From “Those Last, Late Hours of Christmas Eve” by Lou Ann Welte in Poems of Christmas, edited by Myra Cohn Livingston:
All has stilled, Magician Sleep having cast his spell Upon the house, and silence lends an unreal beauty — A holiness that hovers over all. And as a bell That has been long and loudly ringing, stopping short Brings surprise (you lift your head to listen, knowing well The sound has ceased, and yet you listen still) so now A slow suspense, a mild excitement loosely coiled Holds you, keeps you listening: unwinding, drops away. And now, like children on tip-toe — lovely and unspoiled — Come those last, late, lingering hours before Christmas Day.
Just before the Christmas dawn, When time belongs to me alone, And all the household’s still asleep, All creatures still in dreamland deep, I feel within the darkness dense A special Christmas reverence, As in the hush that stillness brings, I almost hear the angels sing, while in my mind I clearly see The Christ child stirring peacefully.
“Elizabeth’s peculiar interest in animal pictures had begun during the summer previous, when the family were having a vacation trip in Europe. Upon her visits to galleries of paintings she had repeatedly encountered the same picture: The Manger with the Divine Child as the center of the group; and about the Child, half in shadow, the donkey and others of his lowly fellows of the stall — all turned in brute adoration. The memory of these Christmas pictures came vividly back to her now — especially the face of the donkey who was always made to look as though he had long been expecting the event; and whereas reasonably gratified, could not definitely say that he was much surprised: his entire aspect being that of a creature too meek and lowly to think that anything foreseen by him could possibly be much of a miracle.
“Once also she had seen another animal picture that fascinated her: it represented a blond-haired little girl of about her own age, with bare feet, hair hanging down, a palm branch in her hand. She was escorted by a troop of wild animals, each vying with the other in attempt to convince this exceptional little girl that nothing could induce them just at present to be carnivorous.
“The most dangerous beasts walked at the head of the line; the less powerful took their places in the rear; and the procession gradually tapered off in the distance until only the smallest creatures were to be seen struggling resolutely along in the parade….
“The meaning of the picture seemed to be that nothing harmful could come from the animal kingdom on this particular day, providing the animals were allowed to arrange themselves as specified in the procession…. All, no doubt, would have been glad to parade behind Elizabeth….
Villagers all, this frosty tide, Let your doors swing open wide, Though wind may follow, and snow beside Yet draw us in by your fire to bide; Joy shall be yours in the morning!
Here we stand in the cold and the sleet, Blowing fingers and stamping feet, Come from far away you to greet — You by the fire and we in the street — Bidding you joy in the morning!
For ere one half of the night was gone, Sudden a star has led us on, Raining bliss and benison — Bliss to morrow and more anon, Joy for every morning!
Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow — Saw the star o’er a stable low; Mary she might not further go — Welcome thatch, and litter below Joy was hers in the morning!
And then they heard the angels tell ‘Who were the first to cry Nowell?
Animals all, as it befell, In the stable where they did dwell! Joy shall be theirs in the morning!’
“Bats were almost as popular on Victorian cards as belfries and bells. They were to be one of the favourite subjects of Art Nouveau designers, though their basic structure is more Gothic in feeling. Maurice Rheims, who illustrates a gold goblet decorated with a spreadeagled bat in his L’Objet 1900 (1964), writes: ‘Ces animaux, chargés de bien de crimes, ont fait en tout temps l’objet de légendes et d’illustrations terrifiantes.’ — [These animals, responsible for many crimes, have always been the subject of terrifying legends and illustrations.]
“But it was not until the nineteenth century that stories of the vampire bats of the South American forests reached Europe, giving the little blind flying mouse a reputation for sinister perversity most satisfying to the decadents: ‘Holy Roman Vampire’, [Oscar] Wilde suggested. The younger Strauss’s comic opera Die Fledermaus [Revenge of the Bat] was first performed in 1874.
“Batcards ranged from the jollity of these cherub jockeys to the near-lubriciousness of Emily Thomson’s: design [first postcard, below], with its disingenuous caption, ‘Thy thoughts I cleave to’.”
Note: The four blue bat images up-top aren’t real photos. I didn’t have any bat-baubles, so I used Adobe Firefly to generate some for me. Yet they do look like something I’d photograph, don’t they? 🙂
Oh holy night! The stars are brightly shining! It is the night of the Sun Child’s birth. Long we have lain in cold and fear of hunger But Sun returns And the Earth wakes again! A ray of hope: The weary world rejoices For yonder breaks A new and glorious morn! Sing and give thanks Oh lift your voices high now The Sun returns Sun returns to light the world. Rejoice! Rejoice! Oh Sun returns!
Sunlight reflects blue off the banded mist, begotten by yesterday’s warm sun on December earth. The gods of soil and field slumber still, cold slowly settling into their bones.
I walk the verge, waiting, watching….
I greet this Solstice with calm, measured footsteps, waiting and watching as cycles turn.
From “Winter Solstice Sleep” by Clive Frobisher in A Poem for All Seasons, compiled by Robert Blackham:
As sunlight withers and day departs, Night time claims the hills and fields. Cloaking treetops in icy darkness, Forgotten ghost of summer past.
Creatures bolt into earthy beds, Spiralling into slumber farther deep. Through the longest night of year, Nothing stirs, time seems frozen still….
Through the winter they endure, Dormant in subterranean cocoons. Awakening with the yawns of Spring, The creatures rise to start anew.
“It was a pleasant afternoon to be out of doors and to go about what they had planned; the ground was scarcely frozen, there was no wind, and the whole sky was overcast with thin gray cloud that betrayed no movement. Under this still dome of silvery-violet light stretched the winter land; it seemed ready and waiting for its great festival.
“The lawn sloped away from the house to a brook at the bottom, and beyond the brook the ground rose to a woodland hilltop…. Out of this woods on the afternoon air sounded the muffled strokes of an axe cutting down a black walnut partly dead; and when this fell, it would bring down with it bunches of mistletoe, those white pearls of the forest mounted on branching jade. To-morrow eager fingers would be gathering the mistletoe to decorate the house. Nearby was a thicket of bramble and cane where, out of reach of cattle, bushes of holly thrived: the same fingers would be gathering that.
“Bordering this woods on one side lay a cornfield. The corn had just been shucked, and beside each shock of fodder lay its heap of ears ready for the gathering wagon. The sight of the corn brought freshly to remembrance the red-ambered home-brew of the land which runs in a genial torrent through all days and nights of the year… but never with so inundating a movement as at this season. And the same grain suggested also the smokehouses of all farms, in which larded porkers, fattened by it, had taken on posthumous honors as home-cured hams; and in which up under the black rafters home-made sausages were being smoked to their needed flavor over well-chosen chips.
“Around one heap of ears a flock of home-grown turkeys, red-mottled, rainbow-necked, were feeding for their fate….
“Thus everything needed for Christmas was there in sight: the mistletoe — the holly — the liquor of the land for the cups of hearty men — the hams and the sausages of fastidious housewives — the turkey and the quail…. They were in sight there — the fair maturings of the sun now ready to be turned into offerings to the dark solstice….”
From “Christmas 1949” in Christmas Poems by Dorothy Stott Shaw:
Saturn and Mars have met and kissed And passed and gone their innocent ways, And solstice-ward the pattern moves Of lengthening nights and shrinking days.
Two planets blossom in the west Like stem-less flowers of yellow light; Westward the constellations move In spangled splendor through the night.
Motionless in the shimmering dark, Hushed in the hollow under the hill, The trees stand tall to touch the stars; The snow clings fast; the twigs are still….
