Purple Wine
I.
Deep purple and pure is this wine,
the midsummer’s fire condensed,
expanding inside me, immense:
your kiss – you are finally mine.
II.
There’s twenty-one words on the paper,
of wine and a night I forgot:
yet flowers and fruits bore my plot,
your kiss sparkles many years later…
Christina Egan © 2005 (I) / 2020 (II)
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2016.
Morgengebet
(Ein helles Heute)
Aus der Schönheit blüht uns Freude,
Freude grünt uns aus der Kraft.
Schenk’ uns, Herr, ein helles Heute,
das aus Freude Frieden schafft.
Aus dem Leiden wächst uns Glauben,
und Geduld reift aus dem Schmerz.
Schenk’ uns Stille und Vertrauen,
führ’ uns heimlich himmelwärts.
Christina Egan © 2019
Tischgebet
(Bunte Gnadenspur)
Wir halten inne, denn das Mahl ist bunt
an Farbe, Würze und Beschaffenheit;
wir halten inne, um mit Herz und Mund
zu danken für die satte Friedenszeit.
Wir danken für die reiche Frucht der Erde,
die unerschöpfte Urkraft der Natur,
für unsrer unentwegten Mühen Ernte:
Wir danken für die bunte Gnadenspur.
Christina Egan © 2019
Photograph of convent: Christina Egan © 2014. —
Photograph of light from church windows by 3268zauber.
The Mooness Grows
The Mooness grows: she’s almost round.
She steps out of a wooded mound.
She knows:
The sea will swell, the sap will well,
a thousand creatures will give birth.
The earth
is restless, waiting for Queen Moon
and for King Sun to round her girth,
her life.
The fruit is red, the fruit is ripe.
The Mooness strews her silent spell:
She glows.
Christina Egan © 2016
Die Mondin rollt
Die Mondin rollt, ein Bronzegong,
vom vielgezackten Horizont
das königsblaue Rund empor.
Ihr hoheitsvoller Ruf erschallt,
bis alles bebend widerhallt
in Stein und Blatt, in Bein und Ohr.
Noch einmal steigt, noch einmal loht
nach Mittagsglut und Abendrot
des vollen Sommers Vollmondschein.
Der Bronzegong um Mitternacht
hat neues Leben angefacht
in Ohr und Bein, in Blatt und Stein.
Christina Egan © 2016
These two poems about the ‘Mooness’ are very similar (and written at the same time) but not translations of each other.
In Greek and Latin, the moon is linguistically and mythologically female, and we should have such a word in English and German.
As a woman, I feel instinctively related to the powerful moon and all life cycles — irrespective of reproductive capacity or activity.
Der Lebensbaum
Du bist für mich der Liebestraum,
dessen Glanz die Seele nährt,
du bist für mich der Lebensbaum,
dessen Frucht der Leib begehrt.
Bleibt mir auch die Himmelstür
durch den Diebstahl einst verwehrt,
hab’ auf Erden ich dafür
noch vom Paradies gezehrt!
Christina Egan © 2011
The beloved one is seen as the tree of life which bears the fruit of paradise. Between Paradise at the beginning of our journey and Heaven at the end, earthly love offers us a taste of both…
Illustration: 12th century depiction of the world, illustrating a work by 11th century author Hildegard of Bingen (who is shown in the corner).
Golden Flower
O let the golden flower of my flesh
live on, live on, untouched by age and death
within the space I’ve out of all preferred:
your eyes, your eyes, my paradise on earth!
Christina Egan © 2012
Spell of the Orange-Tree
The orange-tree is growing,
the orange fruits are showing
and glowing in the dark.
The moon’s translucent fire
is woven into wire
by spiders on the bark.
The silver light is flowing,
the silver web is growing
and glowing in the dark.
The secret saps are welling,
the golden spheres are swelling
to fortify the heart.
Christina Egan © 2016
Photograph: Morocco. Christina Egan © 2012
On the Orange Bridge
I.
The bridge bears tiny trembling lives
across the wild and icy strait,
a miracle of miles.
So moves my life, suspended by
the scarce, but strong and sparkling, stakes
of kisses and of smiles.
II.
If I could pray, my wishes might
arise like incense to the light
and cling to royal robes.
Yet I am weak; all I can give
is work and talk and love and live
on tangy glowing hopes.
Christina Egan © 2008
Golden Gate Bridge. Photograph by Christian Mehlführer.
