English Poems

Coal Tits / Leaf Surf

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Coal Tits

Coal tits are weaving through the leaves,
leaves tinged with gold and tinged with rust;
the earth, relieved of darkness, breathes
before the leaves will turn to dust.

Coal tits are chirping in the leaves,
wings tinged with fire, tinged with ashes;
their song is weaving with the breeze
through our windows’ rigid meshes…

Christina Egan © 2017

Songbird with yellow breast, otherwise grey, black & white, on bare branch with orange lichen.

Leaf Surf

The lawn lies like an emerald bay,
like golden sand the fallen leaves.
The wind is waltzing on the roofs,
the wind is leaping through the streets,
it rolls into the shimmering heaps,
it stirs them up, it whirls them up,
it sweeps a wilful whispering surf
onto the sun-bathed autumn turf!
The earth takes one last joyful breath
before the shade falls like a spell.
That there is so much death in life
and so much dancing life in death…

Christina Egan © 2017

Photograph by makamuki0 (Marc Pascual).

Notnormal

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Notnormal

Lightningwhite
vast rib vaults
suspended
in brilliantblue
and a rainbow frame
dazzling and doubling and
tripling
around Broadwater Farm.

Large deep-yellow flower shaped like a star with five points.Four feet tracing
pavements pathways
the brooks underground
the trains underground
with the windinyourhair
and the sunonyourskin.

Fivefoldflame flowers
dancing for joy
rolling up into fruit
while ivory butterflies
and bumblebees feed
on lavender forests.

Time to cook
food and eat
food
Time to talk
into a telephone
time to talk
Orange soup in blue bowl on placemat striped orange and blue.talkandlisten
Timetogether.

All this is not normal.

All this is mental
detrimental
to your output
to your outfit
on all platforms
detrimental
to your attitudes
to your platitudes
diametrical
to the narrative.

This is the new
Notnormal.
This must stop
fullstop.

Kestrel egg, quite round, buff and dappled.Otherwise
more stained statues will fall
and heads of heads will roll
and skyscrapers skygraters
surveying the Thames
will be kestrels’ apartments
their amenities reclaimed
by the reeds and the weeds
by the swans and the swifts
by the songs in the dusk
and the
silence
under the crystal crescent.

Christina Egan © 2020

Hoping for a revolution in the suspended time of the C-19 pandemic…

Under the lockdown, the air had become so clear that on May 1st, 2020, I did see a triple rainbow around the apartment blocks of Broadwater Farm.

For more thoughts from the first phase of the pandemic in London in spring 2020, see Hidden Rivers / Verborgne Flüsse.

Courgette flower / Carrot soup. Photographs: Christina Egan © 2020. — Kestrel egg at the Muséum de Toulouse. Photograph by Didier Descouens via Wikimedia. Copyright: CC BY-SA 3.0.

Strandkorb Song

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Strandkorb Song

What happened to the beach-seat
we found in Germany,
the bench within a basket
beside the Baltic Sea?

The land was lush and sunlit,
the air was pure and free,
the dusk was full of magic,
the surf a mystery.

White hooded beach seats, in dunes of fine white sand, with fresh plants growing.What happened to the beach-seat
placed there for you and me?
What happened to the footsteps
along the singing sea?

You said you won’t forget it,
the dusk, the moon, and me.
Where has it gone, the moment
of blue eternity?

We cannot leave the basket,
in space and time so far:
it is a secret casket
which holds a sparkling star.

Christina Egan © 2017

‘Beach baskets’ in Ahlbeck on Usedom.
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.

Strandkörbe, ‘beach baskets’, or hooded beach seats, are an alluring feature of German beaches on both seas. 

The story refers to the Midsummernight Far North I have described before on this website. I have developed Strandkorb Song further as lyrics.

your face of snow

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

your face of snow 

your face of snow
your eyes of ice
will blur and melt
with sweet surprise
your cheeks of dawn
of smooth white stone
will blush and throb
with flames unknown

your lips of pearl
encasing dreams
will blink and burst
with bright new beams

your face of snow
your eyes of ice
will bloom and burn
a rainbow’s rise

Christina Egan © 2004

 

A story where nothing ever happened

The greeting in your eyes, radiant.
The answer in your eyes, immediate.
The longing in your eyes, innocent.
The promise in your eyes, infinite.

Christina Egan © 2004

 

Glass flask by Eugenes, found in Syria, 3rd c. AD.
Photograph: © The Trustees of the British Museum.

Hidden Rivers / Verborgne Flüsse

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Hidden Rivers

Meadow with white and yellow blossom in bright lightThis is the time to walk along
the hidden rivers hand in hand;
this is the time to write a song
out of a strangely quiet land.

This is the time to breathe again,
to stand and stare, to skip and run…
The water rippled by the rain,
the water dappled by the sun.

This is the time to dance across
the sea of sorrel and of yarrow,
to sink into the gilded grass
without a worry of tomorrow.

This is the time to hear the heart
of the neglected earth rejoice,
to find the long-forgotten lark
in your beloved’s humming voice.

Christina Egan © 2020

Verborgne Flüsse

Dies ist die Zeit, das Tal zu sichten
verborgner Flüsse, Hand in Hand;
dies ist die Zeit, ein Lied zu dichten
aus einem seltsam stillen Land.

