Onward, Christmas Soldier
To lure the sun back on the longest night of the year,
ancient people kept bonfires going.
I meet my neighbors in the street to place white bags filled
with a scoop of sand and a tea candle for the annual lumieres.
Before the night has ended, the battery-powered light
of three less-than-wise men will give out
in their snow cave near the summit of Mt. Hood.
I can’t tell you why the early Christians chose December 25th
to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but I can guess
it had something to do with the power of the flame,
a kindling of faith that a new day will come,
an angel’s sword flashing this way to heaven.
And I remember thirty years ago keeping a log on the fire
throughout those December nights in an old farmhouse we rented,
the covenant the body makes with the soul to carry the light,
the soul’s gift of the body’s brilliant nakedness.
Had you looked in a window one of those long, cold nights,
you would have thought you saw a young woman ironing
a coat of many-colors, a hooded robe of a monk,
a soldier’s camouflaged battle fatigues.
Had you followed her toy soldier as he joined the moon’s mad march
across the night sky, you would have felt their trackless arc,
the spear of their white light.
Look how the light in his eyes mirrors
the exploding roadside bomb of the sun at daybreak.
Watch as she vacantly sorts through the tangle of coat hangers
on the floor of an empty closet, drops the mouse king’s corpse
on the porch for the cats.
That sad season I was under house arrest for speeding
down Main Street, DUI at the wheel of the Steppin’ Out
Dance Studio Christmas float with nineteen people holding on
for dear life, and I did not care about the fly named Rudolph
buzzing against the parlor ceiling,
open a window to let it meet its frosty morning death.
And I did not smile when it dove into the fire and burned
to a crisp black star.
I did what a man does when he’s born several thousand years
too late for the Roman festival of Saturnalia.
I lit up like an altar boy and quietly got stoned.
ancient people kept bonfires going.
I meet my neighbors in the street to place white bags filled
with a scoop of sand and a tea candle for the annual lumieres.
Before the night has ended, the battery-powered light
of three less-than-wise men will give out
in their snow cave near the summit of Mt. Hood.
I can’t tell you why the early Christians chose December 25th
to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but I can guess
it had something to do with the power of the flame,
a kindling of faith that a new day will come,
an angel’s sword flashing this way to heaven.
And I remember thirty years ago keeping a log on the fire
throughout those December nights in an old farmhouse we rented,
the covenant the body makes with the soul to carry the light,
the soul’s gift of the body’s brilliant nakedness.
Had you looked in a window one of those long, cold nights,
you would have thought you saw a young woman ironing
a coat of many-colors, a hooded robe of a monk,
a soldier’s camouflaged battle fatigues.
Had you followed her toy soldier as he joined the moon’s mad march
across the night sky, you would have felt their trackless arc,
the spear of their white light.
Look how the light in his eyes mirrors
the exploding roadside bomb of the sun at daybreak.
Watch as she vacantly sorts through the tangle of coat hangers
on the floor of an empty closet, drops the mouse king’s corpse
on the porch for the cats.
That sad season I was under house arrest for speeding
down Main Street, DUI at the wheel of the Steppin’ Out
Dance Studio Christmas float with nineteen people holding on
for dear life, and I did not care about the fly named Rudolph
buzzing against the parlor ceiling,
open a window to let it meet its frosty morning death.
And I did not smile when it dove into the fire and burned
to a crisp black star.
I did what a man does when he’s born several thousand years
too late for the Roman festival of Saturnalia.
I lit up like an altar boy and quietly got stoned.
posted by John A. Blackard at 11:20 AM
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