Winter, the holidays, and in particular Christmas, is a great time for poetry. Think of the carols we sing, many of them poems set to song. Two of my favorites in this vein are “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Rossetti and “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” by Longfellow.
So with that in mind, I’ll post one of mine here. Like you (maybe,) Christmas puts me in a pensive and poetic frame of mind. I’m thinking of snow and evergreens and shepherds and the ghost of Christmas present, moreso than icy roads and dead needles and big brash gifts and booby-trapped houses. Moreso, even, than Christmas angels and soup kitchens and sicknesses and Tiny Tim, although by all means....
As for this poem, it first appeared in Poetry Quarterly, and you can buy the issue here or read it here.
Please comment, like, and share as you will! Merry Christmas, everyone!
A Nebula on Christmas Night
Late on Christmas Eve, the snow was falling,
snow was glistening by the porchlight.
I dusted off the landscape lamps
and listened to the chink-chink-chink of chains.
All the night, the world grew paler,
but by morning blew away.
Wind raged on past sunbreak, and in the hedgerow,
gray thrush played hide-and-seek
in bitter fright. I combed aside the leaves that roofed
its home, feeling guilty in the end.
All the neighbors had departed, leaving
ghosts of Christmas lights upon the eaves
and lateral trail ice packs down the drives.
Through the bulging bay window I peered,
and where the stockings once had hung
now grew boxes stacked on boxes, and dust within.
I imagined deep impressions on the dark recesses,
were there light enough for shadows.
Outside, wrapped in scarves, I trained
my telescope at Polaris, too dim for such as wise men.
In between, I found a speck of scarlet, a cloud
of interstellar dust and gas with a fine, faint
ring of green. My Christmas nebula, I thought,
and wondered if, these many years since gone,
the clouds had dissipated into space or gathered
into one last hurrah, a star we soon would see.