Burgberg

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)

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Au milieu de la vie

Au milieu de la vie

Two large poppies almost touching, looking like goblets filled with sunlight.On s’est trouvé en Messidor,
toujours en pleine jeunesse;
on s’épousé sous chutes d’or
avec une folle tendresse;

on a franchi brouillard, chaleur,
tempête et sécheresse.

On est toujours en Fervidor,
en pleine abondance,
comme s’il y avait de l’avenir,
toujours rempli de chances…
On entrera le Fructidor
toujours en pleine danse!

Christina Egan © 2013


This poem uses the terms of the French Revolutionary Calendar, which were created by a poet; the names of the summer months evoke heat and harvest.

The couple have met in the midsummer of their lives, got married a little later, and are now going through late summer — still dancing!

Not only according to numbers are they “in the middle of life”: they are in the midst of things, and they live more intensely than in their youth.

Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.

The Mooness Grows / Die Mondin rollt

The Mooness Grows

The Mooness grows: she’s almost round.
She steps out of a wooded mound.
She knows:
The sea will swell, the sap will well,
a thousand creatures will give birth.
The earth
is restless, waiting for Queen Moon
and for King Sun to round her girth,
her life.
The fruit is red, the fruit is ripe.
The Mooness strews her silent spell:
She glows.

Christina Egan © 2016


Die Mondin rollt

Die Mondin rollt, ein Bronzegong,
vom vielgezackten Horizont
das königsblaue Rund empor.
Ihr hoheitsvoller Ruf erschallt,
bis alles bebend widerhallt
in Stein und Blatt, in Bein und Ohr.

Noch einmal steigt, noch einmal loht
nach Mittagsglut und Abendrot
des vollen Sommers Vollmondschein.
Der Bronzegong um Mitternacht
hat neues Leben angefacht
in Ohr und Bein, in Blatt und Stein.

Christina Egan © 2016


These two poems about the ‘Mooness’ are very similar (and written at the same time) but not translations of each other.

In Greek and Latin, the moon is linguistically and mythologically female, and we should have such a word in English and German.

As a woman, I feel instinctively related to the powerful moon and all life cycles — irrespective of reproductive capacity or activity.

Under the Blue Bloom of the Tree

Under the Blue Bloom of the Tree

Under the blue bloom of the tree,
O little mouse, I buried thee.
I heard thee often run until
I saw thee lying, small and still.
So high the sky, so late the light
ascending to midsummernight…
The deep warm earth is now thy bed,
with snow-white petals for a spread.
Fresh spikes of lavender I chose
and last, a minuscule red rose.
Tonight, the ceanothus tree
will scatter sky-blue dust on thee.

Christina Egan © 2017

White and coloured petals on the ground, beneath ceanothus and carnation.

The mouse grave in the poem. Photograph: Christina Egan © 2017.

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

 

As Limpid as the Moon / Alabasterschale

As Limpid as the Moon

Some people are as luminous,
as limpid as the moon:
with truthfulness amidst the lies
or happiness in gloom.

They float and glow across the road
or mesmerise a room;
they never fade, and when they’ve died,
they leave a shining tomb.

Christina Egan © 2016


Alabasterschale

Überm schwarzen Heer der Bäume,
überm grauen Heer der Gräber
ruft durch dunkelblaue Räume
eine Glocke unbeirrt.
Balanciert auf spitzem Pfahle,
schimmert ferne feingeädert
eine Alabasterschale:
fremdes riesiges Gestirn.

Überm schwarzen Heer der Bäume,
blätterlos und blütenträchtig,
überm grauen Heer der Steine
lädt die Glocke zum Gebet.
Überm hingestreckten Tale
steigt gemessen, schlicht und prächtig,
jene Alabasterschale,
bis sich uns das Herz erhebt.

Christina Egan © 2017


As Limpid as the Moon remembers my radiant parents-in-law.

Alabasterschale compares the full moon to a bowl of alabaster; the scene is the vast old Tottenham Cemetery in London. The poem integrates awe before Nature and faith in God (as worshipped in church etc.).

This text will be printed in the Münsterschwarzacher Bildkalender 2019.

Ex tenebris (The day is like a daffodil)

Ex tenebris

The day is like a daffodil. Yet
the green garland of the garden,
the golden garland of the sunset
cannot dispel the dark of the depth.

On the crests of the hills,
tiny blue brushstrokes,
you can watch them wander,
the deceased and the unborn.

My heart is a fist in my chest.
My tears are grapes of glass.
No one sees them: no one sees me.
I am alone with the angels.

Christina Egan © 2017

Daffodils and narcissus growing thickly around a fivefold gnarled treetrunk.Photograph: Christina Egan © 2013.