Christmas Poems
 

I don't remember there being too many Christmas poems on the Sphere last year and I haven't seen any this year - your folders must be bulging with them. Hallmark verses particularly welcome. Like this one:


CHRISTMAS SHIPS

They stand off Margate, saving mooring fees -
sometimes three dozen wait. From close to shore
a Polish coaler smokes, and on the breeze
a carol’s whistled from a galley door.

Against a darkening horizon, tramps
and super-tankers waiting for a berth
light Christmas trees high up on masts, with lamps
to beacon peace at sea, and peace on earth.

Holly, that's rather nice. I can see and hear all of it!

Kevin

Rhina Espaillat has a lovely one about trimming the tree alone--I'll go hunt for it. Perhaps someone else will find it before I do....

I realize this is D&A, and the call is for our own Christmas poems, but we've also done this theme on Mastery. I'll hunt for the links and put them here.

And while I'm at it, here's a link to Anna George Meek's "An Old Man Performs Alchemy on His Doorstep at Christmastime."

Multicultual Season's Greetings

Have a happy Hanukkah;
may Bodhi Day be bright,
Al Hijra bring you joy,
and Kwanzaa give delight;

a joyful Eastern Orthodox
Nativity to you!
Are there any I forgot?
Oops! Merry Christmas too!

Heilige Nacht

A broken tank stands sentinel before
the salient where Rundstedt’s soldiers tried
to force a passage as their army died
that bitter Christmas, 1944.
By then they knew they couldn’t win the war
but fought to thrust their enemy aside—
for comrades, or obedience, or pride—
and, failing, knew they could have done no more.

Did the Child, who all those years ago
was born in hope, now look on in despair?
Perhaps, though I believe it was not so.
My thoughts return to lonely valleys where
the human spirit suffered in the snow
but still endured. It stood unbroken there.

HAPPY HOLIDAY

The holidays go by so fast,
  almost supersonic or
at the speed that light zooms past,
  Christmas, Kwanza, Hannukah,

so whether you believe or not
  in Macabee or Santa,
why not give it all you got
  and join the rhyming banter?

Quick, be witty, don't delay!
  You know we'd all adore a
dashed-off verse by New Year's Day
  when every last menorah

along with every Christmas tree
  must go back into hiding.
Thus ends this lame-ass poem by me
  to wish you all good tiding.

The one day of Christmas

I have reached the age where all is good cheer ...
though the hustle and chiming, each hard sell,
all conspire against my Little Lent,
the hushed waiting that begins the Church year.
And that's just fine. "Merry Christmas," I tell
them, biting my tongue that it was John sent

to shout repentance, make straight the disused
road that leads to beneath the star, our Light,
and His solemn promise. Yes, Anna's joy,
the sweet relief to Simeon's aroused
and aching--ancient--expectation, bright
herald of our salvation is this boy.

So I wait until Christmas, the one day
when I seem in sync with the rushing world.
And I celebrate, before the still green
trees get tossed in a gutter and the sway
of our delight turns to champagne and hurled
confetti, weak resolve, simple routine...

Wonderful stuff. I especially like Holly's and David's.

Holly's poem is not remotely Hallmark, of course.
A touch of Larkin in the loneliness of the North Sea, but the human warmth carries the author's unique voice.

This poem appeared in the recent Think Journal. I'm assuming they won't mind if I post it here.


NATIVITY SCENE

She has no privacy, but doesn't mind
since everything is upside-down today.
Even the cow is unsurprised to find
a useless infant in the useful hay.

For shepherds on the hills, a filigree
quartet of angels dances in the sky.
Painters will love this story. They can see
unbodied beings with an artist's eye.

For most of us our death will cancel birth --
who cares how popes and presidents are born?
But now three kings adore on Middle Earth
a wonder that exceeds the unicorn.

Nothing is changed, yet everything is new:
Some stories look so strange they might be true.

Wow, guys, good stuff--laugh and cry!

I workshopped this last year and it ran in my local paper Christmas 2008.

A Christmas Story

The air inside the kitchen looked like smog,
it hovered near the ceiling thick and brown.
The Christmas goose in flames--a burning log
that my brother, acting quickly, tried to drown.

