Some words to accompany the Day
Merry Christmas one and all. Save this for when you've opened all the presents and ate all the nosh and that li'l anti-climax sets in.
Then get a mug of hot drink and have a read; hopefully, these words can keep your climax going a bit longer:
* * *
Yeats is a sneaky one:
he starts out saying he has a gift for you, but it turns out to be for him, really:
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
W.B. Yeats
(1865-1939)
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
* * *
I've put this one up before, but this is the season for familiar carols and stories.
Here's to strong women:
(If it's too big for you, scroll down to the three-asterisk divider, but I ask you to sit, and read, and take time with reading, and considering.)
Queen Herod
Carol Ann Duffy
(1955-)
Ice in the trees.
Three Queens at the Palace gates,
dressed in furs, accented;
their several sweating, panting beasts,
laden for a long, hard trek,
following the guide and boy to the stables;
courteous, confident; oh, and with gifts
for the King and Queen of here - Herod, me -
in exchange for sunken baths, curtained beds,
fruit, the best of meat and wine,
dancers, music, talk -
as it turned out to be,
with everyone fast asleep, save me,
those vivid three -
till bitter dawn.
They were wise. Older than I.
They knew what they knew.
Once drunken Herod's head went back,
they asked to see her,
fast asleep in her crib,
my little child.
Silver and gold,
the loose change of herself,
glowed in the soft bowl of her face.
Grace, said the tallest Queen.
Strength, said the Queen with the hennaed hands.
The black Queen
made a tiny starfish of my daughter's fist,
said Happiness; then stared at me,
Queen to Queen, with insolent lust.
Watch, they said, for a star in the East -
a new star
pierced through the night like a nail.
It means he's here, alive, new-born.
Who? Him. The Husband. Hero. Hunk.
The Boy Next Door. The Paramour. The Je t'adore.
The Marrying Kind. Adulterer. Bigamist.
The Wolf. The Rip. The Rake. The Rat.
The Heartbreaker. The Ladykiller. Mr Right.
My baby stirred,
suckled the empty air for milk,
till I knelt
and the black Queen scooped out my breast,
the left, guiding it down
to the infant's mouth.
No man, I swore,
will make her shed one tear.
A peacock screamed outside.
Afterwards, it seemed like a dream.
The pungent camels
kneeling in the snow,
the guide's rough shout
as he clapped his leather gloves,
hawked, spat, snatched
the smoky jug of mead
from the chittering maid -
she was twelve, thirteen.
I watched each turbaned Queen
rise like a god on the back of her beast.
And splayed that night
below Herod's fusty bulk,
I saw the fierce eyes of the black Queen
flash again, felt her urgent warnings scald
my ear. Watch for a star, a star.
It means he's here ...
Some swaggering lad to break her heart,
some wincing Prince to take her name away
and give a ring, a nothing, nowt in gold.
I sent for the Chief of Staff,
a mountain man
with a red scar, like a tick
to the mean stare of his eye.
Take men and horses,
knives, swords, cutlasses.
Ride East from here
and kill each mother's son.
Do it. Spare not one.
The midnight hour. The chattering stars
shivered in a nervous sky.
Orion to the South
who knew the score, who'd seen,
not seen, then seen it all before;
the yapping Dog Star at his heels.
High up in the West
a studded, diamond W.
And then, as prophesied,
blatant, brazen, buoyant in the East -
and blue -
The Boyfriend's Star.
We do our best,
we Queens, we mothers,
mothers of Queens.
We wade through blood
for our sleeping girls.
We have daggers for eyes.
Behind our lullabies,
the hooves of terrible horses
thunder and drum.
* * *
If you're tired of the same carols, let me point you to The Boston Camerata. (Last year I recommended "Riu, Riu, Chiu" from the A Renaissance Christmas album.) This year, try the Ave Maria entitled "Prosa" on the album A Medieval Christmas. On iTunes.
* * *
If you are a bit blue this season:
If you sat with one loved one, or friend.
If you received one gift, however meagre.
If you have all fingers and toes, and can work them in coordination to, say, prepare a hot drink, or scroll to this point so your working eyes can read this,
count blessings.
There is no better cure for doldrums than rolling up your sleeves and doing something of use, if not for yourself, then another.
Consider this:
"I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy."
