I looked at Christmastide
through my historical telescope:
a distant planet of revel
clouded with 13th century faith,
a faint tune from a long-past
collective unconsciousness,
a wisp of memory clinging to
moments of glittering hope
painted on a faded background.
My celebration turned, stretched,
lurched into the unrepeatable future.
Pondering whether to toss old journals
led to guilty, ambivalent listening
as they echoed down the trash chute.
Discovering an old speech from the past
led to a spiritual rehab.
But all the old poetry was saved as is:
hundreds of psalms sketched in moleskin
like Mechtilde esoterically
scratching for the Poetry Foundation.
I am at odds with the year again.
My Advent is just beginning:
as taxes come due, as we are on the road,
journeying to a new place, a new era,
waiting for a final shoe to drop,
dreading flaws in the makeover,
anticipating grief in the unknown.
I am still following the star
hoping a cradle is in my future.
But also sure I will meet a Herod,
or confront the inner intolerable,
living off some dead woman’s inspiration
or at least subject to her grandiosity.
I have come to so many mangers,
it is hard not to think the present star
is rather dim in comparison,
the myths of memory casting shade.
Waning and waiting go together now,
like John the Baptist finding his dream job
is officially over and all too brief.
But I suppose if I am the last person
longing for the next Epiphany,
strangely inspired by the wild 1200’s,
following some ineffable star,
that will have to be how it is.
Because it is, just as you are:
as inescapable as life and death,
as brilliant as you are dim and dimmed,
uncovered from the rubble of history,
obscured by the uncertain future,
and as bright as a New Year’s dawn.
[I recorded it, if you like LINK]