This is my
fourth (kind of) annual Christmas Poem post. I never got around to writing one
last year You can read the others here:
And on a
related note, last year’s Christmas Carol post.
Other posts
on Christmas:
***
Let’s get
things started with this jem from the incomparable Emily Dickinson, one of my favorite poets. Few poets
can capture the details of nature in such brilliant fashion, and this poem
exhibits her talent at its best. Most of my life, I have lived in places
without show (well, except for that freak storm in 1999…), but I remember those few
years living in the mountains with fondness. (And we still go places with snow,
of course.) See if this poem doesn’t bring to life the amazing reality of a
fresh snowfall.
It sifts from Leaden Sieves -
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road -
It makes an even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain -
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again -
It reaches to the Fence -
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces -
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack - and Stem -
A Summer’s empty Room -
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them -
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen -
Then stills it’s Artisans - like Ghosts
-
Denying they have been -
A hike in the woods during a snowstorm.
Sequoia National Park, May 2019
This next
poem was one I discovered just a few months ago, while reading the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay. That whole
collection was a revelation, and rapidly became one of my favorite
volumes.
Millay wasn’t
particularly religious, but wrote on religious themes. This one really hit home
for me, where Christmas is everywhere and in one’s face, but little of Christ
can be seen, particularly from those who speak his name the loudest. Christ has
become a prop, an idol to be used to justify cruelty and hate.
The sonnet
form is used to perfect effect by Millay. The first quatrain encapsulates the
commercialism contrasting with the reality of the first Christmas. The second
is a snapshot of the fake religiosity that ignores the gospel. I can’t decide
if the preacher is part of the problem or just ignored. “Honey and steel”
certainly seems like the worst of professional preachers. The shift then occurs
in line nine, as it should. The two tercets present the devastating reality.
Nobody listens; the words mean less than the wind. Christ is in effect, dead,
as he has had no effect. It’s not very optimistic, to say the least. But it
sure fits our own times.
To Jesus on His Birthday
For this your mother sweated in the
cold,
For this you bled upon the bitter tree:
A paper wreath; a day at home for me.
The merry bells ring out, the people
kneel;
Up goes the man of God before the
crowd;
With voice of honey and with eyes of
steel
He drones your humble gospel to the
proud.
Are all your words to us you died to
save.
O Prince of Peace! O Sharon's dewy
Rose!
How mute you lie within your vaulted grave.
Is back upon your mouth these thousand
years.
This next
poem is an excerpt from a longer poem. A MUCH longer poem. As in, about two
thirds the size of Paradise Lost. I haven’t read the whole thing yet,
but now I really want to. This particular part really spoke to me. W. H. Auden paints such a realistic picture of the
post-Christmas experience. I can’t even decide what I like best. Maybe the “we
have seen the actual Vision and failed / To do more than entertain it as
an agreeable / Possibility” line? Or the part about going back to materialistic
assumptions? Or perhaps the last few lines. Hot dang, those are good. This is
just a great poem, any way you slice it.
Excerpt from For the Time Being
Well, so that is that. Now we must
dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their
cardboard boxes –
Some have got broken – and carrying
them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be
taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school.
There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the
rest of the week –
Not that we have much appetite, having
drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted – quite
unsuccessfully –
To love all of our relatives, and in
general
Grossly overestimated our powers. Once
again
As in previous years we have seen the
actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an
agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent
Him away,
Begging though to remain His
disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His
word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading
memory,
And already the mind begins to be
vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension
at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot,
after all, now
Be very far off. But, for the time
being, here we all are,
Back in the moderate Aristotelian city
Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where
Euclid's geometry
And Newton's mechanics would account
for our experience,
And the kitchen table exists because I
scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the
holidays. The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered;
we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this.
To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however
incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most
trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered
so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew
the presents to be
Grew up when it opened. Now,
recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt
remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once
in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was
an It.
I’m going to
call my choice of four poems a tradition. Hey, four years is enough to make a
tradition, right? I’ll end with Paul Laurence Dunbar. After the kind of bitter taste of
the two preceding poems, Dunbar’s exuberance and joy is refreshing. This,
despite living in less-than-ideal circumstances. (Despite his education and
obvious talent, he had to work as an elevator operator most of his life - Jim
Crow and racism in action.) This is the ultimate hope of Christmas - that one
day, all will be restored, healed, and made new. Ring out, ye bells
indeed!
Christmas Carol
Ring out, ye bells!
All Nature swells
With gladness at the wondrous story,—
The world was lorn,
But Christ is born
To change our sadness into glory.
Sing, earthlings,
sing!
To-night a King
Hath come from heaven's high throne to
bless us.
The outstretched hand
O'er all the land
Is raised in pity to caress us.
Come at his call;
Be joyful all;
Away with mourning and with sadness!
The heavenly choir
With holy fire
Their voices raise in songs of
gladness.
The darkness breaks
And Dawn awakes,
Her cheeks suffused with youthful
blushes.
The rocks and stones
In holy tones
Are singing sweeter than the thrushes.
Then why should we
In silence be,
When Nature lends her voice to praises;
When heaven and earth
Proclaim the truth
Of Him for whom that lone star blazes?
No, be not still,
But with a will
Strike all your harps and set them
ringing;
On hill and heath
Let every breath
Throw all its power into singing!
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