shadows

Three Weeds

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Three Weeds

(August Tanka)

Small flowering weed coming out of a crack between concrete surfaces.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.

Tiny weeds coming out of cracks, with their shadows.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,
Dandelion and other weeds coming out of cracks.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 Graben

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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.

Bloomsbury, on the Ides of May

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Bloomsbury, on the Ides of May

I will remember: it was on the Ides of May,
the light was lingering late, still bright behind
the fading curtains of clouds, ready to burst
into colourful banners; so were the buds in the parks.
Short were the shades of the columns and those of the crowds
ceaselessly weaving around the corners of concrete.
I will remember the weary assembly of tombstones,
too weathered to count as a witness, the lime-green life
pushing out from the cracks, the benches eager for laughter,
Edge of tomb, with weeds outside and insidethe birds’ unheeded, untiring, Vespers to God.
See: I lay down the unspoken secret in verse.

Christina Egan © 2007

 

 

Photograph (taken in Tottenham
in July): Christina Egan © 2013.

Burgberg

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Burgberg

I.

Aus dem Nebel tauchen Mauern, scharlachumrankt –
ein Hauch auf der Haut, ein Traum gegen Morgen.

Der Burgberg, ein Eswareinmal,
das sich eine Auferstehung ertrotzt.

Deine Stimme, eine schwingende Brücke,
golden und lockend und unbetretbar.

Dein Gesicht, von den Jahren klarer geschnitzt,
das ich lesen will, lange, wie deine Stadt –

II.

Und wieder Laubhaufen, knöchelhoch, kniehoch,
Nebelschwaden, als wanderte man durch Wolken.

Dem ungreifbaren Weiß enttaucht ein Spitzbogen,
ein Tor: Es führt nirgendwohin.

Der neben einem geht, mit einem redet,
bleibt schemenhaft. Vielleicht ist er ein Traum.

Und wieder November. Dreißig Sommer
entblätterten sich in den Wind, in den Wind.

Christina Egan © 2001 (I) / 2017 (II)

Sonnenuhrzeiger / Sundial Garden

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Sonnenuhrzeiger

Die Sonne gleißt auf grüner Flur:
Ein jeder wird zur Sonnenuhr.
Der Schattenmensch liegt lang im Gras,
der Abend schrumpft in gleichem Maß.

Die hingestreute Sternenzier
ist mürbes Laub wie Packpapier.
Die weißen Blumen tanzen stumm
um einen dicken Stamm herum.

O trink das Licht mit Haut und Haar:
Noch ist der Himmel hoch und klar!
O trink das Licht mit Aug und Sinn:
Es liegt die Kraft des Alls darin.

Christina Egan © 2016

Top of wall covered with lichen and tree with patchy bark, mirroring each other.

Sundial Garden

The sun will gain ground,
conquer inches of lichen,
of leaves and of lawn.
Across the square garden creeps
the shade of the steep gable.

Christina Egan © 2005

In these poems, a whole gardens turns into a sundial: in the first one, each person in the park is a sundial hand, and in the second, a house with a pointed roof fulfils this function, casting its shadow over a north-facing yard.

The first poem is set in late summer or autumn and in the late afternoon or evening, the second one in late winter or spring and possibly in the morning. The yearly and daily descent of the light is as inevitable as its subsequent rise.

Photograph: Christina Egan © 2016.

A Window will be Thrust Open

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A Window will be Thrust Open

A window will be thrust open
where you forgot there was one,
a glow as of noon will be thrown
over your working hands, over your tired face.

You will look into the mirror
and find upon yourself the gaze of an absent one,
you will look into the eyes of a stranger
and find there your face as if steeped in sunset.

halkett_1938_ohnetitelYou will run down the road
to overtake your shadow,
you will push through all your doubts
to hold that hand, to clasp it tight.

Christina Egan © 2003

 

No title. René Halkett (1938).
Image with kind permission
of Galerie Klaus Spermann.

House of Books

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Drawing of the mechanics of a loom (yarn on rolls, without the frame)House of Books
(British Library)

On the grey carpet,
grey shapes intersect,
shadows of shoulders,
of hands, of heads:
minds overlapping
for a moment.

From the white walls,
rapid shuttles ricochet,
shiny yarns interweave:
Very large bookcase with foldable desk surface and chained volumes (drawing)threads of voice,
trains of thought,
embroidering the air.

Built of a million bricks
glowing at the ashen junction
is the House of Books;
built of a million minds
is the fabric of the pages,
of the screens, of the scrolls.

Christina Egan © 2017

Illustrations of Loom and
Bookcase from the Wikimedia