A New Poem is Being Born
There is an empty space on greyish paper:
to fill with fire from a rocky scar
and with fresh ashes on a ghostly glacier,
to fix a brilliant moon and matching star.
Christina Egan ©2024
Ein neues Gedicht wird geboren
Die graue Leere des Papiers erfüllt
das Feuer, das aus Felsennarbe quilt,
der Aschenfall auf geisterhaftem Firn,
der Mond mit funkelndem Begleitgestirn.
Christina Egan ©2024
A Speck in the Dark
Grey buildings, grey branches,
black streets in the rain…
Dark coats and pale faces,
white sky yet again.
Drained off is the rainbow:
there’s shade and there’s rust.
Smudged world in the window,
and noon feels like dusk.
There: sunrise is flashing,
an orange-red spark,
with sky-blue unfolding –
a speck in the dark!
The bluebird’s alighting
on quivering twigs;
the buds were awaiting
a signal like this!
The bluebird is glowing,
alive and alert,
and colours are brewing
in heaven and earth.
Christina Egan ©2018
A January poem from a northern part of Europe… The bluebird does not live here, but it got into the poem because its feathers are of a luminous orange and blue like the sun and the sky!
Der Himmel reißt auf
Zierliche Zweige, schwarz
gegen den Honighimmel,
Pfirsichhimmel,
Flammenhimmel,
die einzelnen winzigen Blätter
klare Keilschriftzeichen
auf irdenen Tafeln,
leicht in der Hand
und schwer von Geheimnis.
Der Himmel reißt auf,
gezacktes Gewölk steigt,
spreizt sich, schwenkt Geärm,
rosa Riesenkoralle
vor blaßblauer Südsee,
zuckt auf, fällt zusammen,
zieht fort, violett verwelkt,
aschene Spur im Äther.
Welch verschwenderischer Glanz…
Christina Egan © 2017
Nocturne in Purple and Grey
(Bankside, London)
Hemmed with the sequins of lamps
the silver carpet of the river,
the lilac scarves of the bridges, the buildings.
People are blown about like brown leaves.
A few boats float, dozing,
awaiting brighter days.
The hues of lily and lavender
rise, for a moment, and blend,
with a pale memory of their scents.
Great and grey, the river strides past,
great and grey, the moment slides past,
like a graceful line of wild geese.
Christina Egan © 2005
An early-spring impression in pale lilac and silvery grey. Bankside is the southern shore of the Thames in London.
Many years after I wrote those lines, I noticed the similarity with Turner’s mesmerising Nocturnes and renamed the text!
For a German poem depicting purple dusk see ostseeschlaflied (Darß).
Nocturne in Blue and Gold. Oil painting by J. A. M. Whistler, showing Battersea Bridge in London, ca. 1872-1875. Tate Gallery, London.
Kerzenbekrönt
Senkt sich die Dämmrung an frostigen Tagen
– früher denn jemals, doch zauberhaft blau –
hängt über stolzen gewölbten Mansarden,
hält über giebelgeschmückten Fassaden,
bannt aus dem Geiste das leidige Grau.
Stürzen Gestirne herab in Kaskaden
– feucht ist das Pflaster, doch goldengetönt –
spannen sich Perlen an Faden um Faden
blinkend und bebend von Laden zu Laden
bis an die Kirchtürme, kerzenbekrönt.
Christina Egan © 2016
This poem was inspired by a front page photograph of the superb newspaper Agora in Fulda, Germany, which I had folded over. Then I noticed that beneath the idyllic historical street lit up for Christmas, an industrial container had been inserted through photo montage: as a makeshift home for a refugee family. I felt I had to write a second poem, which you can find at Farbechte Hoffnung.
The street shown is Friedrichstraße, which gives you quite a good impression of past centuries, despite severe damage during the Second World War and ensuing changes. Fulda is quite good for midwinter holidays because of the Christmas Market, the nativity scenes in the churches, numerous festive events… and the snow in the mountains.
Remember November
Eight times the leaves have paled,
been plucked and swept away,
eight times the sun has waned
and steeped the days in grey;
eight times the loom of spring
has woven rainbow rugs,
eight times made blackbirds sing
between the bursting buds;
eight times the fruit has swelled
and, in its turn, the fog,
eight times the frost has quelled
the sap’s impatient throb –
Eight years my heart has found
its breath and path in you;
eight years it’s watched your mouth
for words as warm as true.
Christina Egan © 2005
This anniversary poem goes through the seasons, with a focus on autumn. You could change the title and the number of years if you want it for your own anniversary, perhaps even swap the lines, starting with spring.
