A Christmas Cornucopia
 

This may be too parochial, being a romp through local history and culture. (I'm pretty sure I haven't posted it here before. It comes from last Christmas.) I won't burden it with footnotes - just yet, anyway. I hope at least you'll enjoy a festive sort of spirit in it.

Nollick Ghennal as Blein Vie Noa.
Three little boats are pulled up on the shore.
Melchior, Caspar and Balthasar
are stopping by for a pipe and a jar.
Manannan Mac Lir, honoured guest
has said to the waves “Lads, give it a rest.”
Finn McCool and Benandonner
come walking eagerly over the water
annually, to be reconciled,
in the healing light of Bethlehem’s child.

Illiam Dhone and good King Orry
are bringing more beer around in a lorry.
Orry points at the milky foam.
“I’m telling you, Bill, that’s my way home.”
As they back the lorry up to the door
they can hear from inside the convivial roar.

Lady Derby and Jinny the Witch,
one for the poor and one for the rich,
are getting up and getting down
with Bishop Wilson and T.E. Brown,
while Fletcher Christian and Captain Bligh,
who never quite saw things eye to eye,
dance cheek to cheek and hip to hip,
in a picture of good fellowship.

The captain of the Steam Packet boat
that tragically failed to stay afloat
converses with the Lords of the Isles.
He listens, but he never smiles,
and St. Patrick is sat in his favourite chair
as he croons to himself an old Irish air,
until Mona Douglas can stand it no longer
and gets him to join her in starting a conga.

It’s getting rowdy, without a doubt.
The cows are thinking of moving out.
You can hear the sheep from under the snow:
“There’s some of us trying to sleep, you know.”

The pigs have turned up their delicate noses
on hearing what Robin the Bobbin proposes,
but Richie and Robin and Jack o’ the Land
will find that the day doesn’t go as they planned –
the Moddhey Dhoo and the Buggane
are getting together to Save the Wren.

The wren! The wren! The king of all birds?
The raven is totally lost for words,
and ushag veg ruy ny moaney dhoo
is also taking a pretty dim view.

The music increases, as spirits grow high,
and the rest of the evening goes thundering by
with hullabaloo, and many a cry,
until someone starts up with “T’eh traa goll thie”,
and they drag themselves off to their resting places
with pounding heads and shining faces.

But I wish for them what I wish for us all
at this winter solstice festival –
palchey phuddase as skeddan dy liooar.
So Nollick Ghennal as Blein Vie Noa,
and here’s to you and here’s to me,
and here’s to the green hills by the sea …
Slaynt vie.

Hi David--I think you're right that this might be a tough read for non-Manx readers. I have some familiarity with the island's history and culture, but I can't read the Manx here and am likely only getting about 60% of the references. It rollicks along nicely, but I don't feel quite literate enough to essay more comment than that. Some pieces have a naturally small audience (ha. none of us sells like Taylor Swift...), but the question is: how well is that audience pleased?

.
One person's cornucopia is another person's smorgasbord : )

Reading this feels similar to the way I felt recently while in Mexico when we went to a traditional Christmas posada: the language was foreign, the traditions strange, but the experience was wonderful, child-like.

It rollicks. The rhymey, festive feel to it is contagious. There is a celebratory feel that embodies joy.

Yes, while the wren sings the raven warns.

Cornucopia is a word from my childhood somehow. I don't know exactly why. I seem to remember a beautiful, overflowing cornucopia framed on our kitchen wall.

.

I enjoy the pure festive rompiness of this, David. Proper names in poems don’t necessarily have to be known or footnoted. They are locales or points of interest on a map of a new territory, and I’m happy taking them as that. It's like hearing a poem in a partially foreign language. Of course, knowing what they refer to can add pleasure, but they speak their own language without that, too.

Happy Christmas to you.

David, like Jim and Andrew, I found the “parochiality” of this a plus, not a minus. The specificity makes it feel real and compelling, while the unfamiliar elements convey much just by their feeling. I personally felt the beery hilarity was largely out of tune with the true spirit of Christmas (maybe more appropriate for a pagan winter solstice festival? Although I imagine that these had their reverent elements, as well). But I can’t fault the poem in terms of vividly conveying an atmosphere and providing interest by way of Manx traditions.

A belated hello - and happy new year - to all. Nollick Ghennal, in fact.

Thanks Simon. I had fun with this, so I thought I'd see if the fun was transferable. Maybe it is, up to a point. It went down well at a Christmas / New Year party last year, but that was obviously a local audience, and there was a slightly wider local audience here ... https://www.facebook.com/culturevannin - if you scroll down to 15 December.

Thanks Jim. Glad you enjoyed it. Thinking about the Mexican Christmas experience (which I don't know at all), can I just not recommend Jim Reeves singing Señor Santa Claus? Although, on the whole, I am in favour of Jim Reeves.

And thanks Andrew and Alexandra. I'm glad you found something pleasing in this little local dish.

Cheers (slaynt vie)

David