Well I'm all geared up for Christmas, and that's despite the fact that age is taking its toll. It's not that I am walking with a limp, or that I can only hear out of one ear, but rather, that this year, I had lost the will to re-assemble the colour-coded Christmas tree, that I have been putting together for the past twenty years.
Made in Japan, we bought it originally, to stand in the spacious hall of a large detached house : all eight feet of it. But when we came to live in Norwich, some adjustments had to be made. Thankfully a saw was not required; all that was needed, was to substitute the crown, (that came as a single piece), with a fairy. And what a fairy! smug, in her long coat and matching fur hat. But Jenny loved it, so I had to do as I was told.
Well, this year, as I have already told you, I had lost the will to piece together, again, the same tree; the same dancing lights; the same gilded decorations; or to stand, yet again, on the same stool, to secure the wretched fairy in place. But thankfully, when I mooted my reluctance to Jenny, to be fully engaged in this twice yearly ritual, (remembering that, "what goes up, must come down"), I was delighted to discover that she was of a like mind. So for the first time in twelve years, we don't have a Christmas tree in the dining area, just off the kitchen. But we do have one in the living-room with presents underneath, and all glowing in delicate blue frosted light. And Leo and Lynsey, (I have been spelling her name wrongly for years), are here, which without doubt is an important contributing factor, as to why I am "all geared up".
Now if I wanted something different for 2011, it would be this, to have some response to my blogs. For certain, I know that they are read in the UK, the United States and the Ukraine, in the United Arab Emirates, Denmark, Slovenia and Russia, in Canada, Thailand and Brazil, South Korea, South Africa, and the Cayman Islands, in Germany, France and Croatia, in Australia, Belgium, the Netherlands and China, in Spain and India, and in Christchurch New Zealand, and not of course, forgetting my own country Ireland. But not withstanding this global audience, it is rare indeed for anyone to leave a comment, either, "good, bad, or indifferent." And here's an example of what I have in mind.
In my current series of blogs, (to be continued in the new year), entitled, "Some Personal Reflections on the Poetry and Life of John Keats," I have commented on several occasions about the "absence of Keats" in his poetry, and about his lack of interest in that wider society that existed beyond his immediate circle of friends. Now surely not everyone agrees with me, for it must have occurred to someone, to want to put the contrary point of view, that it is impossible for a poet not to be present in his writing. And surprise, surprise, I, in response, would have agreed, and we would probably have ended up discussing, context. But of course, readers don't have to respond, and I am sufficiently self motivated, (for any number of reasons), not to be dependent on a response. But a reader, coming to life, would be a welcome change.
But returning to the theme of Christmas, here are two poems, written by me, that are buried deep in the blog, "Peace good-will and trauma." I hope you enjoy them, and:
Happy Christmas and Happy New Year
Christmas Shopping
I saw a card in a shop today
it almost frightened my brain away.
Like a dirty mag I put it back
but retrieved it again from among the pack.
And there it was for all to see,
the changing face of the Family Tree.
And now that my life is near its end,
the greeting was: "To Mum and Friend".
_______________
Christmas
There were no rocket boosters then, to confound the night sky
just unsubtle floodlights, hauled out and in place for the occasion,
their gentle beams firing the majestic spires
and dissipating in the gloom.
And no exotic digital displays, nor laser lights,
but an innovation; a speaker above the hardware store,
from which Bing, to a dark and near deserted street, crooned
and only Rudolph ran strictly to tempo.
But a time it was of innocence and quiet excitement,
when the air was as pure and life as certain
as the cotton-wool on the Crib was white.
And where every rooftop and every chimney, unencumbered
were objects of wonder:
and the black laneway - a sanctuary,
and sleep - a nuisance.
And socks hanging in a drab kitchen -
an adventure.
When "Postman's Knock", "Forfeits", and "The Queen of Sheba",
brought joyous laughter.
And voices, adult voices, modulated,
blended with play,
and the texture and fragrance of marzipan.
