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Poems

at yule

ii

Now
No matter what they say, this is the darkening of the day.
I have it on the authority of science and legend that things
are lighter now,
and so I’ll believe it
This is the morning of he world, but you have to want it.
He is coming, but you have to meet him.
It’s all happening if you want to see it. You have to need to see it.
Birth, you can’t control it.
Once upon a time they held a woman’s legs together so that
the baby could not come until the doctor did,
but I am not the doctor,
the doctor is not here and long ago I had a friend who was full
of shit and hummus and self conceit.
(Her parents published her fist volume of poetry for her when
she was thirteen, and I blame that on things)
and she said, something’s waiting to be born, something’s waiting
to be born from me, but nothing was waiting.
And so she went to florida and fucked a jamaican twice her age,
and then something came.

But, look, look at this. Look at this all you assholes who say,
this is just another day.
It doesn’t matter.
Every day you live is every day you want to live.
I don’t see your fatass dropping dead.
I don’t see you jumping off of bridges.
Here, in this life, you are afraid and unwilling to die,
and still you grudge your living, make a fucking mess of it.
It is on this day that Christ is born.
This day,
this moment,
he is being born…

If you would let him.
 
Thank you for that. It's shorter than the other long ones, and it will be the last long one for a while. : )
 
at yule
conclusion


Under these black branches,
Under these black branches
Under these black branches
and this icy blue sky


Remember it’s still yule.
The weather refuses to look like winter,
for these days the heaviness of snow is kept away.
We stayed up all night under the light of the Christmas tree,
my poor stomach turning up and down as the world does.
I consecrate myself to this life,
stand naked before the lights and call on light,
light the incense and offer all my senses.
All this life is yours.
The cigarette is a blessing,
this coffee is the sanctification,
the nap the meditation.
Don’t try to make yourself do more than what you can.
This is the quiet rest before the moment of the holy.

CS Lewis was a witch,
he wanted the myth of things and felt the Christ in Bacchus,
and after forty years I am still wandering into wardrobes,
looking for a lion and longing for a witch.
I am the Magdalene longing to be there as you pass,
and in your passing I am Mary
This is the rest, the breathing in and final breathing out before the birth.
All the world is waiting,
all my world is semi silent,
we’ve done all that we can do.

There is nothing we can do

The world is a glass globe in your hand,
clear and round as a womb,
waiting like the silence of the passion,
the red and gold of Mabon has cleared for the glass and blackened
branches of this moment
Last night all four candles burned, three red, one white,
and the holy thorn was lifted,
the chalice was lifted,
everything we had was lifted.
This morning we sit under the white and blue sky,
in the warmth of this house,
we sit with the silent frenzied passion of conception

Now is the time for no noise.
This is the bright bubble of a day,
and we are half hushed in waiting.
This morning the last of the purple and pink came down,
the blackened advent tapers came down.
the rice is cooking, the fish is thawing now.
The light of the tree winks all day.
Do a little less than you planned to do.
Poke a hole in your plans

Last night I rode out to meet a man I hadn’t seen in two years,
we drank wine and were naked under a blanket before
the night ended.
Take up your pen and let old quarrels be mended,
the old antiphon sings,
o emmanuel, emmanuel come to us, come to this land
Emmanuel comes in our hands, and in our deeds,
if we are not willing to be the new kingdom,
then who will be?

This is the day heaven has made.
That it be your day, refuse nothing that comes your way.
A miracle lives cause when wonder came you were
not too busy to receive it,
too afraid to be so free.
 
Oriens

Yours is the light that will not come till after the night
I sang to you in the east but by then you were long gone
Next to me someone said the sky is all wrong, too dark
To early, too soon
But that’s one the way it was supposed to be
After you learn to put up with the way of things
Then you can learn to accept them
And one day, under the mermaids tail,
Acceptance might turn into love

Months ago you sang about a man
You could not forget him
So you learned every line of his face
He would not complete the story
So you put new one in his place
Learn to absorb him
Like the sun into the sea

We trade in one weary love for the next tired one
and turn in shrinking circles

We need that holy night, and we wait for the blessing of the day.
We do not know who the holy child is, not really.
We do not want him
We want anything
You would prefer Herod to the King
The suffering we’ve had is all the love we’ve known
And we are loathe to ler it go
We walk toward Bethlehem cradling grudges and old miseries like close friends
And then
Wonder at our misery
We do not understand the mystery,
and for the most part, are too superficial,
too frightened to delve in.

Let go of all your pedantry
here he comes anyway,
the One we dread and long for.
 
I liked that one! Its interesting the way you include some of the religious themes, especially in this poem. I hope you are having a good night.
 
yes thank you, its like working out my own spirituality when i'm working with these poems, almost making up my own scripture, william blake style.
 