--Rabindranath Tagore
Now go wash the dishes.
If you were here, you could join me in that endeavour.
Then get a mug of hot drink and have a read; hopefully, these words can keep your climax going a bit longer:
* * *
Yeats is a sneaky one:
he starts out saying he has a gift for you, but it turns out to be for him, really:
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
W.B. Yeats
(1865-1939)
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
* * *
I've put this one up before, but this is the season for familiar carols and stories.
Here's to strong women:
(If it's too big for you, scroll down to the three-asterisk divider, but I ask you to sit, and read, and take time with reading, and considering.)
Queen Herod
Carol Ann Duffy
(1955-)
Ice in the trees.
Three Queens at the Palace gates,
dressed in furs, accented;
their several sweating, panting beasts,
laden for a long, hard trek,
following the guide and boy to the stables;
courteous, confident; oh, and with gifts
for the King and Queen of here - Herod, me -
in exchange for sunken baths, curtained beds,
fruit, the best of meat and wine,
dancers, music, talk -
as it turned out to be,
with everyone fast asleep, save me,
those vivid three -
till bitter dawn.
They were wise. Older than I.
They knew what they knew.
Once drunken Herod's head went back,
they asked to see her,
fast asleep in her crib,
my little child.
Silver and gold,
the loose change of herself,
glowed in the soft bowl of her face.
Grace, said the tallest Queen.
Strength, said the Queen with the hennaed hands.
The black Queen
made a tiny starfish of my daughter's fist,
said Happiness; then stared at me,
Queen to Queen, with insolent lust.
Watch, they said, for a star in the East -
a new star
pierced through the night like a nail.
It means he's here, alive, new-born.
Who? Him. The Husband. Hero. Hunk.
The Boy Next Door. The Paramour. The Je t'adore.
The Marrying Kind. Adulterer. Bigamist.
The Wolf. The Rip. The Rake. The Rat.
The Heartbreaker. The Ladykiller. Mr Right.
My baby stirred,
suckled the empty air for milk,
till I knelt
and the black Queen scooped out my breast,
the left, guiding it down
to the infant's mouth.
No man, I swore,
will make her shed one tear.
A peacock screamed outside.
Afterwards, it seemed like a dream.
The pungent camels
kneeling in the snow,
the guide's rough shout
as he clapped his leather gloves,
hawked, spat, snatched
the smoky jug of mead
from the chittering maid -
she was twelve, thirteen.
I watched each turbaned Queen
rise like a god on the back of her beast.
And splayed that night
below Herod's fusty bulk,
I saw the fierce eyes of the black Queen
flash again, felt her urgent warnings scald
my ear. Watch for a star, a star.
It means he's here ...
Some swaggering lad to break her heart,
some wincing Prince to take her name away
and give a ring, a nothing, nowt in gold.
I sent for the Chief of Staff,
a mountain man
with a red scar, like a tick
to the mean stare of his eye.
Take men and horses,
knives, swords, cutlasses.
Ride East from here
and kill each mother's son.
Do it. Spare not one.
The midnight hour. The chattering stars
shivered in a nervous sky.
Orion to the South
who knew the score, who'd seen,
not seen, then seen it all before;
the yapping Dog Star at his heels.
High up in the West
a studded, diamond W.
And then, as prophesied,
blatant, brazen, buoyant in the East -
and blue -
The Boyfriend's Star.
We do our best,
we Queens, we mothers,
mothers of Queens.
We wade through blood
for our sleeping girls.
We have daggers for eyes.
Behind our lullabies,
the hooves of terrible horses
thunder and drum.
* * *
If you're tired of the same carols, let me point you to The Boston Camerata. (Last year I recommended "Riu, Riu, Chiu" from the A Renaissance Christmas album.) This year, try the Ave Maria entitled "Prosa" on the album A Medieval Christmas. On iTunes.
* * *
If you are a bit blue this season:
If you sat with one loved one, or friend.
If you received one gift, however meagre.
If you have all fingers and toes, and can work them in coordination to, say, prepare a hot drink, or scroll to this point so your working eyes can read this,
count blessings.
There is no better cure for doldrums than rolling up your sleeves and doing something of use, if not for yourself, then another.
Consider this:
"I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy."
--Rabindranath Tagore
Now go wash the dishes.
If you were here, you could join me in that endeavour.