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…

April (Aufquellend)

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

April

Aufquellend
wie Perlennester
der Vogelgesang
voller Lust.

(Eingezingelt vom Gebrüll
der Preßlufthämmer.)

Amongst high, dark, buildings, lawns, trees in blossom, and in the middle, a red doubledecker bus.Blütenwolkenweiß
und babyblättergrün
lacht das Land,
lacht die Luft.

(Aufgeschnitten in kleine Gevierte
zwischen den braunen Backsteinbauten.)

Jetzt sind Licht und Wind.
Jetzt ist Atem, endlich.
Jetzt ist das Jetzt
ein Jetzt.

Christina Egan © 2006

Park with bright green lawns and tree-tops; in the centre two trees covered in pink or white blossom.

Russel Square; Tottenham Cemetery. Photographs: Christina Egan © 2016/ © 2018.

frau (außen und innen)

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

frau

außen und
innen
ganz
frau

lebe ich
rund
träume ich
dunkel und
bunt
denke ich
durchdringend

ruhe ich
in mir
rufe ich
mein du
runde ich mich
um mein kind

gebäre ich
mein gedicht
berge ich
mein gebet

auch mein gesicht
ist lehm und
licht
ist ebenbild

Christina Egan © 1990

Detail of woman, with her body, clothes, and jewellery describing curves.

 

My early vision of my identity as a woman holds: centred around marriage and motherhood as well as thought and art, different from a man but absolutely equal — created from the same clay, not from a rib, and from the same spirit!

The central image is the round shape: this person is somehow round, gentle; she is rounded, balanced; bending herself around other things and other people in a natural impulse. Only her thoughts can be straight and piercing!

 

Jewellery from Lanzarote, made of lava, olivine, lapis lazuli. Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.

The End of Lent

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Sext
(Midday prayer)

Amidst a day of darkness,
amidst a life of fight,
the pillars and the organ
build up a vault of light.

Somebody must be present
to hear the silent screams!
There’s help past understanding,
there’s hope beyond all dreams.

But where do you keep hiding?
O Lord, who has left whom?
Dispense a drop of mercy
on each of us this noon.

Christina Egan © 1998

The End of Lent

There’s more to life behind the troubled scene,
more light than mighty, timeless words can mean:
there is a truth that never lies,
a truth that fills the earth
with fragrant breath.

There’s more than we can fathom and esteem,
or ask for, seek for, need, desire, dream:
there is a love that never dies,
a love that will give birth
in very death.

Christina Egan © 1999

La table jaune

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

La table jaune

La table jaune limpide,
couleur de tournesol,
Table surface of bright yellow mosaic, with café chairs on the grass, sunlit.m’invite dans l’oasis
au cœur des plaines arides,
parmi palmiers et roses
en fleur sans fin, sans pause :
il met l’esprit au vol
vers les sommets saphir,
vers le soleil couchant,
mais fort même au nadir…

La table tournesol
est un tapis volant !
Mais il me manque le mot
qui le transforme, le pose
carrément aux epaules
des vents comme un radeau…
Ô table jaune et rouge,
écoute-moi et bouge,
transporte-moi aux flots
de l’air vers l’horizon !

Christina Egan © 2016

The yellow table in the oasis becomes a flying carpet: it lifts the mind up towards the high mountains. Yet, to lift the body up also, it requires a password, and we do not have it!

The rose garden is set in a country where the sun is strong even towards evening or in midwinter, and where roses are always in blossom in abundance: I found it in Morocco.

Photograph: Roadside café in Morocco in midwinter. Christina Egan © 2012.

 

Children of the sun and moon

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Children of the sun and moon

When we drift through ink-blue dusk
under the twigs of moon-white blossom,
under the crystal orbs of street-lamps,
under the shadeless signals of neon,

when we slide across concrete squares
and sail around sharp and rounded corners,
restless and vigorous, at home in the dark,
at home in the city, nocturnal birds,

we know deep down that we are still
children of the sun and moon:
the sun must rise in our eyes,
the moon must rise in our brain;

we must admit that we are still
children of the earth and sky:
the spring must rise in our bones,
the stars must rise in our veins.

Christina Egan © 2016

Window Seat

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Window Seat

You beat me to the window seat,
Silhouette of man against tall window with curtains.the secret poets’ nest;
you watched the broad and busy street,
a highway on your quest.

You beat me to the poets’ prize,
without a rhyme or form:
you saw the faces floating by
in the approaching storm,

you caught the litter and the leaves,
the puddles and the birds
and strung them as bizarre bright beads
on your vibrating verse.

Christina Egan © 2019

The poem has its origin in a coffee bar in a busy high street in London. It was published in the Tottenham Community Press (print issue of December 2018).

The elusive poet in a window seat. Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.

Osterglockenlied

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Bundle of daffodils in front of a wooden fence in bright sunlight.Osterglockenlied

Was soll ich jene jauchzenden Narzissen,
die sich in zartesten Zitronentönen
und vollem Apfelsinenleuchten dehnen,
die mehr als wir vom wahren Leben wissen,
mit meinen leisen Reimen nacherschaffen?
Um unauslöschlich nun sie zu entfachen:
in Flammen, die dem Blatt Papier entspringen
und Freude ringsherum zum Klingen bringen!

Christina Egan © 2015

 

Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.

Curling Up

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Curling Up

I’m curling up
against the cold
against the world

its random roar
its lazy contempt
its glacial loneliness

Buds and fresh leaves on top of shoots above a parkI’m curling up
with the sky in my mind
and the sun in my heart

around a seed
already unfurling
and then: uncurling

Christina Egan © 2014

 

I am at Home in the Darkness

I.

I am at home in the darkness.
At least, dreams shine more brightly here,
lanterns among phantoms,
gold grains in the drifting sand.

Only my dreams
are real,
are true.

II.Passionflower with bee, colours inverted to create psychedelic purple structure.

All those who wish to die
crave for life, life, lost
in this cavern of wandering shades,
crazed by the thirst for a garden.

Only those who wish to die
are aware,
are alive.

Christina Egan © 2014

Photographs: Christina Egan © 2014 / 2016.

I assume that very, very often when someone feels they want to die or are about to die, they are simply physically unwell — or simply overtired — or simply literally in the dark. If this insight informed our science and our society, we could manage our lives so much better.

The date these three poems were written is significant: it was mid-February, which is when I (like everyone in the northern hemisphere) feels the dark and cold most bitterly, because halfway between winter solstice and spring equinox, the various reserves of our bodies are dangerously low. From late February on, things get better, and this is not a mental phenomenon (little flowers can, after all, not cure leaden fatigue) but a physical fact.