One of the elders in my church asked me to write a poem for the Christmas carol service. I thought I'd give it its premiere on shalomplace. It's written from the viewpoint of the wise men. Hope you like it:

* * *

We came imagining light from gilded palaces,
Dreaming of moons planets galaxies hurtling towards the sacred space.

We saw Him in the circling sky, heard His name in the lapping of the waves by the lake at midnight: a Son - a Saviour - a Son - a Saviour.

We followed raptures, chased the bliss in burning stars, found our peace at last bent low in darkened stables. There.

A son.

The rhythm of his heart is the rhythm of creation.

A saviour.

The music of his breath is the music of its tears.

A tiny fragment torn from glory, behind whose eyes the universe lies glowing.
His mother lays him down.

Stirring in his cot, a rush of love fires dried grass like breath through beginnings.
His mother watches, wondering. The moment still.

We have only these, glory mined from seams of earth, splendour oozed from tree bark,
our treasures dust, our wisdom the rust of cold, metallic ages.

His infant grace drops from heaven like rain on dry parched wilderness, honey from the hive, radiance bedded down in straw, warming the night.

A well worn robe hangs limply from a cross beam by the door.
His mother takes it, wraps it round the sleeping child, cuts his future from a weave of lives embroidered by his finger.

We leave in orbit around the boy, singing back the lapping waves, sounding out the circling sky, the hurtling planets in light that none would dare imagine:

Christ first
Christ best
Christ bliss
Christ rest
Christ is born.

* * *

That�s a beautiful poem, Stephen! Thanks for sharing.

May I offer a few comments? I find the poem strongest where you focus on the immediate, what can sensed. For suddenly you make the sensory transparent, a window unto the beyond, onto the Birth of Christ!

We came imagining light from gilded palaces...

Stirring in his cot, a rush of love fires dried grass like breath through beginnings.

A well worn robe hangs limply from a cross beam by the door.
His mother takes it, wraps it round the sleeping child...

In my opinion, your poem is particularly potent where you�re not using the standard Christian words (son, saviour, creation, sacred, grace, heaven). Why? It�s like the poem then draws us there as though we ourselves were Witnesses, rather than readers of the Good Book. Your ordinary words function as "an unveiling", if you will.

And I love this ending! :

"...singing back the lapping waves, sounding out the circling sky, the hurtling planets in light that none would dare imagine."

With best regards,
HeartPrayer

HeartPrayer: "In my opinion, your poem is particularly potent where you�re not using the standard Christian words (son, saviour, creation, sacred, grace, heaven). Why? It�s like the poem then draws us there as though we ourselves were Witnesses, rather than readers of the Good Book. Your ordinary words function as "an unveiling", if you will."


That's some fine, insightful criticism, HP. Thanks. You're absolutely right.

Pretty hard to avoid these words when talking about the Divine (and, without being patronising, I think my church might need them as a kind of anchor), but from a literary perspective you're absolutely right. I might tweak a bit here and there, fine tune the poem a bit.

Very grateful .

BTW - I was aware of a kind of artistic laziness creeping in to the composition of the poem, probably an adverse/perverse reaction to having to meet a Christmas Eve deadline .

quote:

Pretty hard to avoid these words when talking about the Divine (and, without being patronising, I think my church might need them as a kind of anchor)...[/QB]

I think your church will forgive you for removing anchor and crutches completely. Go ahead, give it a try, and see what happens.

Well, of course, HP. Anchors aweigh !

quote:

Originally posted by Stephen:
[qb] Well, of course, HP. Anchors aweigh! [/qb]

Exactly! And as a writer, you�re providing an uplifting exerience, are you not?