Palmenhaus / Palm House

Bright red koi fish coming out from underneath curved green bridge across pond

250 poems!


Palmenhaus am Wolfsweg –
Palm House at Wolves Lane

Huge banana leaf, bright green above bright green bridgeSattgrüne Segel,
wölben sich die Palmblätter
hier im Gewächshaus.

*

Green sails, filled with light,
with sap, the palm leaves billow
here in the greenhouse.

***

Tiny waterfall behind little red bridgeBlütentrompeten
antworten dem Wasserfall:
Kannst du’s vernehmen?

*

The flutes of flowers
answering the waterfall:
can you perceive it?

***

Turtle in pond under palm-trees

Dieser Tümpel ist
dem Schöpfer ein Tropfen,
der Schildkröte die Welt.

*

This round pond is
a drop to the Creator,
the world to the turtle.

***

Two koi fish in bright yellow and bright orange; dark water reflecting white sky and structure of glass-houseIm schwarzen Wasser
das Spiegelspiel des Himmels,
der Blitz des Goldfischs.

*

In the black water
quivering of heavens,
lightning of a goldfish.

***

Birght red koi fish coming out from underneath curved green bridge across pondAus nachtgleichem Naß
unter der grünen Brücke
schießt der rote Fisch.

*

From the night-like wet,
from under the bright-green bridge
the red fish shoots out.

***

Photographs: Christina Egan © 2013
German texts: Christina Egan © 2014
English texts: Christina Egan © 2015

Steigt später Morgen

Steigt später Morgen

Im nackten Gehölz
am Horizont gen Osten
steigt später Morgen:
das schwächste, stillste Feuer,
der dennoch gleißende Kreis.

Christina Egan © 2015


Laub leuchtet auf

Durch die Wolken bricht
Glanz, Gleißen. Laub leuchtet auf,
rührt sich und flüstert.
Nur diesen Augenblick
haben wir, aber auf ewig.

Christina Egan © 2015


The first tanka celebrates the sunrise 
in midwinter; the second conjures up
a flare of sunshine in midsummer.

Eternity can be experienced in this life:
in the moment — and perhaps in the
moment alone.

For another experience of tranquillity 
through light and dark in midwinter, go to
In Praise of Darkness / Lob der Stille.

The City Lit Up

The City Lit Up

I lived between Ilex and Salix,
just north of Londinium Town,
and sometimes I climbed to the moss-well
between the oaks and looked down.

I looked at the thatch and the roof-tiles,
as red as the embers beneath,
I looked at the timber and marble,
the highways connecting the heath,

the gates, the walls and the broad bridge,
the fields afloat on the clay;
and I wondered if London would stretch
as vast as the valley one day,

Pond in park, surrounded by bare trees, with tiny island

as vast as Rome, which had risen
from marshes and slopes long ago,
with columns touching the heavens
because the gods willed it so;

and if Rome could ever be shrinking
and sinking into the bog,
or London be burning or flooding
and melting into the fog…

The city lit up in the sunset
and faded away in the dusk;
I felt the chill in the oak-wood,
and down to my villa I rushed.

I entered the gate by the willows
and strode through the dolphins’ yard,
I passed the flickering torches
and stopped by my forefathers’ hearth.

Roman mosaic of a mansion

My name was Appius Felix,
an heir to Aeneas of Troy;
I kept the seals and the idols
to pass them on to my boy.

I used the sword and the saddle,
I held the lyre and quill.
I lived between Ilex and Salix,
at the foot of the Moss-Well Hill.

Christina Egan © 2016


As you can see from the 100-metre-high summit of the Muswell Hill, London does stretch for many miles nowadays, filling the valley to both sides of the meandering River Thames.

You will also notice that there are large patches of green everywhere, some of them left over from ancient marshland and woodland. If you know your way, you can walk across London through woods and meadows, across hills and along rivers for miles!

My Roman observer lives in modern-day Wood Green or Bounds Green, near fictitious hamlets or villas called Ilex (holly or oak) and Salix (willow or osier).

