Gingerbread Man

November 3, 2015September 1, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Gingerbread Man

God made you of some gingerbread
which over time intensifies:
so that with every year, your breath
will taste of hotter, sweeter spice!

—

We Married on the Ferris-Wheel

Vienna quivered in the heat
for our furtive feast:
we married on the ferris-wheel
(we kissed on it, at least).

The palaces shone yellow-white
like lemon cakes with glaze:
we married in the royal grounds
(we kissed within a maze).

That summer rolled into a ball
and down the hill of time –
Vienna basks in splendour still,
my bridegroom still is mine!

—

String of Pearls

Your presence makes this globe that whirls
the best of all existing worlds —
your kisses make this blob a pearl
from which a string of worlds unfurls!

—

Asteroid

He inhabits his own tiny planet,
a fragment of rock, you might say;
his orbit seems steep and erratic
and often immensely away.

Yet, what you can’t see from your garret
nor find in your smart telescopes:
it’s two of them snug on that comet
that’s studded with roses and oaks.

Enamel

October 24, 2015November 29, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Enamel

Dreams
made of enamel,
panels in peacock plumage,
in crimson and ivory patches,
in frames of gold.

Dreams
poured into pictures,
of wide-eyed faces,
of white-winged boats,
of bursting baskets.

Dreams
fished out of night,
luminous, solid,
age-old, valid,
with veins of gold.

Image: Casket from court of Aquitaine (around 1180). With kind permission of the British Museum. http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight_objects/pe_mla/e/enamel_casket.aspx

Harvest Moon

October 23, 2015December 11, 2015 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Harvest moon

A crystal ball suspended
above the park, black, blurred:
as if a god descended
onto this worn-out world.

The branches stretch their fingers,
the flowers crane their necks
towards the orb that shimmers
into the deepest cracks.

Tonight we see the largest
and brightest star that blooms:
this is the moon of harvest,
this is the moon of moons.

Poems about Roses, Life & Death

October 23, 2015April 21, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Poems about Roses, Life & Death

Sonnengelb

Im sonnengelben Tüllgewand
mit rosarotem Rüschenrand
schwankt sie im satten Bühnenlicht
von Gleichgewicht zu Gleichgewicht:
die königliche Tänzerin,
die Rose namens Harlekin!

Sunny Yellow

Dressed in sunny yellow gauze
hemmed with ruffs like rosy haze,
perfect poise in every pose,
in the lime-light there she sways,
dancing-girl of regal grace:
Harlequin, the motley rose!

—

The Giant Rose

The giant rose, pale yellow, slightly flushed,
still opens and expands and grows more lush
with every breath.
Yet its intoxicating scent deceives:
for through her delicate and ample leaves
runs silent death.

—

Crimson silk

A cushion of crimson silk
and swelling still,

a mouth of countless lips,
of soundless words,

the red rose
stands

releasing its heavy scent
like crimson streamers, crimson streams,

until I feel it on my tongue
like ivory-coloured marzipan!

—

Gelbe Rose

In Sonnengelb und Aprikose
reckt sich die prallgefüllte Rose
in ihrem reifsten Augenblick,
als eine Frau – in gelb gekleidet,
mit goldnem Haar – vorüberschreitet
mit schwebendem und festem Schritt.

Die Rose weiß noch nichts vom Welken,
entfaltet sich im hohen gelben,
vermeintlich abendlosen Licht…
Die Frau schaut lange, hält den Atem
in jenem festtagsbunten Garten,
wo ihre Jugend jetzt zerbricht.

—

Sonnengelb and Sunny Yellow are parallel creations. The flower in the vase and the flower in the painting looked exactly the same — in their striking shapes and colours as well as in size and maturity…

Gelbe Rose (Yellow rose) compares a rose in shades of apricot and sunflower and a woman with similar clothes and blond hair. The flower, at the height of her life, does not know that age and death are about to strike; but the woman does.

You will find more roses in the sonnet Der letzte Tag des Sommers ist gekommen.

Anaconda, Anaconda

October 20, 2015April 4, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Anaconda, Anaconda

Slowly slides the anaconda,
through the thicket, through the grass,
undulating, scintillating,
like a rope of murky glass,
ochre and opaque and glinting,
like a river without name,
or a mountain-range in motion,
powered by a hidden flame.

Such a swerving, sparkling serpent
is the history of man,
each millennium of suffering
but a patch or pattern’s span
and each life of toil and longing
but a gold-rimmed muddy scale,
heaving, weaving through the jungle,
seeing neither head nor tail.

The Tower of Jericho, around 9,000 years old. Photograph:
Reinhard Dietrich (Own work), via Wikimedia Commons.

