The Purple Grape
The purple grape,
soaked with a whole summer,
bears more than sweetness in it:
secret sparks
which will burst on your tongue,
which will rise like fire
to your temples, your wrists.
The purple grape’s flesh,
crushed, filtered, fermented,
harbours a truth,
a dark and dense
and undiscovered truth,
a relentless ruler.
Find dreams flipping over
into life, find sun
running through your veins,
find the more
you were made for.
Christina Egan © 2006
Three Weeds
(August Tanka)
I.
Tall weed in the crack,
its flowers like little suns,
its shadow of ink.
The proud weed and its shadow,
its echo: beauty enough.
II.
Cushion by the path,
tiny purple trefoil leaves
embroidered with stars.
The drought has tinted the green,
drawn up the blood of the earth.
III.
The dandelion
bursting from between the slabs,
yellow, pure yellow.
This brief bright blossom calls out,
clear like brass, like a tuba.
IV.
Three weeds I noticed
finely stitched onto the stone,
shreds of tapestry.
Three weeds I noticed today
and how many did I not?
Christina Egan © 2018
Observations from the great heat and drought of summer 2018. If only we took the time to see, to listen, to feel…
Unplanned addition to the garden. – Photographs: Christina Egan © 2020.
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
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.
Durch uns durch
Der Baum des Lebens spannt sich himmelweit,
um uns herum und durch uns durch verzweigt.
Verwandt, verflochten sind wir,– Wirklichkeit,
die unterm windgepeitschten Widerstreit
niemand mehr wahrnimmt, niemand mehr bezeugt.
Die Menschenchronik spricht von Krieg und schweigt
von tiefverwurzelter Verbundenheit;
der mondenhelle Engelskodex schreibt
in Purpurlettern für die Ewigkeit
von durch und durch verwobner Menschenzeit.
Christina Egan © 2018
Codex Aureus of Lorsch, written around 810 AD in inks containing real gold or purple. Photograph: Wikimedia Commons.
The Letter that was Never Sent
It was of solid purple paper,
set out in blocks of golden ink,
an extract from a pagan gospel:
the letter that was never sent,
the letter that was never written,
but golden breathed in someone’s brain
and purple ran in someone’s veins –
the letter that was dreamt in vain.
Christina Egan © 2012
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.
Die vierte Frucht
Vier Früchte blieben uns vom Paradiese
auf unsrer langen Wüstenwanderung,
auf daß durch sie die Kraft des Ursprungs fließe
in tausendfacher Anverwandelung:
Die Liebe lädt in saftigblauer Traube;
die Hoffnung duftet warm wie goldnes Brot;
in bittersüßem Grün neigt sich der Glaube;
die Freude aber lächelt sonnenrot.
Christina Egan © 2018
Für Sr. Caterina von der Freude in Gott
The four fruits of paradise, an idea I was inspired to by the three Christian chief virtues — faith, hope, love — to which I added joy, another gift or virtue promoted by the same stern author, St Paul.
“Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice”.
Phil. 4,4
Love is envisaged as a blue or purple fruit, hope as a yellow one (or a loaf of bread), faith as a green fruit (possibly tasting bitter) and joy as a red or orange one… hopefully all sweet! The colours of the rainbow exist for our nourishment.
Photograph: Oranges in midwinter, in Morocco. Christina Egan © 2012.
Wer schaut
Wer schaut,
sieht, wie die seltenen Wolken ziehen,
über die Firste entfliehen,
und dann, wie der Himmel blaut.
Bloß blaut.
Wer lauscht,
hört die stumme Amsel
das heiße trockene Gras durchstreifen
und den seltenen Wind sich erheben,
wie er die blühenden Büsche bauscht.
Wer lauscht,
hört die Schwalben pfeifen
und weiß, daß die Heiterkeit
noch eine Zeit bleibt
vor dem Herbst.
Wer schaut,
sieht die Blaubeeren reifen
im selben sommersatten Rotviolett
wie das ragende Eisenkraut…
und auf dem matten Blaubeerlaub
den winzigen flatternden Schatten
und dann den wolkenweißen
Schmetterling selbst.
Wer lauscht,
schweigt
in ein leuchtendes Schweigen hinein.
Wer schaut,
begreift
und darf sein.
Christina Egan © 2018
Photographs: Christina Egan © 2013 (butterflies) / © 2014 (garden).
Lilac and Lime
It is coming at last! With the singing wood
of luminous lutes, with trumpets and drums,
in garments and feathers of lilac and lime,
of honey and rose, with stately stride,
with canter and caper, the pageant of summer
is wending its way and filling the valley
with birds and butterflies, blossom and breeze.
Christina Egan © 2008
For a German poem about the pageant of summer, see geh aus mein herz.
Photographs: Christina Egan © 2013 / © 2014.
By the River I was sitting
By the River I was sitting
Watching barges floating by
Like the clouds so full of promise
In the blue and burning sky
Bearing jewels, bearing silver
From the mountains crowned with snow
Bearing spices, sweet and fiery
From the jungles down below
By the River I was waiting
For a boat to pick me up
Till the oars were folded inward
And the city-gates were shut
On my roof-top I was watching
Night like lapis-lazuli
While the stars were slowly rolling
Round the tiny lonely me
By Two Rivers I was dwelling
In a house of golden bricks
In my dress of snow and silver
Waving to intrepid ships
When the stars had come full circle
Strangers broke my city-gate
And my boat lay by the palm-trees
Finest date-wine was its freight
And it flew against the current
And it floated with the storm
Till I climbed the purple mountains
Where the River Twins are born
Christina Egan © 2011
This song of the woman by the river is taken
from my stage play The Bricks of Ur (© 2011).
Place: City of Ur, Mesopotamia — Time: 2000 B.C.
Photograph: Assyrian jar (9th to 7th c. BC).
© The Trustees of the British Museum.
Christina Egan 