Ironic Advent 2016 Meditation #10:
Anxious Advent
Nobody should even try to understand this particular Ironic Advent Meditation except Jennifer Woodruff Tait and Edwin Woodruff Tait and a few others (probably named Jennifer or Laura) who have been with me from the beginning.
All you need for footnotes to this long-ish poem in six parts are these.
1. I realize it is bad in some parts and worse than bad in others.
2. As you may be able to tell, much of it is heavily under the influence (to the point of imitation) of W. H. Auden whom I had discovered my senior year of college.
3. It was written my senior year of college, preparing for Christmas, just after my father died (he died on Dec. 7, which I will write about tomorrow).
4. To say that it sounds too formal and pretentious is nothing new to me. I was reading nothing but Auden and Donne and Crashaw and Milton and . . . what do you expect?
5. But, since I have previously honored W. H. Auden as the original "Ironic Advent Meditator" on the basis, mostly, of his amazing long poem, For the Time Being, I just sort of complete the circle here. I didn't have to read For the Time Being for my contemporary poetry class; heck, we were just doing a few short poems by Auden. But I was under his spell. It's one of the first real books of poetry by a real poet that I went out and bought because I wanted to read it. And to learn wisdom, slant.
6. Finally, this. If you've ever read any of Ben Camino, you will recognize . . . oh, just about everything I've ever written about. Badly, yes. Pompous with a capital POMP, yes. But there's a couple of lines in it that still get me. That make me think that I'm glad I sat down to write a long poem in imitation of W. H. Auden.
Tomorrow, I will write about Charles, my dear father, on the anniversary of his death.
Anxious Advent (For W. H. Auden)*
I.
Sing
of meaning mid the childish night,
Lightly
stroke the savior's cheek.
Creator's
smile, it lingers still.
Into
the new world we shall peek.
Our
desert thoughts now turn to Him,
His
word our turning (prophets speak),
"In
every time, each place, each journey,
Through
haunted doorways you must seek."
And so we look on
While no one takes notice--
Our perfumed apartments,
Our mouths filled with sawdust.
We violent, we cunning
We ugly, we bravies--
We little lost lambies
Asleep on the way.
We licking our lonelies,
No crying we make--
We little lost lambies
Asleep on the way.
Lo!
Baby-thing within the hay,
Hide
not thy face; thy face we seek.
From
far and near we’ve found our way,
Into
the bent world, Light has peeked.
Our
shadow lives now turn to Thee,
Our
seasoned cheer with age grows weak,
And
pain of living stills our hearts,
Into
the young world we would peek.
For old world relies on
Her soul-killing power.
Brave hatred betrayed us
In earth's early hour.
We longing, we hoping,
We evil, we praying
For little lost lambies
So far from the way.
We licking our lonelies,
While dying, we play.
We little lost lambies
So far from the way.
II.
"Please
leave by the door that's left for you,
For
you must leave."
"Please
leave with the life that's meaningless,
For
you must leave."
"Please
leave with belief in nothingness,
For
you must believe."
"Please
live with the life of Sisyphus,
For
you must live."
"Please
live with belief in humanity,
For
you must . . . ."
"Live
. . .”
"For
you must."
III.
The
shadow lives have turned to lies,
To
scienced truth, from truth set free,
And
so they hope to turn from Thee,
The
stable myth, whose symmetry
Has
held the world from infancy--
We
blind our hearts and hope to see.
IV.
a
child sighs through his window,
looking
for the world he believed in,
looking
for the point of perfection
to
put his hope in.
the
spirits long have forsook him,
or
teachers have made him believe so,
his
night in the desert reminds him
that
beauty once lived here.
V.
(Litany)
When
I think of greed and sacrifice,
I think of this sick and lovely time.
When
I think of joy and deathly strife,
All babes of Bethlehem, pray for us.
When
I think of how my light is spent,
I'm trying John, I'm trying.
As
the world I love is shrinking, sinking,
Language can’t match anguish.
Are
all myths,
Are
all worlds,
All
under erasure?
VI.
(Holly Day?)
Baby
dear,
Mother
is near,
Father
is here,
Christmas
cheer,
Happy
year,
Happy
tears,
Anything
to calm the fear
Of
angels’ song.
*Yes, I said that.
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