“There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,' returned the nephew. 'Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”
― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Dear Reader,
It’s the night before Christmas, that eerie in-between where darkness and joy make for better bedfellows, where many of us, surrounded by family long for solitude, and those who find themselves alone pray for company.
It’s the perfect night for poetry.
Poetry straddles the edge between hope and despair, longing and joy. It invites us to embrace the dark, to long for spring, and to discover in the manger of the human heart the glory of something totally other.
Of course, most of us will be busy, running back and forth between services and dinners, loading gifts into cars, and braving the reunions we can no longer put off.
But around midnight, when the house grows quiet, and nothing dares to stir, we find a rare bit of quiet charged with all the expectant longing of men and women desperate to believe in something. I myself will sit by the tree, and with whiskey in hand, recite to myself all my favorite poets, hoping in that moment to glimpse something of the wonder I knew as a child. Maybe you’ll find yourself doing the same, if so, I pray these poems help.
Happy Christmas.
-Ryan
FIELD NOTES #27 It happened like this: you ordered a latte light and sweet and head over heels I spilled what was left of my coffee, wincing as if waking from a dream, all the could've beens and should've beens running down my hand and pooling on the floor. I never saw you again and just like that winter was over. Sometimes, I wish for snow when all I've got is spring, or to run into a stranger I thought I'd never see again. 𑁍𑁍𑁍 They look so small, a jumble of black dots traversing a gray map. Each one plodding down their predetermined path. Of course, up close they move as if free but against the backdrop of open sky their frantic movement slows and you begin to see the beats— you'll never get anywhere staring at your feet. 𑁍𑁍𑁍 Concrete petals don't flutter they fall— somewhere between open sky and asphalt you realize you're free.