Noch ist nicht aller Tage Abend, der Sommer noch nicht ausgebrannt, noch will die Feige Frucht dir tragen, entfaltet sich dir ohne Fragen die Erde ohne Riß und Rand.
Noch ist nicht aller Nächte Morgen, noch paßt der Mond in deine Hand! Noch ziehen Störche gegen Norden, noch will der Wildbach überborden… Noch harrt die Perle dir im Sand.
Unbeirrbar rollt die Straße, über Hügel, über Flüsse schnurgerade hingebreitet wie ein Strahl vom flammendroten goldstückgroßen Himmelsboten: Mars hat Rom hierhergeleitet.
Resolutely, the road rolls over rivers, over hills, laid out strangely straight and clear, issued like a flaming ray from the gold coin in the sky: It is Mars that led Rome here.
As ever, the first poem of the year admires the roads of the Romans. At Cassel in the north of France, you can see them radiate from a hill and run entirely straight, regardless of the landscape. They served very well to transport people, goods, and ideas, but were first of all laid to occupy and exploit regions. Mars in the poem above stands for war and aggression but also for courage and strength.
So you thought life was past? It has only begun. For whatever you’ve lost there is something you’ve won. For whatever you’ve missed there is something you’ve learned. It is harvest: persist and reap all that you earned.
This is the word cloud (not of the tags but of the texts) of all English poems posted on this site in the past year. Another year of love and life and leaves… and of mass consumption, mass media, and mass murder.
The poem does what it describes: inventing words, lining them up, and sending them to others to greet them and cheer them up!
The newly coined terms had to be re-created in English – where they do of course not look as impressive. “lindwurmwörter”, for instance, really sounds and looks as long as a dragon, while “dragon’s tail words” looks like three words, even though I added the tail in to get a similar effect in meaning and length.
In England, many people hang Christmas cards up on golden strings. During the festive seasons of 2022/23 and 2023/24, I crafted many greeting cards myself, each of them unique.
Damp wood, damp walls: the world smells of decay. The scented roses are resurgent, yet too many leaves are falling, fallen, wet across the spotless lawn, the winding way. Above Bruce Castle’s reddish parapet and wayward weather-vane, the veil of grey is torn apart to let a dazzling ray caress the clock-face, still for summer set. The light is fierce and will not be subdued, the clock smiles sky-blue with a rim of gold, the grass is glittering and fresh and bold, and then the sky itself triumphs, renewed. All this eclipsing, flash on flash, they pass: the parakeets, a dozen shooting-stars.
A thousand leaves in brownish bronze, a thousand leaves thrust by the wind, a rustling sea… a jostling crowd… And then, with sudden sunset glint, with guileless smile, one reaches out.
For the English visual version and for a related word cloud, see the previous post, Webs of Steel (Visual Poetry).
Von stählernen Waben
Von stählernen Waben und gläsernen Wänden beschränkt auf ein spärliches gräsernes Eck, steh’ stille und spüre dein Blut in den Händen: Du hast ein Gesicht; und du hast ein Geschick.
Will keiner dich kennen, verstehen und lieben, gibt keiner verborgene Neigungen her, hol’ Atem – hol’ Atem – und freu’ dich am Leben: Ich weiß es ja, bin ja bei dir übers Meer!
When webs of steel and walls of glass confine you to a square of grass – stand still and feel your sap pulsate: You have a face. You have a fate.
When no one listens, no one knows you, when no one loves you or else shows you, take a deep breath – take two – take cheer: I know, across the seas. I’m here.
Christina Egan 