In the past 3 Originals we have given a brief explanation of
the poems featured, however this time I want to provide a collection of festive
or seasonal poetry that should just be enjoyed and perused at your leisure.
Wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Wilfred Owen, Winter
Song
The
browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.
From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.
From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.
Peter
Rylands, Untitled
The cold outside // The
warmth within
Brushing my cheeks //
Drowsing my eyes
My scarf’s knot tied // I
am comfortable,
Though wind may blow //
Sheltered and dry
And other elements try // I
sit and carelessly stare
As people pass // Those
who walk unknowingly by
In them I confide // What
do you think?
My want of warmth inside
// Whilst it is cold outside.
Thea Gilmore, Book Of
Chrismas Lyrics (As chosen by Dr. Peter Kirwan of the English Dept)
A week to Christmas
Cards of snow and holly
Gimcracks in the shops
Wishes and memories wrapped in tissue paper
Trinkets, gadgets and lollipops
As is through coloured glasses we remember the childhood thrill
Waking in the morning to the rustling of paper
The eiderdown heaped in a hill
Of dogs and bears and bricks and apples
The feeling that Christmas Day was a coral island in time
Where we land and eat our lotus
But where we can never stay
There was a star in the east
The Magi in their turbans brought their luxury toys
In homage to the child born to capsize their values
Wreck their equipoise
A smell of hay, like peace in the dark stable
Not peace, however, but a sword
To cut the Gordian Knot of logical self-interest
The fool-proof golden cord
For Christ walked in where philosophers tread
But armed with more than folly
Making the smooth place rough
And knocking the heads of church and state together
In honour of Him we have taken over the pagan Saturnalia for our annual treat
Letting the belly have its say
Ignoring the spirit while we eat
And conscience still goes crying through the desert with sackcloth round his loins
A week to Christmas
Hark the Herald Angels beg for copper coins
Cards of snow and holly
Gimcracks in the shops
Wishes and memories wrapped in tissue paper
Trinkets, gadgets and lollipops
As is through coloured glasses we remember the childhood thrill
Waking in the morning to the rustling of paper
The eiderdown heaped in a hill
Of dogs and bears and bricks and apples
The feeling that Christmas Day was a coral island in time
Where we land and eat our lotus
But where we can never stay
There was a star in the east
The Magi in their turbans brought their luxury toys
In homage to the child born to capsize their values
Wreck their equipoise
A smell of hay, like peace in the dark stable
Not peace, however, but a sword
To cut the Gordian Knot of logical self-interest
The fool-proof golden cord
For Christ walked in where philosophers tread
But armed with more than folly
Making the smooth place rough
And knocking the heads of church and state together
In honour of Him we have taken over the pagan Saturnalia for our annual treat
Letting the belly have its say
Ignoring the spirit while we eat
And conscience still goes crying through the desert with sackcloth round his loins
A week to Christmas
Hark the Herald Angels beg for copper coins
Peter Rylands, The
time to wake
The time to wake,
After rooftop feet,
Childish excitement,
And thanks for what we are
about to eat.
Piled up presents,
With the tree lit,
And adorned,
The fire roaring,
And tired eyes caught.
Wallace Stevens, The Snowman (As
chosen by Jem Bloomfield of the UoN English Dept)
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
