Riders of the Whales
I turn my face towards you
the riders of the waves
the riders of the whales
not as masters
but as friends
I lay the shimmering isles
into your unknown hands
I lift my smile
like a bright-blue flag
to one who wields the wand
and strikes the rock
to turn the wasteland
velvety and fragrant
once again
I lift my cup
of bittersweet brew
to one who turns the wheel
and shifts the clouds
to make the frosty stream
a sparkling wall
once again
I sweep the ashes
and lay the bricks
I feed the seeds for you
I grow the words for you
I beg your forgiveness
and scatter blessings on you
the yet unborn
Christina Egan ©2021
climate change
Dancing on the Beach
Dancing on the Beach
I woke up to a world
where the bears and the bees
had not cast their ballots
but the humans had:
a brave brand-new world
where an abundance
of guns guaranteed
safety and peace,
where an ample range
of promises rained down
on the fields like fertiliser,
tremendous and toxic,
and where the deceitful tongue
was spreading like the olive-tree
in the house of God,
laughing us to scorn.
I woke up to a crowd
dancing on the beach, drunk,
while the floods were gathering
from the heights and the horizon,
a world watching and filming
on ten thousand screens
its boats and its bridges
falling apart. I woke up.
Christina Egan ©2024
On Nov. 5th, 2024, it became evident that the great project of democracy
is about to destroy itself, taking the whole of our civilisation with it.
The Red Helicopter (Tottenham)
The Red Helicopter
(Tottenham)
Some of us are pushing the swings
in the park, a powerful pendulum,
some are hurrying for their daily bread,
counting the pennies in their pockets,
and all are treading on rustling leaves,
fallen too soon, too soon this year,
for the world is brittle with heat
and creaking and breaking apart.
The rain has come and gone
but the clouds have stayed:
No rainbow today
over the weathered church.
The blue emerges, the brightness
of grass, of the thousand things,
and the old oak stands smiling.
Higher the swings go and higher –
Then the sky bursts
with the lion’s roar
of the helicopter, closer, close,
here, the colour of blood.
And we look at each other
and fear the worst and
know it has happened
again.
A street between brick walls,
a random courtyard
or a random corner
has been stained,
and from the earth cries
someone’s blood,
someone’s brother’s blood,
our brother’s blood.
Christina Egan ©2023
I have seen the red helicopter of the emergency services land in parks in Tottenham (Lordship Recreation Ground and Bruce Castle Park). In both cases it was the middle of the day, and in both cases, a teenager had been stabbed, once fatally and once nearly so. Another young man was shot and left to die in Tottenham Cemetery. All these green spaces are vast and idyllic.
See Himmelblaue Uhr (Tottenham) for Bruce Castle Park as a haven of tranquillity and Gedächtnisgarten zu Tottenham for the old cemetery as a garden of peace.
The Forest on Fire
The Forest on Fire
The forest on fire, filling the screen,
catches your eye, the living torches
of the towering pines, the sore soles
of the koalas, the bent skeletons
of the verandas. You notice at last
the whale on your doorstep,
led astray, stranded, gasping, or
the regal white bird, its wide wings
spread out on your beach, already
choked on your civilisation. Where
is the lark? Half your precious planet
is about to be razed. Face it.
When you rush out now to fight
the fire, the flood, and the festering waste,
do you not know it is too late
for you, yourself? The biting fumes
are invisibly running in the rivers
of your blood, the glittering garbage
is secretly heaped in the caves
of your bones, the drugs and counter-drugs
skip around in your brain. Doomed
you confess to be? You are due,
overdue. Half your precious life
has already been cancelled. It’s gone.
Christina Egan ©2021
Wetterfahne / Weather-Vane
Wetterfahne
Jemand muß die Wolken jagen…
Jemand muß die Bäume fragen:
Seid ihr glücklich? Seid ihr satt?
Jemand muß den Regen ahnen,
eher als die Wetterfahnen,
eher als das Espenblatt.
Jemand muß die Sonne sichten,
Frost und Feuer in den Lüften
und den ungeheuren Sturm.
Jemand muß die Schwalben fragen:
Wird die Erde uns noch tragen?
Wetterfahne auf dem Turm!
Christina Egan © 2018
Weather-Vane
The weather-vane is turning,
the sinking sun is burning
and burnishing its gold.
The slender birch is swaying,
its golden veil is fraying…
The year is getting old.
The weather-vane is creaking,
the cold and damp are seeping
into the window-frames.
The golden flag is flashing,
the elements are splashing
their vigour into space!
Christina Egan © 2018
These two poems about weather-vanes were written on the same November day, but are not versions of the same text.
The first one alludes to a sensitive and at the same time sensible person, who keenly feels changes in weather and climate — and asks how long we shall be able to live on this earth.
The second one describes sunset and autumn as images of ageing — and at the same time celebrating life!
Gut Hasselburg, Holstein, Germany; Bruce Castle, Tottenham, England. Photographs: Christina Egan © 2014/© 2017.