This man firmly believes that gods guard his city and his country and that spirits guard his home and his family. He pursues some useful career in the service of the Empire, but he is also a bit of a poet.

I named him Appius after the statesman of the Republic who had contributed so much to Rome’s infrastructure as well as intellectual life, and Felix because he counts himself lucky.


 

You can find more on Londinium’s fortifications at Ode to London Wall  and more about its straight or winding highways at Quo vadis?

Photographs: Country villa, late Roman mosaic, Bardo Museum, Tunis. —  Pond in Tottenham, North London. Christina Egan © 2014

My City Calls (Grey Roofs Grey Walls)

My City Calls

Grey roofs grey walls
Make up this place
A rough and kind
Familiar face

The spires chimneys
Market stalls
Suspended bridges
Station halls

Oh face of walls
So great so mild
My city calls
Come here my child

My city calls
With golden chime:
While winter falls
Stay here some time

The sky is full
Of rain and snow
Of miracles
To fall and grow

So many faces
In the street
Yet far away
The one I need

Far is my dear
So far away
But I am here
Just day to day

My city calls
Me with her charms
My heartbeat falls
into her arms

Christina Egan © 1995 / 2012


For a similar German poem, see Im Herzen von Köln. Like in Heimkehr nach Köln, the big city is seen as a mother. There are other poems or songs where I describe it as a person — man or woman, although I feel that a city is female. It is a personal relationship: my heart beats for the city, as I claim in Geflecht / Geflechte.

Sonett der drei Seen

Sonett der drei Seen
(São Miguel, Azoren)

Der Teich war gelb, und gelbe Dämpfe stiegen
ins heiße Blau, umringt von dunklen Ranken,
als müde Glieder sich im Gelb entspannten
mit Blättern, die wie Schlick im Strudel trieben.
Der See war grün, und grüne Schimmer hingen
in steilen Hängen und in flachen Tiefen,
worunter ungeheure Feuer schliefen,–
zur rechten grün und himmelblau zur linken.
Und um die gelben, grünen, blauen Kessel
und buntbestickten Ufer lief ein Band
von schwarzen Felsen und von schwarzem Sand;
und darum – ohne Grenze, ohne Fessel
und ohne Form – das Meer, das Element…
O selig, wer die sanften Inseln kennt!

Christina Egan © 2016

Sete_cidades_(14267780070)

 

Sete Cidades, (São Miguel, Azores). Photograph by Aires Almeida from Portimão, Portugal, via Wikimedia Commons.

 

The colours of the water are really like in the photo! See also my verse Acherons Mund  for the darker aspects of these isles.

These poems may work in a translation software, although you only get the meaning, not the sounds, which are like music and like the sounds of nature itself!

Die Störche entflohen dem Norden

Die Störche entflohen dem Norden

Die Störche entflohen dem Norden,
Und nie mehr ziehn sie zurück:
Mir ist mein Kindlein gestorben,
Und nie mehr find ich mein Glück.

Mein einziges Kind ist gestorben,
Und niemand hat es bemerkt –
Denn niemals sah es den Morgen,
Und niemand hat mich gestärkt.Two storks in a nest, standing very close together, surmounted by a triangular tree and a steep roof, in the dusk.

Mein Lächeln muß ich mir borgen,
Wenn Frühjahr die Täler doch färbt:
Mir ist es, als wär ich gestorben,
Und niemand hätt’ mich beerbt.

Mir ist es, als wär’ ich im Norden,
Auf Nebelinseln, daheim:
Der Sommer hatt’ mich umworben
Und ließ mich dann achtlos allein.

Die Störche sind immer geborgen
In Kreisen von Sonne und Wind…
Doch ich erwache in Sorgen:
Mir lachte im Traume das Kind.

Christina Egan © 2013

Nest with two storks in North African city with crumbling walls and palm trees.

This is the story of a woman who lost her only child before birth or at birth, or who never had one at all and will never have one.

