicht.

A ‘Christmas Candle Flame’ as an image for a joyful, gentle, guileless face works only where, like in Germany, the tradition of real candles is upheld!

The second stanza compares the person’s hands to tender, graceful, regal rosebuds. The poem appears to describe a child but was in fact written for an adult.

Beetles on the Ark / Urban Copse

December 6, 2017December 26, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Beetles on the Ark
(Tottenham Cemetery)

The hundred trees in the old park
are like the creatures on an ark
or like a village closely knit,
rejoicing when the sun is lit,
relaxing when the world grows dark;
each tree another steady ark
that carries squirrels, crows and jays
and worms and beetles through the days.
A myriad leaves, and each a spark
of life on board the floating park!

Urban Copse
(Lordship Lane Recreation Ground, Tottenham)

There is the snow – thick flakes, and falling fast –
there is the snow, thick on the grass at last!
The fabric of the twigs turns black and white,
the ground reflects the veiled and waning light.

The air is pure, the field without a trace,
the urban copse becomes a sacred space:
as if true peace, true life indeed were near,
as if tranquillity and joy were here.

I read these poems at an event celebrating trees at Bruce Castle in December 2017. It was organised by Tottenham Trees, who campaign to ‘Plant for the Planet’ and have put up lovely photo galleries on their website.

Read the poems aloud to enjoy the sounds of the words, which emulate the fabric of the twigs and the whole web of Nature… and weave a spell, like poetry and song have done since there have been humans on earth.

The second poem can also serve as a pagan, secular, or interfaith Christmas poem. The wanderer encounters that peace and joy which only Heaven can give in Nature.

Photographs: Christina Egan © 2017. The trees in Tottenham Cemetery and Bruce Castle Park which inspired the first poem! You can see Bruce Castle behind the old oak — four or five hundred years old — in the second picture.

The Dance of the Sacks

November 24, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

The Dance of the Sacks

There’s the war tax and the peace tax
There’s the core tax and the fleece tax
There’s the fish tax and the spice tax
There’s the poll tax and the vice tax!

There’s the whisper of a tax-plan
There’s the whistle of the tax-man!

There’s the old tax and the new tax
There’s the wool tax and the wheat tax
There’s the old tax for the new sacks
And the new tax for the old sacks!

There’s the tax-man with his tablet
It’s a state-protected racket!

The tax collectors could wield either Sumerian clay tablets or 21st century electronic tablets!

I must have been inspired by a hilarious jig in one of the first seasons of Shakespeare’s Globe in London…

Receipt for 13 woolen garments, ca. 2038 BC. Photograph by Rama, Cc-by-sa-2.0-fr [CeCILL or CC BY-SA 2.0 fr] via Wikimedia Commons.

Der Erde Auge / Dragon Island

November 17, 2017November 21, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Der Erde Auge
(Kaali, Estland)

Hier ist der Wald nur Wimpernkranz
um jadegrünen Augenglanz,
der immer träumt
und immer wacht,
der nimmer weint
und nimmer lacht.

Der Erde Auge schaut hinauf
in tausendfachen Sternenlauf:
Ein schwarzer Stein
mit Feuerschweif
schlug donnernd ein
und schuf den Teich.

Und um den runden Kraterrand
gehn hundert Menschen still gebannt:,
Sie schlendern her
zu eitlem Schaun
und schreiten schwer
in grünem Traum.

Berührt vom fernen Sternenschlag
sind tausend Jahre wie ein Tag.
Die Sonne fülllt
das Himmelsrund,
und urgrün quillt
der Augengrund.

Dragon Isle
(Iceland)

Dark is the mid-morning sky,
shaded the treeless land,
granite the road of the sea,
burnt the abandoned strand.

Dragons looming like hills
have stirred from a century’s daze
to spew some sparks and some ash
before they set glaciers ablaze.

The first poem, ‘The Earth’s Eye’ describes a startlingly green and perfectly circular lake in Estonia — a timeless, mythical place, caused by a meteorite crashing several thousand years ago, but within human memory.

The second poem was inspired by the news of a volcanic eruption on Iceland. Mythical creatures take on real life: not that hills look like dragons, no, dragons disguise themselves as hills…

I have also written a sonnet about the twin crater lakes of Sete Cidades (Azores). and a number of poems about the volcanoes of Lanzarote (Canaries).

Auf dem Purpurteppich / Royal Purple Rug

November 7, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Auf dem Purpurteppich der Musik

Auf dem Purpurteppich der Musik,
dichtbepflanzt mit immergoldnen Ranken
und mit himmelfarbner Saat bestickt,
flieg’ ich ohne Angst und ohne Schranken!