‘Featured picture’ on Wikimedia Commons.
I wrote these lines just before I went to San Francisco. Coincidentally, I found it so cold there that I could not cross the bridge on foot even in September! Yet, it is gigantic and awe-inspiring, like many things in America, whether natural or man-made.
P.S.: I did get kissed on the bridge…! Thank you!
This Day of June
zenith of the sun
semaphore of summer
the day when the flowers start melting
into fruit into
seed
the day when the very stones come alive
with lichen with
light
this day of June is yours
this day of June is you
Christina Egan © 2012
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2014
I like to think of a human life as a sequel of seasons:
with glorious midsummer when one is a mature adult!
(‘Midsummer’ around solstice, ‘maturity’ around 35 to 45 years.)
This has also recently become the typical age for marriage
and parenthood. Also, most people now have long lives,
so having a chance to run the course of all seasons.
The two solstices are symbols of the cycles of nature:
at the highest point of the sun, heat and harvest are still to come,
but at the same time, the days are already getting shorter again…
Conversely, the lowest point of the sun sets off the period
of bitter cold and snow, but also of ever longer light and new buds.
The seasons are interlinked, as are all cycles of life and death.
The next post, A Quilt of Light and Shade, describes
the time around summer solstice in London, England.
London, This Moment of May
I.
London, this moment of May.
A Grand Canyon in grey,
imperceptibly turning to purple,
with an orange glow on its battlements –
but teeming in all its cracks,
with foam of blossom and bird-flight,
with currents of people and cars.
Not a city, but a county, a country,
a proud world in itself,
the planet in a valley,
an open oblong fruit,
rich with glistening seeds,
in the giant hand of clay
hollowed out by the Thames.
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2016
II.
It is not mine, this city: I borrowed it.
I borrowed it for a home,
for a while,
I borrowed its language,
for good.
Or it borrowed me,
it borrowed my eyes
to mount this tall bus,
it borrowed my mouth
to sing this new song.
I run through its veins
of walls and windows,
of trees and lanterns…
A Grand Canyon in grey.
Or it runs through my veins,
a pale-purple stream,
murmuring, glittering…
London, this moment of May.
Christina Egan © 2013
The title alludes to the famous line by Virginia Woolf:
“… what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.”
I happened to write my poem in May, on a red bus…
P.S.:
A year later, the climate across Europe has slid further into resentment towards foreigners or strangers of any description, be they war refugees or your next-door neighbours. There is a lot of blind anger and fear of vague entities like ‘Europe’ or ‘Islam’. This is the road to racism and fascism.
My essay about my identity as an immigrant to England stayed on the front page of trade union UNISON‘s website for weeks: I dream in English. I come from one country, live in another, and plan to move to a third; yet my main identity is European at any rate!
>>> These poems were published in the Haringey Community Press (circulation 15,000) in September 2022.
Göttermahl
(Malerei im Stadtschloß zu Fulda)
Rundes Brot mit blonder Rinde
spendet uns der Sonne Kraft;
roter Wein voll süßer Hitze
filtert uns der Erde Saft.
Zu dem Abendbrot gesellt sich
stückweis gutgewürzte Wurst;
saftigbunte Früchte endlich
stillen den entfachten Durst.
Welches Mahl man mir auch biete,
nichts kommt dieser Speise gleich,–
und mir scheint gar, man genieße
ebenso im Götterreich!
Christina Egan © 2015
—
You can find very clear photographs of
Emanuel Wohlhaupter’s painted ceiling
(1728-1730) in the City Palace of Fulda
at Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte.
Hält die Waage Nacht dem Tage
Sieh, Morgen graut,
sieh, Morgen blaut!
Noch einmal leuchtet grün das Laub,
noch einmal schimmert gold das Haar,
und Mittag bäckt die Früchte gar.
Das Ziffernblatt
liegt sonnensatt,
der Schatten aber rückt hinab.
Der Wein saugt letzten Saft hinauf,
die Felder halten Ausverkauf.
Das Licht entsinkt,
das Jahr verklingt…
Noch einmal wird der Schritt beschwingt,
bevor uns Nebel stumm beschwert
und Sturm uns durch die Haare fährt.
Hält die Waage
Nacht dem Tage,
fällt die Blüte ohne Klage,
treibt der Feuerdorn die Beeren.
Was vergeht, wird wiederkehren.
Christina Egan © 2015
Christina Egan 