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Christmas: POETRY
Bethlehem
City of Bread
God said: The jar of flour shall not go
empty nor jug of oil run dry. Yet man decided to
ration, forego risk; so the hungry go
empty
away.
Bethlehem yearns to birth abundant life. Its native son
weeps for all to table cannot come Yet, Adam debates,
decrees, delays; so the hungry go
empty
away.
-- Pat Mings Idaho Falls, Idaho
Carols
Theyre meant to be sung not by the angels of
Bethlehem but by the likes of you and me straining to sing the melodies,
perhaps transposing them to a lower key.
The Mystery dwells in the
songs we sing at Christmas. They call us forth, uniting us in jubilation,
even when the highest notes surpass us.
-- Fr. Walter Bado, SJ Lexington, Ky.
Christmas Eve
The bloom is off the rose in Maine as December swirls
at the garden gate and builds a pure crescendo of soundless white.
In this aching night of deep cold, I look for you across the storm
to approach my snowbound house at the end of the road.
Night grows
old with no sign, so I turn to retire to bed and find in my inner chamber
a single rose fragrant as spring in the June garden
its petals soft
as an infants skin. Christmas blooms deep within as I drop my
expectations and kneel to praise.
-- Judith Robbins Whitefield, Maine
Nativity
(Inspired by a painting of the same title by Tatiana
Grant)
From one angels trumpet, a stellar lullaby
flows to create a cave of safety for Mother and Child. Russia is in
this iconographic picture: Background of Byzantine gold, prayers rising
above an obscure monastery. Tatiana paints her gift as three kings
arrive, breathless. We feel the embrace. Christmas is coming.
The world is moving (as the heart doctor says) from if to
yes!
-- Kathleen Gunton Orange, Calif.
Christmas Eve
innocuous thread come loose from the tapestry, she
weaves her way deftly down the steps, past the priest breathing
frosty benedictions, past the merry loiterers shivering in little
clumps, nodding and smiling at otherwise strangers, as if all were
truly Body of Christ
nodding and smiling, without being
drawn into touch or glance, eyes on feet, she hurries to the
street, as if she too had family feast awaiting
into the welcome
dark she walks, free of other peoples pity, other peoples
joy, past homes with steamy windows and porch lights on, beacon
stars guiding their Wise Men home
it would be nice, she thinks,
to see a flock of angels, singing or not, or one sitting in a
tree or on the curb, eating an orange, something, some little
gift, to tell her she mattered
she rounds the corner into a
burst of light illuminating the lawn of the First Bible Church, where
floodlights beam upon a plywood crèche wherein a Holy Family of
human children grows bored with sanctity Mary and Joseph appear to
be wrestling while Baby Jesus, sausage-stuffed into the manger, flails
his limbs like an overturned beetle, shrieking demand for
release
a protecting angel, its wings outlined in blinking lights,
pivots unsteadily on the shaking roof, lists finally to the
right
in the instant of converging eyes, actors and
audience assume their roles -- Mary stuffs a lollipop into the
Childs mouth, motions Joseph to her side, folds her mittened
hands as they serenade the blessedly silent Jesus with a
jubilant Jingle Bells
the womans hands, spread
like a fan across her mouth to contain delight, move now to
applause, the children wave, bow, laugh, throw kisses, before the
church door opens and all disappear into lives somewhere
else, rejoicing that in this moment, on this night, they have
mattered
-- Ethel Pochocki Brooks, Maine
Seasonal Familiars
O Come, O Come, Emmanual
In this Advent season of mercies they come
seasonal partners, Jesus the ventriloquist, Santa the smiling
fella whose mouth says the words. They work the malls and the
memories. Santa gets more media coverage, mugs the cameras, but wise
folk know whos the brains, who feeds the lines out. Together
they specialize in tidings of comfort and joy. Or sometimes theyre
just buddies -- Jesus and St. Nick -- intertwined from
childhood, overlapping in the mind, Nick poor and lowly and Jesus
wearing red cap with pompon, lisping in divine babytalk his soft Ho
ho ho.
-- Sr. Pat Schnapp, RSM Adrian, Mich.
1999 in POETRY
2000 in POETRY
Poems should be limited to about 50 lines and preferably typed.
Please send poems to NCR POETRY, 115 E. Armour Blvd., Kansas City MO
64111-1203. Or via e-mail to poetry@natcath.org or fax (816)
968-2280. Please include your street address, city, state, zip and daytime
telephone number. NCR offers a small payment for poems we publish, so
please include your Social Security number.
National Catholic Reporter, December 22,
2000
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