Pluck the Day
Save time! Save time!
Spend time! Sell time!
Pile time, file time!
Fill time, kill time!
Live time…
leave time…
give time…
weave time.
Pluck the hour,
pluck the day,
golden-green or
silver-grey.
Pluck time…
peel time…
suck time…
feel time.
Christina Egan © 2009
This Silvery Sound
This silvery, surging, curling sound:
the whispering leaves
of the urban trees…
O listen, O listen and look around:
the silvery greens
like a dream of the seas…
And fading away as soon as found.
Christina Egan © 2018
Photographs: Christina Egan © 2016.
Rosenquarzkammern
Silberblech, angehaucht
Von allen Winden, schiefergrau
Und goldgekräuselt, rollt aus
Sich die See, bis sie
Des anderen Landes Füße berührt,
Die Türme der Stadt gegenüber.
Durch Rosenquarzkammern
Schimmert der sinkende Tagstern,
Reißt gleißend das Tor auf.
Den weißen Schiffen aber
Gleich menschentragenden Möwen
Folget das Auge hinaus,
Folget das Herz hinüber
Und wünschet sich Brücken,
Aus silbernen Fäden gesponnen,
Geknüpft über Wogen und Wald…
Christina Egan © 2017
This is the view onto the Öresund bridge which connects two countries, Denmark and Sweden, although it turns into a tunnel in the midst of the water, so that it seems to go under… The style of the poem is that of two hundred years ago, when such long bridges could not yet be constructed; the speaker only wishes for roads across, instead of the sea itself as a path.
I tried to convey the expansion of the elements and the symphony of grey, white, silver, golden, pink.
You can read English poems about a suspension bridges at On the Orange Bridge (San Francisco) and Tranquil Dragon (London).
Photograph of raw rose quarz by Ra’ike [GFDL or CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons.
Milder Mai
I.
In der weißen Marmorwanne
wartet schon ein warmes Bad:
So steht weiche Luft im Marktplatz,
füllt ihn bis zur feinsten Naht,
nimmt die Jacken von den Schultern,
von den Gliedern das Gewicht,
taucht das graue Reich des Nordens
in ein weingetöntes Licht.
II.
Wieder wuchert der Lavendel
halbwegs übern Gartenpfad,
birgt in prallen grünen Stengeln
seine süße lila Saat,
säumt die amethystnen Rispen
noch mit Lapislazuli,
jubiliert mit frischer Stimme
in der Sechsten Symphonie!
III.
Wieder naht die Sonnenwende,
milder, üppiger denn je;
niemals tat so wohl das Leben,
niemals tat es mir so weh.
Selbst die losen Rosenblätter
leuchten wie ein Wolkensaum…
Und ich pflanze unter Tränen
einen himmelblauen Baum.
Christina Egan © 2014
I was thinking of sunlight like golden wine, but it might also a dusk like rosé…
The blue-blossoming tree is a ceanothus; the Sixth Symphony is Beethoven’s Pastoral.
Lavender; ceanothus. Photographs: Christina Egan © 2016 /© 2017.
Weißer Schnee auf roten Rosen
Graue Gänse, grauer Himmel
Stumme Stämme um den Teich
Ungewohntes weißes Flimmern
Und ein Schimmern im Gesträuch
Weißer Schnee auf roten Rosen
Hingesunken über Nacht
Stengel von der Last gebogen
Späte Knospen überrascht
Weißer Schnee auf bunter Mütze
Und dein Lachen wie Gesang
Häherschrei von Tannenspitze
Glockenruf minutenlang
Weißer Schnee auf roten Rosen
Weißer Hauch auf rotem Mund
Ja, auch ich hab dich erlesen
Niemals tat ich es dir kund
Erster Schnee auf grauen Gänsen
Jede Flocke wie ein Stern
Weißer Schnee auf roten Rosen
Und ich weiß: Du hast mich gern
Christina Egan © 2017
White snow melting on red roses.
Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.
This is the second of two love songs which could stand alone or be sung by a woman and a man — from opposite ends of a stage or hall, though…
In White snow on white roses, the first person confesses she (or he) still secretly wishes they had got together a long time ago, and wonders if her friend feels the same.
In White snow on red roses, the second person reveals that he (or she), too, has longed for this relationship all along, but he never lets his friend know… not now either.
Each of them sings into the wind, into the snow… The ‘years that flew away’ like the wild geese in the first poem and the ‘late buds surprised’ by the snow in the second poem show that the pair are at a later stage of life.
Christina Egan 