He grabbed a glass of what he thought was tea
but it wasn’t; it was brandy—hundred proof!
I grabbed it, but he yanked it back from me,
A slosh escaped the rim; I heard a POOF

and saw a bright blue flare above the bird,
a fireball that singed his hairy arm.
He let loose with a string of dirty words,
much louder than the blaring smoke alarm.

He knocked the paper towels into the pan,
onto the single flicker that remained,
his hurry to the sink began to fan
the fire that refused to be contained.

The burning pieces rose into the air,
then rained back down like hot volcanic ash.
I watched a piece ignite in grandma’s hair.
(I didn’t see the one that found the trash.)

My brother grabbed the sprayer and took aim,
cause Grandma didn’t know that she was smokin’.
About the time my brother yelled her name,
he discovered that the stupid thing was broken.

That’s when Uncle Charlie smacked her on her head
with a soggy paper plate of chips and dip,
and Grandma fell. At first I thought, she’s dead,
but she moved and offered up her hand to grip.

We helped her stand then wiped away the mess
still clinging to her from the salsa bath.
Her quiet dignity was nothing less
than miraculous. We waited for her wrath.

But then my son screamed out, call 9-1-1!
I turned and saw the trashcan was ablaze.
Then everybody really came undone,
and the kitchen quickly filled with choking haze.

Pale smoke and people poured out through the door.
Out on the lawn, we watched the fire grow,
and saw the windows on the second floor
explode. Then Grandma spoke: “Well, ho, ho, ho!

You had to go and have our Christmas here,
and thought that you could pull it off, to boot.
You think you know my recipe, my dear?
Heck, you don’t have a clue, ain’t that a hoot.

How do you think I coped the times before?
I didn’t pour the brandy on the food.
I drank my way through holidays galore,
and never let my house get barbequed!”

Christmas Poems
 

An early message of New Year's Goodwill to all --

SEASON’S GREETINGS, 2ND JANUARY


A Pox on the Christmas Spirit,
and Humbug to Seasonal Cheer
which lasted a week in December
and died with the bells of New Year.

Now pine needles clog up the Hoover
and problems pile up by the yard,
for Good Wishes were only transient things,
whatever it said on the card.

A Tunnel of Fun
 

Merry Christmas, Eurostar!
What a comic lot you are!
Just because it starts to snow
All your engines cease to go! :D

Holly, you might try my Christmas offering on metrical...

I adored the Beverley Sisters, Peter. Babs was my favourite.

I've got a Christmas poem that is going to appear in Lucid Rhythms shortly. Besides that, there's this:


Yuletide

It's Christmastime inside the shopping mall:
It's etched upon each visage like a sign;
The festive joy is heard in every whine,
Goodwill and peace rings clear in every bawl;
Amidst each brimming shop and market stall
The faithful jostle for a place in line,
And give to each cashier, as to a shrine,
Their credit cards and place themselves in thrall.
It's not the act of giving I detest,
(For what could be as great as charity?)
Nor is it that the yuletide should be blessed;
What bothers me is this disparity:
An obligation at someone's behest
Wraps any gift in insincerity.

San Diego Holiday Snapshots (follow the links for visuals)

no, not electric
turtlenecks on giraffes;
light-spiraled palm trunks

like gaps in a smile,
foreclosed houses stay shadowed
on Christmas Card Lane

carols and parols:
Filipino neighbors and
stars from the seabed


[I suppose that last one could be titled Capiz on Earth. Ca-PEACE, capeesh? Oh, follow the link if you don't get it. I'm off to bed now.]

You have to go to a specialty Hallmark to find one like this reworking of an old poem of mine.


A CHRISTMAS GHOST


As seasonal as sentiment,
Christ comes around this time of year,
That querulous old revenant.

Obscured by pagan spectacles,
The Christmas tree and Santa Claus,
He plies the same old miracles.

The children long for Christmas Eve,
The packages beneath the tree
They wait for unseen hands to leave.

We sit around the radio,
Hear “Silver Bells” and “Deck the Halls,”
Reflect upon the chance of snow.

“Remember always we must die,”
that bitter voice of winter drones.
I’ve learned to turn the volume high.

THE LAST NOEL

I think of all the grandpas shelling nuts and swigging beer,
their dreadful jokes, so un pc, insult the black and queer;
this time next Noel how many dentured grins will still be here?