Making
Merry
Jan 5 2014
by too much jollity,
the endless dark, and grimy snow.
When the cheerful lights
seem to try too hard;
all night long, blinking unwatched,
and then left on, because no one bothered
in the washed-out light
of dawn.
In the first week of the
new year
Christmas lights
are looking weary.
They remind me of wrapping paper
scattered beneath the tree,
where needles are shedding, and listing unsteady
like a tipsy uncle
well into the ‘nog.
Where snow-banks have narrowed the streets,
so high
you creep ahead
at every intersection,
gingerly peering right, then left.
The roads are a mess
of salt and grit,
dirty slush in frozen ridges.
The resolutions
that felt so optimistic
have gone flat as champagne
the morning after
the ball was dropped.
But next week
will be a fresh start
you promise yourself,
because it's always the first day
of the rest of your life,
so what's the hurry?
In the depths of winter
we wish a "Merry Christmas"
and hope to make merry ourselves.
A peculiar word
conjuring twinkling eyes, and mirthful bellies
that would draw strange looks
anytime else.
That now, in the holiday aftermath
Christmas lights
are looking weary.
They remind me of wrapping paper
scattered beneath the tree,
where needles are shedding, and listing unsteady
like a tipsy uncle
well into the ‘nog.
Where snow-banks have narrowed the streets,
so high
you creep ahead
at every intersection,
gingerly peering right, then left.
The roads are a mess
of salt and grit,
dirty slush in frozen ridges.
The resolutions
that felt so optimistic
have gone flat as champagne
the morning after
the ball was dropped.
But next week
will be a fresh start
you promise yourself,
because it's always the first day
of the rest of your life,
so what's the hurry?
In the depths of winter
we wish a "Merry Christmas"
and hope to make merry ourselves.
A peculiar word
conjuring twinkling eyes, and mirthful bellies
that would draw strange looks
anytime else.
That now, in the holiday aftermath
seems odder, still,
exhaustedby too much jollity,
the endless dark, and grimy snow.
When the cheerful lights
seem to try too hard;
all night long, blinking unwatched,
and then left on, because no one bothered
in the washed-out light
of dawn.
Christmas lights left on all day look dull, lonely,
neglected. Instead of adding cheer, they emphasize the bleakness of mid-winter.
And as the year goes on, the displays get tired and their cheerfulness seems
forced.
This is similar to the New Year celebration itself, which has an obligatory quality to it: the expectation you'll spend too much money, get too drunk, and must take part in this conventional notion of "fun". Not to mention it's an artificial celebration of an arbitrary date on the calendar.
And it's similar to the irony of this peculiar word "merry", which we attach exclusively to Christmas. The exhortation also seems forced. And the heightened expectations of this holiday season can, ironically, make it the least "merry" of times. There is the financial pressure; the unattainable ideal of family life; the loneliness, for some; and for others, the teeth-gritting closeness to difficult relatives with whom we would never otherwise spend time. Just because it seems less arch and artificial, I prefer the British "Happy Christmas" to the North American "Merry".
And it all happens in the middle of winter, which a lot of people find hard and wearing.
The only auto-biographical part of this poem is my impression of the lights, and the experience of city driving in the accumulation of snow. (Which is the second stanza, and which I think a good editor might urge me to throw out entirely, since it's tangential and distracting, and its only contribution is the bridging of "ridges" with the cleverly rhymed "optimistic".) I don't observe Christmas, and the excess of the New Year's celebration has always left me indifferent. And I actually like winter: I enjoy the cold, and the long dark night is a great opportunity to hibernate around a warm fire -- "endless dark, and grimy snow" notwithstanding!
This is similar to the New Year celebration itself, which has an obligatory quality to it: the expectation you'll spend too much money, get too drunk, and must take part in this conventional notion of "fun". Not to mention it's an artificial celebration of an arbitrary date on the calendar.
And it's similar to the irony of this peculiar word "merry", which we attach exclusively to Christmas. The exhortation also seems forced. And the heightened expectations of this holiday season can, ironically, make it the least "merry" of times. There is the financial pressure; the unattainable ideal of family life; the loneliness, for some; and for others, the teeth-gritting closeness to difficult relatives with whom we would never otherwise spend time. Just because it seems less arch and artificial, I prefer the British "Happy Christmas" to the North American "Merry".
And it all happens in the middle of winter, which a lot of people find hard and wearing.
The only auto-biographical part of this poem is my impression of the lights, and the experience of city driving in the accumulation of snow. (Which is the second stanza, and which I think a good editor might urge me to throw out entirely, since it's tangential and distracting, and its only contribution is the bridging of "ridges" with the cleverly rhymed "optimistic".) I don't observe Christmas, and the excess of the New Year's celebration has always left me indifferent. And I actually like winter: I enjoy the cold, and the long dark night is a great opportunity to hibernate around a warm fire -- "endless dark, and grimy snow" notwithstanding!
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