The Day
After Solstice
The pretty Christmas
lights.
Garlanding trees, tacked to the eaves
encircling the door.
The kind that blink and zip and fade.
Are shaped like prancing deer
and neon wreathes
and jolly elves,
mostly red and green
but multi-, as well.
The spotlights, and porch-lights
and highlighted bells,
the electrical smell
of makeshift wiring.
Along with a roaring fire
and all the lights inside
ablaze
on the darkest day of the year.
As if we were superstitious
as if sending some signal
to forces greater than us.
As if still not quite sure
of the sun's return,
Garlanding trees, tacked to the eaves
encircling the door.
The kind that blink and zip and fade.
Are shaped like prancing deer
and neon wreathes
and jolly elves,
mostly red and green
but multi-, as well.
The spotlights, and porch-lights
and highlighted bells,
the electrical smell
of makeshift wiring.
Along with a roaring fire
and all the lights inside
ablaze
on the darkest day of the year.
As if we were superstitious
as if sending some signal
to forces greater than us.
As if still not quite sure
of the sun's return,
waning in winter sky.
To work before dawn
back home in the dark
in artificial light.
And within its narrow cone, diminishing pool
the visible world
has been constricting steadily in.
So the vast universe
beyond the perimeter
might just as well not exist.
But tonight
the sky is clear, the moon is full,
and in the reflection of freshly fallen snow
sun seems superfluous,
the desperation
of the gaudy display
merely decorative.
Both the ostentatious neighbours
and the guy next door,
whose house is dark
whose blinds are drawn
who keeps to himself.
Still, the day after solstice
we are reassured
to see a minute of daylight more,
which you'd think we'd hardly notice.
But enough
to restore our faith;
that the universe
is unfolding as it should.
I thought a solstice poem (yes, yet another, he said wearily) was in order today. The season of darkness, which we paradoxically call the season of light, is just that: a reaction to the long winter night. And perhaps still represents a supplication to the impenetrable forces of nature, just as our superstitious ancestors would have done before there was any inkling of planetary physics, or of the futility of prayer.
The opening stanza is all about excess. And about the veneer of civilization that barely disguises these ancient anxieties and fears. So the excess begins to look not like bad taste, but more a kind of frenzied desperation.
I don't think the sense of claustrophobia in the 2nd stanza is necessarily a bad thing. There is a cosiness to the cone of warmth and light, like the secure feeling of being snow-stayed at home (provided, that is, the power stays on!)
I'm the guy next door. Which isn't to say I don't enjoy the Christmas lights. Although not the ostentations and over-done displays. I'm more partial to tasteful restraint. I think my dark house is not only an expression of my very private nature; it's a way of proclaiming I'm not superstitious, that I'm rational and enlightened, and that I abhor waste and excess.
To work before dawn
back home in the dark
in artificial light.
And within its narrow cone, diminishing pool
the visible world
has been constricting steadily in.
So the vast universe
beyond the perimeter
might just as well not exist.
But tonight
the sky is clear, the moon is full,
and in the reflection of freshly fallen snow
sun seems superfluous,
the desperation
of the gaudy display
merely decorative.
Both the ostentatious neighbours
and the guy next door,
whose house is dark
whose blinds are drawn
who keeps to himself.
Still, the day after solstice
we are reassured
to see a minute of daylight more,
which you'd think we'd hardly notice.
But enough
to restore our faith;
that the universe
is unfolding as it should.
I thought a solstice poem (yes, yet another, he said wearily) was in order today. The season of darkness, which we paradoxically call the season of light, is just that: a reaction to the long winter night. And perhaps still represents a supplication to the impenetrable forces of nature, just as our superstitious ancestors would have done before there was any inkling of planetary physics, or of the futility of prayer.
The opening stanza is all about excess. And about the veneer of civilization that barely disguises these ancient anxieties and fears. So the excess begins to look not like bad taste, but more a kind of frenzied desperation.
I don't think the sense of claustrophobia in the 2nd stanza is necessarily a bad thing. There is a cosiness to the cone of warmth and light, like the secure feeling of being snow-stayed at home (provided, that is, the power stays on!)
I'm the guy next door. Which isn't to say I don't enjoy the Christmas lights. Although not the ostentations and over-done displays. I'm more partial to tasteful restraint. I think my dark house is not only an expression of my very private nature; it's a way of proclaiming I'm not superstitious, that I'm rational and enlightened, and that I abhor waste and excess.
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