red

unter der weide

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

unter der weide

I.

als das rundzelt
der weide
sich sachte
bauschte

als der pilgerzug
der pappeln
silbern
rauschte

als das erdreich
im abendrot
lag und
lauschte

als die stille
sprach
brach
mein herz

brach auf
wie eine kokosnuß
voll süßer milch
und weißem mark

II.

wer kostet
meine worte
wer liest
meine blicke

wer wartet
auf mich
unter der weide
im windhauch

wer wartet
mit mir
auf den neuen mond
auf den ersten stern

als wäre das morgen
noch möglich
als wäre das leben
noch herrlich

mein blick fing
die sternschnuppe
wer liest uns
ihre botschaft

III.

heu bedeckt
die krume
schweiß bedeckt
die haut

blumen
leuchten
nicht himmelblau
blauer als himmel

blumen
brennen
nicht feuerrot
röter als feuer

die trauerweide birgt
ein stummes gebet
meine arme wiegen
einen neuen traum

auf der stirne
trage ich
einen kuß
wie ein juwel

Christina Egan ©2021

Die Spur des Mars / The Trace of Mars

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Die Spur des Mars

Unbeirrbar rollt die Straße,
über Hügel, über Flüsse
schnurgerade hingebreitet
wie ein Strahl vom flammendroten
goldstückgroßen Himmelsboten:
Mars hat Rom hierhergeleitet.

Christina Egan ©2020

The Trace of Mars

Resolutely, the road rolls
over rivers, over hills,
laid out strangely straight and clear,
issued like a flaming ray
from the gold coin in the sky:
It is Mars that led Rome here.

Christina Egan ©2020

As ever, the first poem of the year admires the roads of the Romans. At Cassel in the north of France, you can see them radiate from a hill and run entirely straight, regardless of the landscape. They served very well to transport people, goods, and ideas, but were first of all laid to occupy and exploit regions. Mars in the poem above stands for war and aggression but also for courage and strength.

The Red Helicopter (Tottenham)

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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.

Brief Encounter (II/III)

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Brief Encounter (II/III)


Out of the sea,
out of thick mist, a reddish
disc rose: the sun on a wilful day.
It was around solstice, but it would not
bring enough light, nor enough heat.


It tasted like honey, hazelnut cream,
like the unbearable sweetness of a rose
you can feel on your tongue, it tasted
like grapes, a whole bowl full,
 or it might have.

Christina Egan ©2024

Poem about a red fish in dark water in the shape of a fish, in red print on dark background.

Visual poetry: Brief Encounter (I).
Text and design: Christina Egan ©2024.

Brief Encounter (I)

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Brief Encounter (I)


Tiny
and arched
was the bridge,
of gleaming green
wood, between leaves
of palm-trees, lush, polished,
larger than a new-born child.
Through the muddy water
underneath, something
slid by, slid through:
a blood-red
carp. I was
startled,
I was struck.
A fish like a flame.

Christina Egan ©2024

Bright red koi fish coming out from underneath curved green bridge across pond

Photograph: Christina Egan ©2013

Thirst (I’m drawn to you by magnets)

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Thirst

I.

I’m drawn to you by magnets,
I’m driven, drained with thirst –
yet later I’ll be grateful
that nothing happened first,

that I have always loved you
because you are yourself,
and not because you know me
or kissed me once in stealth.

II.

It is as if these vessels,
these smooth and sparkling words,
whose hollow space entices,
reflects, rejects and hurts,

got filled with blood-red spirit
of strong reality:
Desire. Joy. Surrender.
Embrace. Eternity.

Christina Egan © 2004

Purple Wine

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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.

Large flat flower in white and purple, with long purple stem, small orange fruit, shiny green leaves.

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.

The Path of Luck

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

The Path of Luck

The burnished desk of the leader groaned
under the slap of his sturdy sandal:
he brandished it over the map of Europe,
as if he signed it, large, from the left.
Roman mosaic of bottle and cupThe oil-lamp flickered, the officers frowned
and grinned and raised their cups of spiced wine:
“Don’t forge your luck while it’s hot and supple —
but fan your fate when you will it so!”
The earth would unroll like a scarlet carpet,
lavish her treasures before his feet:
the gold and the purple, sandalwood, snakeskin,
the pearl and the laurel, the wine from volcanoes.
His sandals mounting the snow-white steps,
he saw and saw not the pool of blood.

Christina Egan © 2008

Massive smooth column with Latin inscription, including the name 'Caesar', against deep-blue sky.

 

Altae moenia Romae

Rome rose, looked round, and conquered all,
on loot and lies loomed square and tall,
and slowly crumbled towards its fall.
Time’s march defies the highest wall.

Christina Egan © 2008

 

High wall of neatly piled stone and brick in the midst of the city

The first poem was written on the Ides of March and the second soon after. They reveal the dark side of Rome, the shadow of the imperial propaganda that the Empire had brought universal peace. Caesar is still celebrated as the greatest statesman ever; but he got to the top, and lifted Rome to the top, at a very great human cost.

For praise of ancient Rome, go to the narrative poem The City Lit Up about Roman London and the sonnets at The Hallowed City about the Eternal City itself.

The poem above follows the structure of an English sonnet, with three times four lines and then two in the end, with a conclusion or twist.

Illustrations: Roman mosaic, Bardo Museum, Tunis. Photograph: Christina Egan © 2014. — Milestone, Campidoglio, Rome. Photograph by Lalupa. — Roman city wall of London. Photograph by Mariordo (Mario Roberto Durán Ortiz) (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons.

Erdbeerlaub

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Erdbeerlaub

Sunset over English suburb: clear pale sky with one rack of red clouds above the roofs.Nach hartem Tag die stille Stunde.
Ins Gras gewaschen ist der Staub,
und ringsherum glühn rote Punkte
im wildgewordnen Erdbeerlaub.

Das Erdreich duftet nach dem Regen;
am Himmel schwebt ein roter Streif.
Wie oft doch überrascht das Leben
uns überreich und überreif!

Tall brick chimney with blackbird sitting on top.Ein jedes Walderdbeerchen leuchtet
noch einmal auf, bevor es birst
und meine Zunge süß befeuchtet…
Die Amsel flötet auf dem First.

Christina Egan © 2018

Photographs: Christina Egan © 2018.

La table jaune

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

La table jaune

La table jaune limpide,
couleur de tournesol,
Table surface of bright yellow mosaic, with café chairs on the grass, sunlit.m’invite dans l’oasis
au cœur des plaines arides,
parmi palmiers et roses
en fleur sans fin, sans pause :
il met l’esprit au vol
vers les sommets saphir,
vers le soleil couchant,
mais fort même au nadir…

La table tournesol
est un tapis volant !
Mais il me manque le mot
qui le transforme, le pose
carrément aux epaules
des vents comme un radeau…
Ô table jaune et rouge,
écoute-moi et bouge,
transporte-moi aux flots
de l’air vers l’horizon !

Christina Egan © 2016

The yellow table in the oasis becomes a flying carpet: it lifts the mind up towards the high mountains. Yet, to lift the body up also, it requires a password, and we do not have it!

The rose garden is set in a country where the sun is strong even towards evening or in midwinter, and where roses are always in blossom in abundance: I found it in Morocco.

Photograph: Roadside café in Morocco in midwinter. Christina Egan © 2012.