39 Christmas poems

Lobster in the bathtub. Christmas Eve. Scrub the tub first. Hand off cleanser. Rinse well. We don’t want Comet in our lobster. He’s clicking against the porcelain. Everyone leery of going to the bathroom. Bubbles had risen when we lowered him in, now he’s limp. Stare into the water that wears a similar gooseflesh. The lobster is dispatched.

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well. “Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar, “Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews.” And the people answered, “You ask in vain; We know of no King but Herod the Great!” They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, who cannot wait. And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king.” So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the grey of morn; Yes, it stopped—it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David, where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned. And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine. His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body’s burying. And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone, Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David’s throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.

For V.S. When it’s Christmas we’re all of us magi. At the grocers’ all slipping and pushing. Where a tin of halvah, coffee-flavored, is the cause of a human assault-wave by a crowd heavy-laden with parcels: each one his own king, his own camel. Nylon bags, carrier bags, paper cones, caps and neckties all twisted up sideways. Reek of vodka and resin and cod, orange mandarins, cinnamon, apples. Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard. And the bearers of moderate gifts leap on buses and jam all the doorways, disappear into courtyards that gape, though they know that there’s nothing inside there: not a beast, not a crib, nor yet her, round whose head gleams a nimbus of gold. Emptiness. But the mere thought of that brings forth lights as if out of nowhere. Herod reigns but the stronger he is, the more sure, the more certain the wonder. In the constancy of this relation is the basic mechanics of Christmas. That’s what they celebrate everywhere, for its coming push tables together. No demand for a star for a while, but a sort of good will touched with grace can be seen in all men from afar, and the shepherds have kindled their fires. Snow is falling: not smoking but sounding chimney pots on the roof, every face like a stain. Herod drinks. Every wife hides her child. He who comes is a mystery: features are not known beforehand, men’s hearts may not be quick to distinguish the stranger. But when drafts through the doorway disperse the thick mist of the hours of darkness and a shape in a shawl stands revealed, both a newborn and Spirit that’s Holy in your self you discover; you stare skyward, and it’s right there: a star.

Cards in each mailbox, angel, manger, star and lamb, as the rural carrier, driving the snowy roads, hears from her bundles the plaintive bleating of sheep, the shuffle of sandals, the clopping of camels. At stop after stop, she opens the little tin door and places deep in the shadows the shepherds and wise men, the donkeys lank and weary, the cow who chews and muses. And from her Styrofoam cup, white as a star and perched on the dashboard, leading her ever into the distance, there is a hint of hazelnut, and then a touch of myrrh.

Christmas trees lined like war refugees, a fallen army made to stand in their greens. Cut down at the foot, on their last leg, they pull themselves up, arms raised. We drop them like wood; tied, they are driven through the streets, dragged through the door, cornered in a room, given a single blanket, only water to drink, surrounded by joy. Forced to wear a gaudy gold star, to surrender their pride, they do their best to look alive.

In front of the craft shop, a small nativity, mother, baby, sheep made of white and blue balloons.

When I see the cradle rocking What is it that I see? I see a rood on the hilltop Of Calvary. When I hear the cattle lowing What is it that they say? They say that shadows feasted At Tenebrae. When I know that the grave is empty, Absence eviscerates me, And I dwell in a cavernous, constant

(A fortune cookie) Ominous inscrutable Chinese news to get just before Christmas, considering my reasonable health, marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan, career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet. Not bad, considering what can go wrong: the bony finger of Uncle Sam might point out my husband, my own national guard, and set him in Afghanistan; my boss could take a personal interest; the pain in my left knee could spread to my right. Still, as the old year tips into the new, I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking his legs in the air. I won't give in to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog, or even the neighbors' Nativity. Their four-year-old has arranged his whole legion of dinosaurs so they, too, worship the child, joining the cow and sheep. Or else, ultimate mortals, they've come to eat ox and camel, Mary and Joseph, then savor the newborn babe.

Everyone's spending Christmas Eve adrift in the corporal skirmish, mixing up the darks with the lights, fending with elbows and dirty looks. Wet wool and down crowd the air. Where are the stars, pristine as great ideas? Behind clouds the heavens saturate with luminous dust, shuttles wearing halos of earthdirt, light pollution from jets fired to keep things on course. Boys rickrack a ball off floor and ceiling past the table tree bubbling with giveaway ornaments from Burger King and lights that manage an occasional lackadaisical flash. Showstoppers: everyone looks every time and keeps looking to make sure it happened. The double frontloaders are going like abstract TVs. And the program is important: all about the boggling sullied lives we'd like to hide. But this is no place to do so, where known and unknown perverts come to pirate underpants and the innocent clutch their Cheer and Shout. The rules are posted: only the toughest habiliments, the superego of raiment can take such agitation. And only the poor are invited to endure the sneezy powders and clean resentment. Imagine a museum installation— 200 hypnotic washers stuffed with somersaulting cloth. Critics could rise to the challenge, their statements settling like coats of gold and silver chain mail over each machine: "These Speed Queen pieces thrust ahead of art- for-art's sake to confront us with a realism of socio-political magnitude. The vortex-like movement of pattern, color, and texture infuses these works with an abundance of unconscious bliss. The soft forms circulate with vigor across the screens. The viewer is not privy to the cause of dirt though one is witness to the dirt's ablutions. The point is we are not impeccable." Everyone would be happy to know that! And so we're forced to scoop and pour a fine white empathy over the hairy flannels, snaggy nylons, the glass front that gives forth this light industry, the silly tree and jingles about blue and white Christmases, chestnuts, sleighbells, just as snow settles on every unsequestered thing: from blistered gum - ball machines, clumsy bumpers, crepuscular theaters with sticky floors, to ramshackle mansions choked with smiling china animals where light shakes itself out from TVs and old women frail as walking sticks sweep their stoops at eight a.m. Just as snow makes the less than impeccable classical, stroking the merely drab or passing, quickly or slowly, so we can count only on its leaving, teaching liquidity to what seems solid.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now,Dasher! now,Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen! On,Comet! on,Cupid! on,Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too— And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight— “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”