A Scotsman Looks at The Nativity

A take on the MacDiarmid classic

 

Felice Navidad
belting out of
a boom box.
Three unfortunates,
two miming on
brass instruments;
one with frozen
arms wrapped around
an unsqueezed accordion.
They didn’t make
the celestial,
festive noise,
but they did
produce and provide it.
Creditable
in that
regard,
at least.

Christmas on
Princess Street;
changed yes,
and yet unchanging.
It’s the 23rd
and Christmas is
in the fast lane,
hurtling towards
its own
inevitable
oblivion.
The birth of
one more saviour,
that promise
broken and remade
amid the red/green
tinsel gore
of dead
Yuletide.

Do I sound
skeptical?
Made so by
modern media;
blockbusting
Hollywood;
celebrity Santa.
When life was
simpler,
Christmas was
more complex…
magic
uncontrived and
child-like.
Santa
the concept
and Santa
updated
are two
different beings;
one mystical,
the other
manufactured.

There are always
skeptics
like me,
I’m supposing.
A shepherd
solitary
on a bleak,
Judean hillside.
An Eastern mystic;
one of the Magi;
seeing
in a blessed
birth
only a
cruel, hard
death; and
wishing
for another.

Christmas, eh!

A new-born king
down and dirty
amongst
the cattle.
The Risen Christ
upheld by
the angelic host.
Yet
in between,
a world
still waiting,
without the wit
to see that what
we should find
remarkable
in ‘The Message’,
is brutal,
crucifixion…

Jist sayin’
I Imagine XX

—-

News!News! From Cherubim Choirs,
From Gabriel carolling Joy!
To a world of doubts and dark standing.
Laid beyond the celestial light.

A young untutored family,
Cast central to God’s purpose,
Beggars the innocence of shepherds.
From a simple, tribal hope
God made Flesh is born.

A tiny prophet rendered in swaddling
Draws Eastern wizard Kings
Come West to worship
And changes all life hereafter.

If only I’d stood witness to the birth;
I might see the merit
in a sacrificial death.
On such small detail
Hangs the faith of all the World.

—-

Birds cry wolf
And chase the Sun to sleep.
Green-sleeved trees
don biblical coats.
as many colours
paint the shortening days.
Life buttons up
And battens down.
Leaves crackle underfoot
To shape-shift in a whisper.
Broadly speaking, Nature
Narrows down the year.
As ebbing Autumn
Flows into December

—-

The Bells are in the sky.
Cold chimes and Christmas Carillons.
Whilst Venus ventures near the Earth,
Her sisters settle round the moon.
A hush before the harlequin dance.
The gaudy minstrel of Yuletide
Who sings Wassail!
With earthy, Saxon skill.
It’s spice and fruit;
pudding, punch and pinelogs.
The larder laid to feast.
The fire laid to flame.
The table laid to banquet.
And Earth receives a King.

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