December

Festivities bestow
upon this twelfth-month night
a whisper of the brisk miraculous:
all but the evergreens stand bare,
relieved of their burdens
(though a few trees harbor "winter-hardy leaves");
moonlight assuages the cumulative ill
of the dying year, and an old star guides
wise and foolish alike toward rebirth.


TD
1990

Aeronwy Thomas

A video of Dylan Thomas's daughter Aeronwy (1943-2009) reading her poems:

Adam's Carol

Midnight, O Christians, is the solemn hour
when God who is truly Man comes to you:
he shall remove the stain of our offenses;
he'll please his Father and make all things new!
The whole world trembles, chills of expectation:
the long-sought night which brings us saving grace
now has arrived!  O kneel in adoration!
Behold, behold the Child-Redeemer's face!

Now may the light of faith ceaselessly burning
show us the way to the cradle of birth,
just as of old, the brightest star in heaven
led Eastern sages across desert earth.
The King of Kings is born where beasts are feeding:
O powers-that-seem, so boastful of your place,
proud men and cold, now heed the silent teaching!
The Child is God, his Mother full of grace.

The Savior's strength has burst through every fetter;
our world is free, heaven open once again:
a lowly slave becomes a prince's brother;
chains break asunder.  United are men!
What shall we give the Lord for all his goodness,
made flesh for us, to suffer pain and death?
Rise from your sleep!  Deliverance is upon us!
A child is born: praise him with every breath.

trans. TD
stanzas 1 and 2 c. 1997
stanza 3 2010

O Holy Night

Wikipedia gives us the history and text of Placide Cappeau's poem, which became Adolphe Adam's Christmas carol.

Limericks, slightly naughty

(inspired by Stephen Fry's use of the phrase "gormless arse")


An arse that was oafish and gormless
Wrote verse that was rhymeless and formless.
He'd recite tuneless ditties
In the towns and the cities
And the welcome he'd get, it was warmless.

His vers, it was rather too libre;
Panache it lacked -- no joie de vivre.
But at night, when alone,
He would pick up the phone
And chant limericks through the receiver.

He'd call strangers and foes, even friends,
With his latest of lyrical trends --
Like a drunkard of Rome
If he found you at home
He'd bend your poor ear at both ends.

Vigil

(after John Ashbery's "Finnish Rhapsody")


A bright planet hung low in the heavens, a glowing star hugged the horizon
As the poet swilled black coffee, as the rhymester gulped his java undilute.
It was Saturday, early morning, the vigil of the Lord's day, oh-dark-thirty;
Squirrels and birds were silent, no chipmunk or sparrow chattered,
Beneath the black expanse, under obsidian skies.
The learned astronomer, sage scientist of galaxies,
Forsook his wonted telescope, left behind his usual observations
And slept in a bed of bliss, slumbered on a mattress of joy,
With his bride of one-and-twenty, with a lovely young woman as his wife.

Public squares were vacant, urban centers deserted,
Save for some bums and ruffians, except for the stray thug or vagrant:
Lights shone in no shop window, the glass of the storefronts was dark;
Banks were not open for business, no commerce in financial institutions.
A cold wind kissed the asphalt, a glacial gust embraced the thoroughfares.
In the distant countryside, in a far-off rural precinct,
Monks were chanting their canticles, friars intoned their psalms.

The restless man in his study, the insomniac in his library,
Indited a curious lay, composed a strange poem,
Of dulcet tenor surreal, of sweet and dreamlike breath:
An exercise in futility, a vain performance to be sure,
But one which the angels applauded, which garnered the praise of the cherubim.

Fragment

A reefer of banana slugs,
A shard, but not a clump --
Eheu fugaces!  Coffee mugs!
Fried chicken!  Camel-hump!

The agitating branches stir
Far from the madding crowd;
We climb the towers of Barchester
With whispers soft and loud.

A handsome devil, charming man,
Abandons kith and kin --
His own reflection's biggest fan,
He sees the blue moon spin.

The bald Horatian classicist
Drinks shots of stinging Scotch;
Bitterly fifty, never been kissed,
He coughs and winds his watch.

The murdered crow is loath to fly,
The slain sparrow indites
Profuse hendecasyllabi
Beneath the northern lights.

Exuberance

Exuberance!  My buxom chum!
O fortunate parcel of girl, wreaking sweet havoc
Amid the striped sheets and pale pillowcases!
Poetic nymph, gracing a windy December
With glasses of cheer and eyes of wild surprise!
When will you invade my temperate precinct,
Bringing flakes of snow and cereal,
Blinding the lively statues with your candor
As ineluctable as the seventh star?
O choicest parody of fleeting trends!
O ample-breasted heap of curves and bends!
Yours are the words of sonnets I cannot write
Unless I am drunk on life's farcical rainfall
As if the skies were pelting cabernet.
Exuberance, my comrade!  Sister, friend!
Let us feast on cheese that is fragrant and flagrant
As we sit by the chilly brink of the Mystic;
Or, in the purple bedroom stacked with novels,
Let us wrestle each other to feckless ecstasy!

An Advent Sonnet (penultimate draft?)

Few leaves cling to the gust-whipt gale-stript tree;
Frail flesh, fall-flesh, thrills to a weather wild!
As dim as dreams, cloud-balked, the sun leaks through,
Spilling weak light on a world no longer mild.

The screech of a lone black crow pierces the cold,
Presaging winter's brunt of snow and ice:
November's stubborn flowers nipped and killed
By north-wind's stinging blast; skies gray as mice.

Some souls there are who watch, grace-parched, light-starved,
For love's long-prophesied nativity
In a stone-hard, bone-chilled place: a fear-wracked time:

Unvisited, it seems, unblessed, unmoved
By him who makes all dead life live anew:
Each human heart a cave in Bethlehem.

An Advent Sonnet (fourth draft)

Few leaves cling to the gust-whipped gale-stript tree;
Thrilled is the flesh that craves a weather wild!
As dim as dreams, cloud-balked, the sun leaks through,
Spilling weak light on a world no longer mild.

The noise of cackling crows pierces the cold,
Presaging winter's nights of snow and ice:
November's stubborn flowers nipped and killed
By north-wind's stinging blast; skies gray as mice.

Some souls there are who watch, grace-parched, light-starved,
For love's long-prophesied nativity
In a stone-hard, bone-chilled place: a fear-wracked time:

Unvisited, it seems, unblessed, unmoved
By him who makes all dead life live anew:
Each human heart a cave in Bethlehem.

An Advent Sonnet (third draft)

Pale leaves cling fast to the wind-battered tree;
The autumn-craving flesh is deeply thrilled!
As dim as dreams, cloud-balked, the sun leaks through,
Spilling its feeble light upon the world.

The noise of cackling crows pierces the cold,
Presaging winter's nights of snow and ice:
November's stubborn flowers nipped and killed
By north-wind's stinging blast; skies gray as mice.

Some souls there are who watch, grace-parched, light-starved,
For love's long-prophesied nativity
In a stone-hard, bone-chilled place: a fear-wracked time:

Unvisited, it seems, unblessed, unmoved
By him who makes all dead life live anew:
Each human heart a cave in Bethlehem.