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
illness
Silent Roads
Silent Roads
(Pandemic)
limpid morning
liquid noon
falling stars and
swelling moon
roaming foxes
flitting bats
passing faces
passing steps
real colours
newborn light
flowing hours
breathing tide
sweeping herons
floating boats
swelling meadows
silent roads
real flavour
real sound
real labour
on the ground
nimble hands and
muddy boots
curling vines and
twisting roots
real treasures
on your spade
real colours
on your plate
real paper
flowing ink
time to wake and
time to think
time to sleep and
time to slow
time to weep and
time to grow
time to rise and
to rejoice
time to hoist your
real voice
Christina Egan © 2020
While London closed down to protect itself from the 2020 coronavirus, I was cut off from my job and from the internet for a while. (This blog ran on as pre-scheduled.)
I was very fortunate to spend many hours outdoors, working in my garden or walking under the countless trees and along the hidden rivers of London, and through the suburban roads, cleared at last of traffic and crowds. Spring brought splendid sunshine, as if it were already high summer.
There was time. There was air. There was life. For many who were not ill or caring for those who were ill, this must have been one of the best times of their life.
Tottenham Marshes / Tottenham Cemetery. Photographs: Christina Egan © 2020.
Der Graben
Der Graben
Meine Kraft sinkt wie der Sand
durch das Sieb der Müdigkeit…
Zum Zerbrechen angespannt
schwankt mein langgeschwächter Leib.
Her springt niemand, denn ich zwinge
knapp mich von des Grabens Rand,
eh’ er meinen Schritt verschlinge,–
meine Not bleibt unbekannt.
Unbenannt bleibt meine Fehde
mit dem trüben Grabeshauch:
Die Gesellschaft scheut die Rede
von des Giftes stummem Lauf.
Auch mein Mut sinkt wie der Sand
durch das Sieb der Müdigkeit…
Schreite ich durchs Schattenland
ungelebter Lebenszeit.
Christina Egan © 2018
This elegy could be about drugs or
medical drugs – or toxic substances
in the environment.
I hold that with all our ‘progress’, we
are gradually poisoning ourselves:
a cruel collective suicide.
An Average Life / And All My Youth
An Average Life
The admiral butterfly
a map of happiness
on the burnished green
of the ivy in May
its glamour
its poise
its place in the sun
imagine you had it
bright as a bracelet
fine as a feather
strong as a storm
imagine you were it
and you practised your movements
studied your speeches
turned up in good time –
and your part has been cancelled
the play goes ahead
with you as a servant
in black in the background
required to smile.
Christina Egan © 2010
And all my youth I have been old
Amidst the wealth of my existence
I suffer hunger dark and cold
I am invisibly imprisoned
and all my youth I have been old
On narrow shoulders I must carry
my illness like an awkward cross
I am inexorably burdened
by frailty and its offspring loss
Christina Egan © 2010
Christina Egan 