Christmas through the ages

5 Comments

 

Selected poems

 

 

The true meaning

That famous Jewish boy arrived in autumn 4BC

most experts say, not Winter Solstice of year one.

No matter. Solstice celebrations soon embraced

not just our dying Sun's rebirth each year

and bull-killer Mithras' sacred day but also the nativity

of God on earth — as well as Saturnalia, time of joy

for Roman slaves and servants. Back then

that was most of us, definitely

me and mine. A good day to feast.

 

The myths we take for granted once sprang forth

miraculous, bizarre. Our mild North Pole Santa

started his career a wild-eyed saint

who resurrected murdered boys

and saved drowned sailors.

 

Yule logs once burned pure Nordic pagan

though our much-bedizened Christmas trees

are modern German things, beloved of Victoria

and her Saxe-Coburg Bert. Still, green boughs

and golden wreaths have wrought their sacred magic

indoors and out from time immemorial.

 

No need to argue! Celebrate the rebirth of the Sun,

the birth of God the Son, or simply

sunny days with loved ones.

 

Simply love.

 

 

Christmas through the ages

At twelve, halfway through too many stifling hours

crammed in the Holden station wagon, three girls

munch Mum's ham sandwiches

in a Rotary park (sun-yellowed grass, bright

blowsy roses near the road), then on

to the full catastrophe — grandparents, aunts,

uncles, myriad cousins, grey lamb with

Nana's watery mint sauce, grey-green veggies,

soggy pumpkin, Mum's great fruitcake. Presents.

 

At twenty-five, the man and I trek two days

up the Hume to now-distant parents' homes

for family celebrations, working hard

not to resent the strain. Hard work.

 

At thirty, waifs-and-strays Christmases

with friends in our adopted southern city.

Mango, nougat, croquembouche. Easy smiles.

 

By forty, we've declared ourselves a family

in our own right. Coffee with liqueur

for present-opening,

duck or chook roasted in the barbie

(heatwave or heater weather, or both

in the same day) served with sparkling wine.

Naps afterwards. Easy and calm.

 

Fifties, back north to help exhausted sisters day by day

with diminished parents. Christmas

breakfast lunch drinks dinner salmon salad

strawberries pavlova (never fruitcake)

coddling the blind, the lame, the thoroughly confused.

 

Each time, hoping it's not the last.

 

 

Grant FraserJenny Blackford's poems have appeared in Australian Poetry Journal, Going Down Swinging and Westerly, as well as The School Magazine and various anthologies. Pitt Street Poetry launched her first full-length poetry collection, The Loyalty of Chickens, in April 2017.

Topic tags: poetry, Christmas

 

 

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Existing comments

Nothing to be said but thank you. For all our Christmas. For those who gave them meaning and for those like Jenny who articulate their meaning.
Margaret | 19 December 2018


Two very apt descriptions of the meaning of Christmas in the light of last night's little effort on the ABC which interviewed celebrities re their understanding of what Christmas meant to them. Their understandings ranged from irrelevance, as expressed by Philip Adams in his atheistic in-acceptance, across multiple secular viewpoints emphasising family get togethers, feasting, Christmas carol singing, schmaltzy USA movies and commercialism, to the view of Malcolm and Lucy Turnbull. Our ex-PM said that Christmas was about sharing a meal together through love with all men, something , he said , which was the embodiment of the core of Christianity, The Eucharist. They (the anonymous experts) reckon the converts to Catholicism are the best Catholics. What Malcolm Turnbull said couldn't have been more Catholic/Christian and expressed the whole meaning so clearly. And the ignoramuses in the parliament, the extreme right Catholic born and the conservative Christians, got rid of this bloke. Typical Philistines! They will all turn up to Church next week, however, with the hope of a photoshoot opportunity.
john frawley | 19 December 2018


Thank you John Frawley. Although you and I are poles apart metaphysically, I sense a kindred spirit. Careful, though, about the use of the word Philistines. It was not them who ‘got rid of’ your other ‘Bloke’ but rather the first century equivalents of your ‘extreme right’ and ‘conservative’ lot who also then turned up for worship in order to be noticed.
Ginger Meggs | 20 December 2018


Good morning GM. You are quite correct. "Philistines" was strictly speaking not the correct descriptive choice and I will take your advice! I am delighted that it is only the realm of metaphysics, that ethereal philosophical abstract, that separates us. the kindred spirit you identify is far more tangible and, indeed, human! I trust that you enjoy, along with the army of ES hopeful literati, a Happy and Holy Christmas and a New Year full of great Hope, the sustenance of the believer.
john frawley | 21 December 2018


Thank you both, Margaret and John. And happy Christmas!
Jenny Blackford | 22 December 2018


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