Gentium

O King of the nations, and their desire,
the cornerstone making both one:
Come and save the human race,
which you fashioned from clay.

Making two one
As if I would touch his hand
Bigger than Jerusalem
As if I would make amends
Who would have known?

I talk of beginning again, but my will still crumble every day
My resolve is made of clay
Who would have known?

Oh, silence all the nations, and silence my gnashing teeth,
palpitating heart. In this darkness, quiet as palm fronds,
the lord comes down, he comes round the corners
to jerusalem,
he lays down his life and we lay ours down with him,
like cloaks in the road.
Who would have known?

And everything is everything and everything is everything
and this is not merely a phrase,
Please rephrase
but a promise, a source, a sentence
Your mind is muddy with half memory,
you are still half made of clay,
You have been half wakened by the shadow of love,
and squint in your dreaming at the golden glint of
the coming of kings
Kings on crosses, kings on thrones,
kings are pulling swords from stones,
you wrinkle your anarchistic nose at the king in you
You are stone, you are the stone
Who would have known?
Who would have known?
 
A lot of bullshit went down tonight to keep this second posting from happening

Emmanuel

Who would have believed,
oh, our king and our lawgiver,
the whispering voice in the cool stone dark:
“Fear not, for on the fifth day our Lord
will come to you.
Behold, all things are fulfilled,”

And who’d have known,
and who would have believed our report,
that while the fire fell, burning churches,
and the streets were washed with loneliness,
while we prayed to statues that seemed
to never hear,
there in that silence, you were coming,
coming here,
to us?






Bethlehem

There is a bubble over bethlehem
Over these last hushed moments
while we are waiting.
No one knows and even then if we did,
Still the cave would be hid
where the cradle was where the baby
was born
But every silent eve, is the tempting toward noise,
every holy day before the night I crowd the time
and nearly break the bubble of the
coming of him
The silence Jerusalem cannot know
 
I'm glad you did, and the bullshit is over.... for tonight. It was, mostly, good and necessary bullshit. Though some of it was just..... bullshit. Have an excellent day.
 
on yule

i.

It’s on a day like this that someone less wise says, I hope the winter never comes.
This day is a reprieve from truth, made of sun and blue and green.
Even the bugs come out, come out, come out, get out as soon as you can,
the shortest day of the year is here and
Soon comes Mother Night.
With the ancient knife and older tales, come walking over the hills to the sacred island. It is always there and sometimes there is goose island,
sometimes it is seen and sometimes just high enough for bird feet to walk,
and there, tumbling in blue and yellow and the shadow of branches
and the last fall leaves, is the cauldron pool to the underworld someone
almost let you forget.

How far we’ve traveled from the Eight Gated Castle,
just to stand here and cross this bridge over the trickling water,
just to come into this place of trees.
And you heard that some people practiced their rituals here,
that some covens burned incense here, that some witches took wands
and knives and traced out stars like scars on the ground,
but let outside be outside and let this be the sacrifice you give it,
to watch every goose and love every leaf, to rejoice in the breeze
and the sun on blue water

Let this be the worship: to be here now,
to see the red berries on boughs and praise the God of all things before you,
hold the thorns and berries in your hand, brown long sharpness, red again,
and pray for the renewal of small things.
It started out thirty degrees here, and in the night it’s nearly fifty,
as if the old woman of the sky is heated with the secret of the return of light
And someone who thinks she is a witch and wants you to think it too tells you,
after this long night the sun will return,
but the sun never left,
and you can’t tell this long night from any other except on faith.

We sit here on this sacred evening,
sit here in the blessed dark,
and the light we wait for is only,
in the most fragile way,
the light of the sun
 
on yule

ii.

Now
No matter what they say, this is the darkening of the day.
I have it on the authority of science and legend that things
are lighter now,
and so I’ll believe it.

This is the morning of the world, but you have to want it.
He is coming, but you have to meet him.
It’s all happening if you want to see it. You have to need to see it.
Birth, you can’t control it.
Once upon a time they held a woman’s legs together so that
the baby could not come until the doctor did,
but I am not the doctor,
the doctor is not here and long ago I had a friend who was full
of shit and hummus and self conceit.
(Her parents published her first volume of poetry for her when
she was thirteen, and I blame that on things)
and she said, something’s waiting to be born, something’s waiting
to be born from me, but nothing was waiting.

And so she went to florida and fucked a Jamaican twice her age,
and then something came.

But, look, look at this. Look at this all you assholes who say,
this is just another day.
It doesn’t matter.
Every day you live is every day you want to live.
I don’t see your fat ass dropping dead.
I don’t see you jumping off of bridges.
Here, in this life, you are afraid and unwilling to die,
and still you grudge your living, make a fucking mess of it.
It is on this day that Christ is born.
This day,
this moment,
he is being born…

If you would let him.
 
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