This poem sounds like a folksong and could be set to music.It may also work well in a translation software.

 

Photographs: Wyk on Föhr, Germany / Marrakesh, Morocco. Christina Egan © 2014/2012.

Red Balloon


In the crowd,
in the too early dark,
the enveloping damp, I rush,
crush onto the red bus, and there,
on the front bench, you are, as if waiting
for me, or at least hoping for me, with a smile,
a wide warm smile, just like the one you gave me
nineteen years ago, with the same smooth oval face;
and our words change the day into a string of pearls,
change the city into a cluster of colourful balloons;
in the damp dark evening, I feel the sun rising,
feel a breeze rising, taking my heart with it,
like a little red balloon, weightless,
into shadeless heights, we are
two bouncing balloons
on a red bus!
And
I love you
so





Poem Red Balloon in the shape of a red balloon.

This poem was published in the
Tottenham Community Press,
No. 32, March 2020, p. 14.

There is also a wedding or
anniversary poem about a
Yellow Balloon !

Die Fluten der Stadt

Die Fluten der Stadt

I.

Vor meinem Fenster rauscht die späte Stadt
und glitzert auf im Vollmond, schwarzes Meer;
sie spült Millionen Menschen hin und her,
spielt Fangen, nimmermüd und nimmersatt.
In ihrem Brausen höre ich Willkommen
und lasse mich auf ihren Wellen treiben.
Die Sternbilder der Leuchtreklamen schreiben
sich unter meine Lider… schon zerronnen.
Und nie allein: weil ich alleine bin,
zu Haus im selben Sehnsuchtsleitmotiv
wie jeder andre aufgewühlte Sinn.
Was immer schon in meinen Gliedern schlief,
schäumt ungebärdig zu den Sternen hin:
Ich will dich, will dich wild und meerestief.

II.

Auf vielen Brücken stand ich, ausgespannt
von Stahl und Stein an Themse, Rhein und Main,
und unter allen Himmeln stets allein:
stets einem Unsichtbaren zugewandt.
Es wandeln ja mit jedem neuen Strand
die Menschen wie die Häuser ihr Gesicht,
erstehen anders schon im Morgenlicht;
und immer wieder scheint mir eins verwandt.

Die Fluten wechseln – braun, blau, grau und grün –
die Augen ebenso, die mich gebannt,

sie füllen meine Augen – und entfliehn.
Doch deine, die ich nur von ferne fand,
die kaum mich streiften, seh ich weitersprühn…
Und ihre Farbe hab ich nie gekannt.

Christina Egan © 1995 / 1996

Black and white panorama of London skyline from a Thames bridge, with another bridge, boats, skyscrapers, St Paul's.

London. Photograph: Christina Egan © 2014


The narrator looks for love amidst the masses of the big city by the big river, where the star constellations consist of neon advertisements. She or he adores someone whom she has only seen from afar so that she does not even know the colour of his or her eyes.

Each sonnet makes a paradoxical statement about loneliness: This person is never lonely because many other people in this city share her loneliness; and she is always lonely because she is in the presence of a beloved one who is absent.

Hochsommerhimmel

Hochsommerhimmel

Himmel, wolkenlos
schon am Morgen. Schwalbenflug
bestickt das Hellblau.

*

Himmel, weich und warm
über Mittag. Seidentuch,
endlich einfach blau!

*

Himmel, licht und sanft
noch am Abend. Holzspanduft
umwebt die Rosen.

Christina Egan © 2015

Rosen wie Splitter

Rosen wie Splitter
(Juli-Haiku)

*

Rosen wie Splitter
von Mittagsglut, Mondnacht
und Sonnenuntergang.

*

Warm und schwer von Düften
schwappt die Luft durch den Park,
lacht lautlos der Teich.

*

Goldene Blüten,
tausend Trompeten, hörbar
nur für die Engel.

*

Christina Egan © 2001

Two large orange roses in the sunshine, yellow in the middle, with large healthy leaves.

Photograph: Christina Egan © 2014