Midsummernight Far North

October 15, 2015January 31, 2018 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Midsummernight Far North
(Darss)

This is the edge of the land.
The number of signals is seven:
The shimmering sand,
the green in the sea,
the red in the sky,
the crescent and star,
the bonfire’s glint,
the lighthouse’s fan,
the flashing afar —

The number of wonders is seven.
This is the midsummernight,
this is the height of the light,
this is the hem of the heavens.

We are alive.
We are together.
This is all here.
This is forever.

—

The Darß (Darss) is a tranquil strip of land between some lakes and the Baltic Sea.
Around summer solstice, dusk is only between ten and eleven (summertime).
A German poem about dusk on the Darss is ostseeschlaflied (Baltic Sea Lullaby).

The Man is Not in his Seat

October 14, 2015May 12, 2016 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

The Man is Not in his Seat

The coffee is still on the table,
the table is still in the street,
the seat is still in the corner:
but the man is not in his seat.

Perhaps he has gone to his office,
perhaps he has gone to the park;
perhaps he’ll be back in a minute,
perhaps he’ll be back before dark.

I think he is due in the morning,
I think he is due every day;
I think we have all of us seen him
whenever the bus passed this way.

The coffee dries out on the table,
the table is still in the street,
the seat is still in the corner:
but the man is not in his seat.

A friend may have called at the café
and lead him away with a smile;
or a man in a car brought a message,
so he said: I might be a while.

Or else he will never return here
to raise his glass to the street:
The stranger who passed was an angel
to take him away from his seat.

—

In memoriam Erdogan Güzel
Murdered in the street in Wood Green,
London, England, on 10.7.2015
Requiescat in pace

Outrage

October 9, 2015February 13, 2016 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Outrage

Every day now, someone
amongst the suits and ties
gets up and
says something.

Something
simple,
sensible,
and inconceivable.

Something
obvious,
overdue,
and improbable.

Someone sensible,
someone overdue,
someone outrageously
decent.

People lift up their heads and
listen as if
life
were meant to grow and thrive.

—

For Jeremy Corbyn MP

—

“Jeremy Corbyn does not need to be theatrical because he is charismatic.

He makes a few simple statements and a thousand people jump off their sofas. It is not his policies that got him to the top but his personality!”

Christina Egan

Letter to the Editor, Evening Standard (London), 22. September 2015

(Please note I had written: “not his policies alone”!)

Isle of Bliss / Insel der Seligkeit

October 9, 2015January 20, 2017 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Isle of Bliss
(Lanzarote)

The viscous flood of orange fire
gives birth to black and craggy rock;
The earth bereft of path and water
gives birth to wine of luscious stock!

The sweet white drop rolls on my palate,
the pure wild wind plays on my face…
And what was hurt is bound to heal here,
and what was loose falls into place.

—

Insel der Seligkeit
(Lanzarote)

Die zähe Flut aus schierem Feuer
gebiert den schroffen schwarzen Stein;
die weg- und wasserlose Erde
gebiert den süßen weißen Wein!

Der wilde Wind kost meine Wangen
und jener Tropfen meinen Mund…
An seinem Ort liegt alles Lose,
und alles Wunde wird gesund.

—

Lanzarote is part of the Canary Islands, off the
coast of North-West Africa.

The German and English versions of this song
of praise were created to match each other.

You can find more poems about Lanzarote in
German and English at On the Volcano’s Rim.

Ecce pratum purpuratum

October 9, 2015July 21, 2016 ~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Ecce pratum purpuratum

Bunte Blumen wünsch’ dir nicht,
einen Regenbogen,–
um die Farbe hat das All
bitter mich betrogen.

Weiße Blumen schick’ ich dir,
ewig unbeschrieben,
schwarze Blumen noch dazu,
schon dem Tod beschieden.

Statt der buntgefächerten
frohen sonnensatten
weiße Blumen wie der Schnee,
schwarze wie der Schatten.

Purpursamen streut der Lenz
über meine Wiese…
Bunte Blumen brech’ ich dir
erst im Paradiese.

Ecce pratum purpuratum

Do not ask for flowers bright,
rainbow blooming boldly –
since the universe deprived
me of colours coldly.

Let me send you flowers white,
virgin leaves forever,
flowers black as sultry night,
life and death together.

From the fanned-out golden glow
on the merry meadow
take some flowers white as snow,
flowers black as shadow.

Purple blossom scatters spring
right beneath my eyes…
Purple flowers I shall bring
you in Paradise.

The title is a Latin quote from the mediaeval song cycle Carmina Burana.
The German and English versions were created to match each other.

	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