—Anonymous Photos
MATER IRA FILIUM
(part-song by Bax for double choir, 1921)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
Devotion, for this pagan, comes easy and clear.
What can his secret be? Look at the words
behind the song. In colors as of bright birds,
the meaning. This God’s Son, here and not here.
Mother, pray thy Son that, after exile,
He may grant us the utmost of all joys,
a place with the Blessed Ones, in joyful noise.
Exile, worked into the weave, with harmonious guile…
In what sense exile for Jesus? Here on Earth,
doomed soon to meet with torments and with mocks
of roughness undreamed where a cradle softly rocks?
Exile to a Heaven uncaring for human worth?
So painful-gentle the weaving. Simple tunes,
one tapestry: close is the night to the breath of beasts
in straw, young mother in no condition for feasts,
the air yet to ignite with so much more than moon.
Propped on one elbow Mary greets the strange kings.
The white stars turn gold. Night, palpably intense,
spins air into myrrh. Breeze wafts us frankincense.
To high C, a brave singing angel clings and clings.
Why climax on the rich largesse kings bestow?
Symbolic perhaps: for one instant, curtains part.
In seraphs’ faces, song, this once, visual art.
We sing One Whose Rise proceeds from Buried Below.
What Babe, so blessed, could descend to a world of gray,
of straw, of splintered wood and thorn-strewn bloom,
without a gathering-sandstorm sense of doom?
The cow’s moaning low, her echo the donkey’s bray…
From heartsore dismay must love regather fire.
Eight voices, three octaves, Amen: to reaffirm
that in This One, we lose our terror of the Worm.
No more unring a bell than unsing this choir.
(part-song by Bax for double choir, 1921)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
Devotion, for this pagan, comes easy and clear.
What can his secret be? Look at the words
behind the song. In colors as of bright birds,
the meaning. This God’s Son, here and not here.
Mother, pray thy Son that, after exile,
He may grant us the utmost of all joys,
a place with the Blessed Ones, in joyful noise.
Exile, worked into the weave, with harmonious guile…
In what sense exile for Jesus? Here on Earth,
doomed soon to meet with torments and with mocks
of roughness undreamed where a cradle softly rocks?
Exile to a Heaven uncaring for human worth?
So painful-gentle the weaving. Simple tunes,
one tapestry: close is the night to the breath of beasts
in straw, young mother in no condition for feasts,
the air yet to ignite with so much more than moon.
Propped on one elbow Mary greets the strange kings.
The white stars turn gold. Night, palpably intense,
spins air into myrrh. Breeze wafts us frankincense.
To high C, a brave singing angel clings and clings.
Why climax on the rich largesse kings bestow?
Symbolic perhaps: for one instant, curtains part.
In seraphs’ faces, song, this once, visual art.
We sing One Whose Rise proceeds from Buried Below.
What Babe, so blessed, could descend to a world of gray,
of straw, of splintered wood and thorn-strewn bloom,
without a gathering-sandstorm sense of doom?
The cow’s moaning low, her echo the donkey’s bray…
From heartsore dismay must love regather fire.
Eight voices, three octaves, Amen: to reaffirm
that in This One, we lose our terror of the Worm.
No more unring a bell than unsing this choir.
CHRISTMAS EVE ON THE MOUNTAINS
(symphonic poem)
—Tom Goff
This is, Bax insists, no holiday, seasonal song.
We know by inflection the Irishly keening tune
as, isolate under the chill December moon,
a traveler shivers with aches more wintry strong
than any the mutable County Dublin weather
can offer in upended urns of storm and wet,
more piercing of bone than all that razor net
of frost there, or by turns frost and storm together.
Then all is changed: as if from Bethlehem
a beam encircling the world lit on this soul,
changing him for the span of a spell to foal
new-rising on limbs that shudder, or to one gem
of skin turned ruby: derivative Wagner notes
dissolve in new distillations, drifts and floats.
This is, Bax insists, no holiday, seasonal song.
We know by inflection the Irishly keening tune
as, isolate under the chill December moon,
a traveler shivers with aches more wintry strong
than any the mutable County Dublin weather
can offer in upended urns of storm and wet,
more piercing of bone than all that razor net
of frost there, or by turns frost and storm together.
