villages

Die Steine sprechen

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Die Steine sprechen

Swallowtail butterfly, cream-coloured with graceful pattern in sky-blue and burnt-orange, on a flower in burnt-orange.Die Steine künden von der jungen Braut
im dunklen buntbestickten Sonntagsstaat,
die strahlend auf die alte Schwelle trat,
und von dem Schwalbenschwanz im hohen Kraut.
Die Höfe sind auf karges Land gebaut,
wo zwischen Weizenfeld und Waldesrand
schon vor Jahrtausenden ein Flecken stand.
Die Steine sprechen, und sie sprechen laut.
Die Kannen klappern, und der Wagen knarrt,
die Gänse schnattern, und das Zugpferd scharrt.
Mit Engelsstimme schallt die Glocke hin.
Das Spinnrad schnurrt; am Brunnen seufzt der Wind;
am Feuer schreit der Bäuerin zehntes Kind.
Die Steine sprechen; hörst du aber hin?

Christina Egan © 2017

Bullfinch couple on wintry twigs; deep-blue tails and heads, the male with a bright-red breast.

 

This sonnet is dedicated to the farmers Maria Gutermuth and Paul Jordan, whose tenth child (not the last one) was my grandmother. I can only imagine this type of peasant life from books and pictures, but my father witnessed the very last of it.

In my great-grandparents’ village Dalherda in the Rhön mountains, where harsh conditions of soil and weather prevented prosperity through agriculture, the inhabitants had excelled at two particular crafts, carving wooden utensils and breeding bullfinches as songbirds.

Photographs: Swallowtail Butterfly (German name: ‘Schwalbenschwanz’). By Werner Pichler (Vom Autor) [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons (Featured picture). – Bullfinch couple (German name: ‘Dompfaff’ or ‘Blutfink’.) By Ἀστερίσκος (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ashen Land (For Syria)

~ Christina Egan ~ Leave a comment

Ashen Land
(For Syria)

The only offspring left calls from the eaves.
Some houses have a hundred hollow wounds,
and hamlets of a dozen centuries
surrender to contending winds their rooms.

The olive-trees stretch out their silver leaves
like angels’ feathers in a cry for peace.
Where is the comfort for a bird that grieves,
the peace for ashen land? Is it beneath?

It is beneath the nettles and the shards,
beneath the venom seeped into the field;
it is above the silver heaps of stars,
a seed of unimaginable yield.

Christina Egan © 2016

Olive grove, trunks and tree-tops silvery grey, like ashes.Photograph: ‘Olivenbäume in Umbrien’ by Adrian Michael.

I found this marvellous illustration on Wikimedia Commons long after I wrote the poem. I had not even thought of the silver bark and leaves resembling ashes…

In the past few years, millions of Syrians have lost their homes and possessions, or their jobs or studies, or their health or their limbs, or their loved ones or their own lives. The national liberation movement has turned into an apparently bottomless civil war, a literally insane religious war, and a vicarious war of outside powers. This conflict will change the face of the Near East and the face of Europe. Meanwhile, the suffering continues.

Let us pray for peace in Syria. All together.