Bow and Arrow
The arrow itself
is love,
it is shot through my eyes,
and you know it.
The bow, however,
is lust,
it is built from my bones,
and I know it.
The string, it’s the string
of pain
which gives me my power,
the pain underneath my skin.
Christina Egan © 2013
On the overwhelming
natural force of falling in
love, see also my previous
post ‘The Mechanics of Love’ .
The Mechanics of Love
the mechanics of love
have tolled the hour
have chained my heart
are pulling me towards you
the sunlit hills
of your guileless face
the turquoise surf
of your quiet voice
I cannot distinguish
what determines my steps
the mechanics of love
or your silvery forcefield
Christina Egan © 2012
These lines record some of the fundamental insights of my life: that falling in love is always a blend of true fascination with another person and of sheer emotional and physical need; and that one of the main factors attracting a woman to a man is his voice — utterly underrated throughout history! Perhaps because history has largely been written by men, and so have science and literature ? Well, I hope men are at least subconsciously drawn to a melodious voice, too!
Views of North Sea Islands – Ansichten von Nordseeinseln
Thick patches of moss
clustering on rippled thatch
like verdant islands,
like the islands we stand on:
growing in the rough grey sea.
Dicke Moospolster
auf dem welligen Reetdach,
gleich grünen Inseln,
gleich diesen Inseln hier,
wachsend im wilden grauen Meer.
Red clover blossom:
tiny magenta lanterns
in the green and blue,
feeding on the salty floods
across these flat floating disks.
Rosaroter Klee:
winzige Laternen
in all dem Grün und Blau,
genährt von Salzfluten
über schwebende Scheiben hin.
Huge ships approaching,
or space-ships – or are they hills,
or houses on stilts?
They are houses, hamlets, islets…
a necklace of glass beads.
Da – Riesenschiffe –
Raumschiffe – oder Hügel,
Häuser auf Stelzen?
Häuser, Dörfchen, Inselchen…
eine Glasperlenkette.
English texts: Christina Egan © 2015
German texts: Christina Egan ©2016
Photographs: Christina Egan © 2014
Galerie Nieblum on Föhr; Hallig Hooge.
Satellite picture: NASA via Wikimedia.
From the flat, small, oval island of Föhr, you spot the even flatter, even smaller islands known as ‘Halligen’: their clusters of houses and trees on little dells are visible on the horizon far across the ocean.
The Halligen still get regularly flooded and are occasionally menaced by devastation. All these islands change shape over time, when the forces of wind and water eat away at their edges or add new land.
I wrote about a similar phenomenon observed on the Baltic Sea island of the Darss in Schöpfung (Darß).
Orange Butterflies
(Monarch Butterflies)
Brittle ochre leaves…
No – sinewy butterflies,
waiting through winter!
*
Orange butterflies,
tiny, tender, untiring,
crossing continents.
*
A swift golden cloud:
a million bright butterflies
following their stars.
*
Christina Egan © 2016
Monarch butterflies cluster in Santa Cruz, California.
Photograph by Brocken Inaglory via Wikimedia Commons.
A Quilt of Light and Shade
A quilt of light and shade,
a quilt of wind and heat
this solstice has become:
half fervour, half fatigue…
A quilt of sun and rain,
a quilt of green and grey,
brick red and blinding white
this city is today.
The boulevards are streams,
the roundabouts are whirls –
and fleetingly this seems
to be the best of worlds.
Christina Egan © 2012
In London, and in northern Europe in general, the weather is unsteady and unpredictable, even in midsummer. London has got a very great number of buildings in red brick, usually with window frames and decorative features in white, and plenty of trees, gardens, and parks. And it is very, very busy…
The summer solstice is also the subject of the previous post, This Day of June. As I am putting these poems online, there should be daylight till ten at night in England and some blue left in the sky even towards midnight — instead, there is not a ray of sunshine all day, and the sky is dark grey in the afternoon…
This Day of June
zenith of the sun
semaphore of summer
the day when the flowers start melting
into fruit into
seed
the day when the very stones come alive
with lichen with
light
this day of June is yours
this day of June is you
Christina Egan © 2012
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2014
I like to think of a human life as a sequel of seasons:
with glorious midsummer when one is a mature adult!
(‘Midsummer’ around solstice, ‘maturity’ around 35 to 45 years.)
This has also recently become the typical age for marriage
and parenthood. Also, most people now have long lives,
so having a chance to run the course of all seasons.