Then all is changed: as if from Bethlehem
a beam encircling the world lit on this soul,
changing him for the span of a spell to foal
new-rising on limbs that shudder, or to one gem
of skin turned ruby: derivative Wagner notes
dissolve in new distillations, drifts and floats.
SQUARE NAILS AND OLD ROSES
—Dewell H. Byrd, Central Point, OR
A young couple filled with hope built
a log cabin with square nails and
planted rosebushes by the yard door.
Now the pecan tree shelters them
beneath marble markers that sum their lives.
Two more headstones simply say, “Baby.”
An autumn breeze quilts the farm pond.
Vanilla light leans into the hour
as the chimney’s shadow creeps long.
Seasons turn by faith alone and
children scatter leaving time at rest
like an hour glass reclining on its side.
An old man, exiled by winter, leans
on his cane, picks the last rose
from the bush that entwines yesterday.
I wish television at Christmastime would have something humorous about Jesus’s birth
I’m sure Jesus Christ, who was born Jewish by the way, probably loved a good laugh too
He wouldn’t be offended by any comedy that was about him—
Jesus would especially probably love to hear jokes that would acknowledge His vital role in history—
including that about he was Jewish,
For instance adding Yiddish to the Christmas carol that says “Born Is The King of Israel”, “O’Vey!"
or Jesus as a child celebrating “Hanukkah” as a child proclaiming that he will be “the great miracle” rather than Maccabees and oil
Anything poking fun of "the nativity” is also absent—
it is like they don’t want to talk about it at all
The 1965’s Charles Shultz’s animated “It’s Christmas, Charlie Brown”
no one else since appears to make such a bold move on a “comedy" to proclaim “Jesus’s Birthday”
"Saturday Night Live" could have by now made a “classic” and beloved episode about Christmas nativity and Jesus
but even SNL won’t go there, perhaps fearing it will offend too much
Many of those television writers who are afraid of offending religion
ought to realize that, unlike that calling itself the voice of “Islam”,
one can make jokes about Jesus without getting death threats for blasphemy
So far I’m hoping for networks who will dare to air the animated 2017 movie, The Star
even though it has animals discussing the Savior who came to save people’s lives.
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA
A HISTORY OF FEARS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
(Composed of elements found in Joyce Odam’s
“A History of Tears”, “Recall”, and “A Small Bridge
Over Quietness”, December 11, 2018, Medusa’s
Kitchen)
Recently axed willows, rolling with laughter,
heading downriver to the saw mills while
their weeping widows, having faced this
before, hastily build a cocoon made from a
card table and butterfly folding chairs to
engage in a small bridge game played in
complete quietness.
RUNNERS ON SUNSET BEACH
—Joseph Nolan
Fleet of foot,
Fast runners go,
Upon the beach,
As though
Through snow,
Lightly and
Full-sprightly,
Into sundown,
On a beach
They know.
Running faster
As the day
Goes down,
Shadows that
Creep over sand,
Betray the end
That calls, demand!
To runners
To run farther,
Faster, longer!
Beaconed
From the beach
To Sea
The runners
Run on easily
Into the evening’s sand!
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
THE PEN OF WILL’S SONNETS
—Nora Staklis, Carmichael, CA
There once was a writer, “Shakespeare,”
whose true name was held back, left unclear;
he kept on with his quill
by the nom de plume, “Will,”
but he really was Edward de Vere.
__________________
Many thanks to today’s poets as we celebrate in visuals our Seed of the Week: Christmas Bells! Sac. Poetry Center will NOT have a reading tonight, but I’m assuming Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe will meet on Thursday at 8pm. Speak Up will meet at The Avid Reader on Friday, 7pm; this month’s theme will be New Beginnings. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
THE PEN OF WILL’S SONNETS
—Nora Staklis, Carmichael, CA
There once was a writer, “Shakespeare,”
whose true name was held back, left unclear;
he kept on with his quill
by the nom de plume, “Will,”
but he really was Edward de Vere.
__________________
Many thanks to today’s poets as we celebrate in visuals our Seed of the Week: Christmas Bells! Sac. Poetry Center will NOT have a reading tonight, but I’m assuming Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe will meet on Thursday at 8pm. Speak Up will meet at The Avid Reader on Friday, 7pm; this month’s theme will be New Beginnings. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
The Perfect Gift...
Celebrate poetry!
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