I’ve not written much in the way of “advent” themed poetry…yet. In light of this season and it’s impact on my own story, my way of understanding the reality of my faith I think I’ll use this space to point you in a couple of directions on poetry tuesdays.
First off, my friend Charlie Lowell is awesome in a number of ways so pay attention to the things he does in the digital and physical world, honestly. He’s done an “advent poetry” blog in the past featuring quite a few of my favorite poet types so check THAT out.
Second, I’ll post some “advent” themed works here on tuesdays. The first of which is by a poet I like an awful lot, Scott Cairns. I came across this one first in his book, Compass of Affection and then online as I was looking for something appropriate to capture the oddness of this season, the pull between what IS and what I HOPE for…
enjoy this. buy his book.
Well, it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas—everywhere, children eyeing the bright lights and colorful goods, traffic a good deal worse than usual and most adults in view looking a little puzzled, blinking their eyes against the assault of stammering bulbs and public displays of goodwill. We were all embarrassed, frankly, the haves and the have-nots—all of us aware something had gone far wrong with an entire season, something had eluded us. And, well, it was strenuous, trying to recall what it was that had charmed us so, back when we were much smaller and more oblivious than not concerning the weather, mass marketing, the insufficiently hidden faces behind those white beards and other jolly gear. And there was something else: a general diminishment whose symptoms included the Xs in Xmas, shortened tempers, and the aggressive abandon with which most celebrants seemed to push their shiny cars about. All of this seemed to accumulate like wet snow, or like the fog with which our habitual inversion tried to choke us, or to blank us out altogether, so that, of a given night, all that appeared over the mess we had made of the season was what might be described as a nearly obscured radiance, just visible through the gauze, either the moon disguised by a winter veil, or some lost star—isolated, distant, sadly dismissing of us, and of all our expertly managed scene.
-from the Compass of Affection: Poems New and Selected