Merry Christmas
Winter images from my New England city along the river. About as close as I can get, I guess, to a Christmas poem. From the collection, The Unbreakable Gift. A sincere wish of mirth and merriment for the season!
The Carol of the Bells
is there such a thing any more
as a beautiful winter morning
slanting light over quiet hills
glistening ice on steps
white frost on lawns
reflecting dawn
the ring of sleigh bells
decorating an opening door
dogs bounding over frozen earth
for no purpose but the freedom of it
a slow walk along paths
in sleeping gardens
with no hope or agenda
but to breathe
the cold clean air
*
was there ever
the iron bells
in the red brick tower
of saint patrick’s
and the mechanical bells
in the belfry
of the shuttered church
of the sacred heart
in the crumbling industrial city
along the merrimack
did not often ring
with good news
and when they clamored
the clang of the clapper
against the iron from saint pat’s
the rhythm of the mechanized notes
beating from the sacred heart
seldom seemed to say
-throw cares away
*
when i was
a child
in that city
i found refuge
at night
in the same recurring dream
from which i would awake
in the gray smoke
of my stale room
and for a moment
feel as though i was safe
though i was not safe
always in the dream
the same halting journey
through the abandoned house
how many stories up i could not tell
at first wandering
into the paneled living room
of the dilapidated main floor
past the ornate furniture
the musty carpets
no one there
but always the sense
of someone watching
small before the giant fireplace
cold and strewn with charred
and blackened wood
slipping quietly
through the hidden door
behind a movable pilaster
into the narrow corridor
between lath walls
dangerous but not frightening
forgotten objects of all sorts on the floor
(as if others had been there before)
nail points dried beams splintered studs
at each corner and half-barred way
cobwebs dirt dusty slants of light
each night the same journey
in the same dream
ascending inevitably
the wobbly stairs to the attic
the countless steps and landings
turning and rising unevenly
until i at last arrived
at the tiny cramped and angled room
at the top of the dark
nothing above it
but the crest of the roof
and the endless expanse of night sky
a single window
frosty and cold to the touch
in a small dormered wall
a window barely large enough to kneel before
from which to peer out and down
at the sleepy tenement houses
and empty streets below of lawrence
as the snow
begins to fall
*
years later
in a strange twist
of funereal relief
holding past the tears
writing an avuncular eulogy
i connect the room
in the dream
to a small room
in the third-floor apartment
of the old man i loved
who was now dead
and that night
i am there again
for the last time
in a deeper sleep
staring out at the decaying city
from that closeted space
a winter wind buffeting the house
the old dormer window
shuddering with the wind
a small tin bell hanging on a nail
tinkling with each cold draft
that whistled through the lath
*
tonight as we arrive
at the party the snow
gales and twists and drifts
harangues the rejoicing world
with a challenge seemingly thrown
by a deranged god bent
on testing the mettle of mirth
by obliterating the ground with white
our scarves and gloves crust
with the tossed and twirling ice
as we hurry up the driveway
with our wine and gifts
pass the colored lights to ring
the doorbell of our host
our laughter spills into the air
with the expectations for our visit
you clomp your feet
and brush the snow
and look back from the landing
of the porch and joke
that the farthest footsteps
of our coming have almost gone
bells peal somewhere in the distance
from a hidden church
that we both silently imagine in the cold
is soft with candlelight and warm
you laugh again and say
the ringing of the distant bells
on this god forsaken night
sounds like the clang of silver coins
thrown from some great height
by angels hell-bent for heaven
to escape the storm