Denn der Purpurteppich der Musik
trägt uns mächtiger als die Gedanken
über Wogen, Wolken und zurück,
löst uns Leib wie Geist von allen Banden…

On the Royal Purple Rug of Music

On the royal purple rug of music,
thick with tendrils, ever-golden, high,
strewn with seeds the colour of the sky,
limitlessly, fearlessly, I fly!

For the royal purple rug of music
raises us, more powerful than thought,
carries us away, aloft, abroad,
frees both mind and body, frail and fraught…

You can find another poem about the incomparable power of music at Quest / Suche (in English and German). Music is not disembodied; it is palpable and all-pervading.

When I described music as a flying carpet, I was thinking of the deep red of oriental rugs, which in German is called ‘purple’; but the English idea of a lilac ‘purple’ is also very appropriate for music.

Bus Stop Haiku

October 25, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Bus Stop Haiku

The full moon captured
in a cage of stone and wood:
a white paper lamp.

Wilting lavender
on the window sill, turning
into bursts of scent.

Brick wall and bus stop:
in between, seven nations
squeezing together.

An ancient art form capturing mundane moments from the big city: In Wood Green, London, a crowd from seven nations is squeezing onto the red buses. I looked out for beauty at the bus stop and found it.

The full moon glimpsed turns out to be a bedroom lamp. The luxurious lavender grows in a little tin pot. The third autumn haiku does not even have any image from nature: just a brick wall…

Sonnenuhrzeiger / Sundial Garden

October 18, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Sonnenuhrzeiger

Die Sonne gleißt auf grüner Flur:
Ein jeder wird zur Sonnenuhr.
Der Schattenmensch liegt lang im Gras,
der Abend schrumpft in gleichem Maß.

Die hingestreute Sternenzier
ist mürbes Laub wie Packpapier.
Die weißen Blumen tanzen stumm
um einen dicken Stamm herum.

O trink das Licht mit Haut und Haar:
Noch ist der Himmel hoch und klar!
O trink das Licht mit Aug und Sinn:
Es liegt die Kraft des Alls darin.

Sundial Garden

The sun will gain ground,
conquer inches of lichen,
of leaves and of lawn.
Across the square garden creeps
the shade of the steep gable.

In these poems, a whole gardens turns into a sundial: in the first one, each person in the park is a sundial hand, and in the second, a house with a pointed roof fulfils this function, casting its shadow over a north-facing yard.

The first poem is set in late summer or autumn and in the late afternoon or evening, the second one in late winter or spring and possibly in the morning. The yearly and daily descent of the light is as inevitable as its subsequent rise.

A Window will be Thrust Open

October 10, 2017July 3, 2024 ~ Christina Egan ~ 1 Comment

A Window will be Thrust Open

A window will be thrust open
where you forgot there was one,
a glow as of noon will be thrown
over your working hands, over your tired face.

You will look into the mirror
and find upon yourself the gaze of an absent one,
you will look into the eyes of a stranger
and find there your face as if steeped in sunset.

halkett_1938_ohnetitel You will run down the road
to overtake your shadow,
you will push through all your doubts
to hold that hand, to clasp it tight.

No title. René Halkett (1938).
Image with kind permission
of Galerie Klaus Spermann.

Text "A Window will be Thrust Open", 1st stanza, typed up in the shape of a window with a ray of sunshine coming in.

My Pack of Cards

September 2, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

My Pack of Cards

My pack of cards, when it was new,
was green and yellow, red and blue:
            from grass and leaves
            to golden sheaves,
            from glowing grapes
            to frosty flakes!
The leaves peeked out, unfurled, and grew,
flared up, fell off, when they were due.
            The fruits were round,
            the ice was sound.
            My year was clear,
            my joy was sheer.
My pack of cards is worn and torn –
my world is pale, and I’m forlorn.

In children’s picture books, the four seasons are sometimes painted in four basic colours; everything is in its place, everything is perfect. Of course, it has never been like this: the weather is always unpredictable, particularly north of the Alps.

However, at the place where I grew up — Central Europe — the seasons were more clearly marked and more stable than on the British Isles. I also believe they were more regular: they seem confused and shifted just now. It is disorientating and worrying…

You can find an impression of undefinable weather at Cimmerian Summer — whether it is due to the British climate or to global changes, I do not know.

The poem also expresses nostalgia for childhood, when everything on earth seems in its place. It was inspired by children’s picture books, which often allocate four basic colours to the four seasons.

	Christina Egan on schweben und leben…
	Bruce Wu on schweben und leben…
	payoli on Die vierte Frucht
	M.W. on Schläft ein Lied / Sleeping…
	Cari Harris on A Window will be Thrust O…

Christina Egan

Poetry & Plays – Dichtung & Drama

English Poems