Dies ist die Zeit, die Brust zu heben,
zu springen, stillzustehn, zu spürn…
Gewellt das Wasser unterm Regen,
beglänzt das Wasser vom Gestirn.

Durch Wogen weißer Blütenschäume
und roter Rispen laß uns schreiten,
um sorglos in der späten Wärme
ins sonnengoldne Gras zu gleiten.

Das Herz der unbetretnen Erde
scheint jubelnd dir ins Ohr zu dringen,
das Lied der fastvergeßnen Lerche
aus dem geliebten Mund zu klingen.

Christina Egan © 2020

A happy impression from the coronavirus crisis…

Photograph: Lea Valley. Christina Egan © 2020.

Silent Roads

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Silent Roads
(Pandemic)

limpid morning
liquid noon
falling stars and
swelling moon

roaming foxes
flitting bats
passing faces
passing steps

Red houseboats amongst lush trees and blossoming meadows.real colours
newborn light
flowing hours
breathing tide

sweeping herons
floating boats
swelling meadows
silent roads

real flavour
real sound
real labour
on the ground

nimble hands and
muddy boots
curling vines and
twisting roots

real treasures
on your spade
real colours
on your plate

Tall tomb with urn on top, tilting, on old cemetery.real paper
flowing ink
time to wake and
time to think

time to sleep and
time to slow
time to weep and
time to grow

time to rise and
to rejoice
time to hoist your
real voice

Christina Egan © 2020

While London closed down to protect itself from the 2020 coronavirus, I was cut off from my job and from the internet for a while. (This blog ran on as pre-scheduled.)

I was very fortunate to spend many hours outdoors, working in my garden or walking under the countless trees and along the hidden rivers of London, and through the suburban roads, cleared at last of traffic and crowds. Spring brought splendid sunshine, as if it were already high summer.

There was time. There was air. There was life. For many who were not ill or caring for those who were ill, this must have been one of the best times of their life.

Tottenham Marshes / Tottenham Cemetery. Photographs: Christina Egan © 2020.

Pluck the Day / This Silvery Sound

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Pluck the Day

Large flat flower in white and purple, with long purple stem, small orange fruit, shiny green leaves.Save time! Save time!
Spend time! Sell time!
Pile time, file time!
Fill time, kill time!

Live time…
leave time…
give time…
weave time.

Close-up of poppy flower with dew or rain on it, above other red, orange, purple, and white flowers.Pluck the hour,
pluck the day,
golden-green or
silver-grey.

Pluck time…
peel time…
suck time…
feel time.

Christina Egan © 2009

This Silvery Sound

This silvery, surging, curling sound:
the whispering leaves
of the urban trees…
O listen, O listen and look around:
the silvery greens
like a dream of the seas…
And fading away as soon as found.

Christina Egan © 2018

Photographs: Christina Egan © 2016.

Gedächtnisgarten zu Tottenham

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Gedächtnisgarten zu Tottenham

Wie Sternennebel
schweben die schneeweißen Büsche
im Nachtgrün am Rande des Parks,
und aus dem sattschwarzen Grunde
ruft ihrer mehr herauf
das funkelnde Zepter des Mondes,
als lebte der Amsel Perlengesang
das Dunkel hindurch.

Wie übergroße Urwaldblüten
liegen in Schlaf geschmiegt
die silbernen Gänse,
erfroren geglaubte Träume
verlorengegebener Kraft.
Der Duft von überallher
ist schwer, er wiegt,
er ist wirklich.

Die Rinnen der Inschrift
im Granit des Gartentors
füllen sich langsam mit Sinn:
Garten des Friedens.

Christina Egan © 2006

High brick wall with inscription 'Garden of Peace'; iron gate with lawn and palm-trees behind.

Memorial Garden, Tottenham Cemetery. Photograph: Christina Egan © 2013.

Bloomsbury, on the Ides of May

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Bloomsbury, on the Ides of May

I will remember: it was on the Ides of May,
the light was lingering late, still bright behind
the fading curtains of clouds, ready to burst
into colourful banners; so were the buds in the parks.
Short were the shades of the columns and those of the crowds
ceaselessly weaving around the corners of concrete.
I will remember the weary assembly of tombstones,
too weathered to count as a witness, the lime-green life
pushing out from the cracks, the benches eager for laughter,
Edge of tomb, with weeds outside and insidethe birds’ unheeded, untiring, Vespers to God.
See: I lay down the unspoken secret in verse.

Christina Egan © 2007

 

 

Photograph (taken in Tottenham
in July): Christina Egan © 2013.

Blütenschnee / The Opposite of Snow

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Du bist der Blütenschnee

Du bist der Blütenschnee,
du bist die Blütengischt,
die Blütengalaxie,
die mir das Glück verspricht,
die mir das Glück versprüht,–
die Frühlingssymphonie,
die nimmermehr verblüht…
Du funkelst mehr denn je!

Christina Egan © 2018

The Opposite of Snow

This sweet and heavy blossom,
white with a golden glimmer,
an incandescent glow…
Its sweet and heavy scent,
like gingerbread in summer –
the opposite of snow!

Christina Egan © 2018

The first poem compares blossom to snow, the second declares it the opposite of snow. Both could be a description of a beloved person: delightful or even delicious like gingerbread…