The two solstices are symbols of the cycles of nature:
at the highest point of the sun, heat and harvest are still to come,
but at the same time, the days are already getting shorter again…
Conversely, the lowest point of the sun sets off the period
of bitter cold and snow, but also of ever longer light and new buds.
The seasons are interlinked, as are all cycles of life and death.
The next post, A Quilt of Light and Shade, describes
the time around summer solstice in London, England.
Loss
Rounded is my life, a jewel
sparkling in the summer rain,
spinning round the hollow axis
of a loss without a gain.
Will you for one moment only
silently pick up my pain,
hold it in your gentle hands and
watch the white and biting flame?
Will you say: I’ve seen you suffer?
Will you say: I’ve felt the same?
If you know me and you tell me,
then I have not lived in vain.
You alone can see the beauty
of this tall and forceful flame,
of this shadow of abundance,
of this ghost of life’s full game…
Shall I pass unknown, unnoticed,
shall I die in pointless pain?
You alone can read my eyes and
call me by my real name.
Christina Egan © 2013
The first half of this poem describes a bereavement or a loss akin to it, like a miscarriage or a divorce. The second half turns this work into a love poem or a religious poem; as often in my work, I keep it open. Some of these lines could therefore be read at a funeral.
It is June again, and in northern Europe, rain is as characteristic of this month as sunshine is, and it can be as pleasant! The season might also relate, as often in my poetry, to the person’s age: someone afflicted by loss in the midst of life, when they should be thriving.
Obsidian Mirror 
The moonless night, the iron gate,
between the trees the winding path,
the nameless pond: a polished plate,
obscure and truthful looking-glass –
The moonless night, the nameless pond,
the outline of a cruel fate:
the leaves are shed, the blossom gone –
It is too late – It is too late.
Christina Egan © 2015
Orangenzweig
O Traum von Liebe, Traum von Licht
auf einem duftenden Gesicht,
vom kleinen Rosengartenglück
aus einem mächtigen Geschick,
vom Dasein als Orangenzweig,
an Blüte reich und Frucht zugleich,
vom ganz bescheidnen Paradies,
das dir und mir ein Gott verhieß…
O Traum, der niemals untergeht –
Es ist zu spät. Es ist zu spät.
Christina Egan © 2016
The two poems contain an echo, and echo each other, in the phrase ‘It is too late’ — ‘Es ist zu spät’, which emphasises the futility of wishes and plans when fate is irrevocably against them.
Obsidian is a very dark and very hard stone. Some ancient civilisations used polished slabs as mirrors. Apparently, they were also employed for fortune-telling!
Photograph: Aztec mirror, Museum of the Americas, Madrid. – Simon Burchell via Wikimedia Commons. – Orange branch: Christina Egan © 2012.
May Haiku
(Bruce Castle)
Glowing orange orbs,
cluster of new-born planets:
this year’s first roses!
*
Dusk, delayed, scented:
the earth emerged from the dark,
bedecked like a bride.
*
Below the half-moon
a low-flying aeroplane
slices up the sky.
*
The tower-clock strikes,
bright, as if an angel called:
Be alive! Alive!
Christina Egan © 2013
—
You can see a photo of Bruce Castle, Tottenham, London and read some similar poetry in German at Himmelblaue Uhr.
Himmelblaue Uhr
(Schloßpark zu Tottenham)
Die Dämmrung senkt sich auf die Flur.
In Vogelsang
tropft Glockenklang
von einer himmelblauen Uhr
an einem himbeerfarbnen Turm.
Die Rosen schimmern wie Laternen.
Von ringsum her
summt der Verkehr.
Ein Flugzeug funkelt zwischen Sternen
und segelt durch Kornblumenfernen…
Die Wetterfahne blinkt am Mast.
Ein Ruf, Gebell,
der Uhrschlag, hell –
Und alle Sorge, alle Hast
kommt zwischen Tor und Tor zur Rast.
Christina Egan © 2016
You can read similar poetry about a walk on a tranquil evening at May Haiku (Bruce Castle).
This is London, too — not only the steel and glass office blocks and underground tunnels I describe in höhlenmenschen / cavemen and related posts, or the bitter poverty I touch on in There’s door on door. London is, in fact, a particularly green city, and Tottenham a very green part of it.
Bruce Castle, Tottenham, London.
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2014
Christina Egan 
