'Twas the day before the night before the night before Christmas

Let us begin by wishing a very Happy Birthday! to Robert Bly, Minnesota's first (legally) official poet laureate. We append a wish for Many Happy Returns, and note that, this year past, we enjoyed reading, cover to cover, his recently published Collected Poems.

some presents go on, rather than under, the tree

Photo by J. Harrington

In many homes anticipation and excitement will build over the next forty-eight hours or so, only to be dissipated in a wave of delights or disappointments, depending on what's been left in carefully hung stockings and under well-decorated trees. But we all know it isn't about how much we do or do not get to add to our collection of "stuff." At least those of us familiar with the story of the humble origins embodied in the original Christmas or those who've learned from the Grinch who endeavored to steal Christmas know this celebration is about the size of our hearts.

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

Christmas is a time for angels to visit

Photo by J. Harrington

Returning to Bly's Collected Poems, we find a slightly different perspective on "What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more." From his volume Morning Poems, we find

A Christmas Poem

by Robert Bly

Christmas is a place, like Jackson Hole, where all
     agree
To meet once a year. It has water, and grass for
     horses;
All the fur traders can come in. We visited the place
As children, but we never heard the good stories.

Those stories only get told in the big tents, late
At night, when a trapper who has been caught
In his own trap, held down in icy water, talks; and a
     man
With a ponytail and a limp comes in from the edge of
     the fire.

As children we knew there was more to it—
Why some men got drunk on Christmas Eve
Wasn't explained, nor why we were so often
Near tears nor why the stars came down so close,
Why so much was lost. Those men and women
Who had died in wars started by others,
Did they come that night? Is that why the Christmas
     tree
Trembled just before we opened the presents?

There was something about angels. Angels we
Have heard on high Sweetly singing o'er
The plain. The angels were certain. But we could not
Be certain whether our family was worthy tonight.

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