.
Christmas
I don’t recall the tree or what we ate
With sentiment Dickensian and sweet.
The tree was in a Midwest way ornate;
The food: potatoes certainly; some meat.
The past for me gives off more light than heat
And memory is nearly pure caprice:
As images within its folds accrete,
My focus blurs, and deep connections cease.
Yet still I see there on the mantelpiece,
With tortured cotton balls of glittered snow:
A dime-store crèche, the Babe with cheeks cerise;
An orange lightbulb cast as Heaven’s glow.
The memory of this is still quite clear,
For mystery’s shadow never disappears.
.
.
Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Agape Review, America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, U.S. Catholic, Grand Little Things, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.
I like the Spenserian form (it’s hard to do!), and the use of exclusively masculine rhymes give a tightness to the entire poem. Also, the choice of the unusual “cerise” is striking, and it works because it is associated with the Christ Child and adds a touch of strangeness that has many possible suggestions in it.
The sub-theme of the speaker’s failing or fading memory is also carefully chosen — the poem is very visual, as if memory still grasped images and colors even when specific narratives of time and place are gone. It is a very professional piece of work.
The ghost of Christmas past comes in many guises and the palpable images you present are in stark contrast to cozy clichés sold to us in the festive season. For reasons I can’t quite pin down, this line leapt out at me, “The past for me gives off more light than heat” and stung my eyes with tears. Jeffrey, I too appreciate the craft and care that has gone into this sonnet. Thank you!
Must admit, for me too, that line ‘The past for me gives off more light than heat’ really did highlight your well-written sonnet, Jeffrey.
If I have time today, I’ll try writing a poem of X-mas yore, see what memories come to the fore.
Thank you so much, everyone, for your kind appreciation of my work–and a very Merry Christmas to you all.
And while I’m here, Susan, I want to thank you for your Mother Lode of Odes of a few days ago, which, although they weren’t blatantly seasonal, were to me a Christmas stocking of pure delight. The wordplay, the wit, the overall playfulness, and of course the craft, your incredible craft–all were simply wonderful. I especially enjoyed the Nutkin poem, as I am an avid squirrel fan. I live a block away from the only chunk of natural forest in Manhattan, and am there every weekend with pocketsful of treats for my little friends. I keep telling myself I must have a good squirrel poem in me somewhere, but you have set the bar marvelously high. Thank you again.
P.S. I don’t think any apology to John Keats is in order. I suspect he’s tickled pink.
Jeffrey, thank you very much for your appreciation of my odes. I’m thrilled you enjoyed “Nutkin” and how lovely to hear you’re able to witness the squirrels’ wonder on a weekly basis. I am drawn to all creatures great and small. When life gets tough, I steep myself in nature and let the marvel of God’s creations wash over me while I gain that sense of perspective I need to endure the chaos swirling around us these dire days. I am thoroughly looking forward to seeing your squirrel poem on the pages of SCP – there is a dearth of squirrel poems that needs to be addressed post haste!
Wishing you a peaceful and creative 2024!
Absolutely beautiful work, Jeffrey! Merry Christmas!
And a very Merry Christmas to you, Cynthia, and all best wishes and prayers that there’s some movement on the publisher search in the coming year.
A lovely sonnet, Jeffrey. Nice to see seldom-used words such as accrete, cerise, and caprice; as well as your phrasing of the tree as “in a Midwest way ornate”; the “tortured cotton balls”; and “dime-store crèche”. This brought back fond childhood memories of a Christmas village we once had.
This certainly conveyed the somewhat eerie but very dear glow of the past. The last line haunts and lingers; mystery that never disappears hurts in a way that we wouldn’t trade for anything.
What meager materials Glory chooses to shine through.
Merry Christmas, Jeffrey.