Danse Macabre III: Poetry from the North (of Nevada)

Friday, December 8, 2006

Poetry from the North (of Nevada)

A Christian Contemplates

The faithful pray, with steepled hands,
for return to light and a baby's innocence.
In this mystery the childish is
our best.
Yet youngsters don't deal
in dilemmas,
compassion.

Why tread hazzard's path if yearly
a pilgrim should struggle
back to infancy?

Becoming as a child requires
acceptance
awe
humility.

Light returns. Does it bring hope
or fundamental judgmentalists
purveying Jesus glitter?
Does this black light damn
gentiles to darkness?

Angels carol of peace on earth.
Do babies make peace?

What of shepherds?
Do we worship their abiding poverty,
stink of shit and lanolin,
to canonize our superiority?

What of parents---surrogate
father determined to hang
on to his soiled fiancee?
mother jar stores miracles in her heart
valued for silence, receptivity.

And the Magi,
delivering forcasts of death?
What leaders now gift helplessness?

Perhaps we need to reinvent light's return
to value shades of gray,
pray the gray binds us,
leads us, holding hands,
out of the dark.

Metamorphoses

Holly pricks stay green
yet raise
blood
droplets of scarlet.
Packages hold
status barbs
we don't intend---
the sweater, color of remembered
hatred for a sadistic teacher.
Icicle lights sway,
push warm molecules
into snow that only
needs to freeze.
Manger crosspieces intersect
with the cross.

Season's Schizophrenia

Icicle lights dance on my deck.
Yet inside my house the holiday
wreck piles high in confusion.
This year whirls more and more dreary.
I'm through seasonal shopping
have wrapped most of the stuff
topping my short list now, beat sugar to fluff
for hard sauce. Delicious.
Plum pudding with spices
I fear's too ambitious to whip up this year,
for deep in my heart an angry sore festers,
leaving my spirit with a swollen
blister. I'd like to chuck trappings
into the garbage,
clean up my act, to child Jesus pay
homage; relive Mary's story
of delivery and joy, but age
has reduced those memories to toys,
of candied fantasy. I need to forsake gee gaws
material, keep twelve days of simplicity
with prayer and more spiritual
things of this season, revel in Northern
Lights, cold crackling snow underfoot, rise
to new life in cosmic regard, for nature's
treasures given us by the Lord.

by Elizabeth I. Riseden

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A Visit From J.S. Bach 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the city The critics were trying their best to be witty; They printed their lists of the past year's best fare, In hopes that their trendy young readers would care; But the readers were nestled all snug in their beds, While vacuous pop idols danced in their heads; And the Maestro in PJs, and I in my drawers, Had just settled in to examine some scores, When out on the lawn, such cacaphonous sound, I sprang from my desk thinking Zorn was in town. I rushed to the window, allegro con brio, Tore open the shutters — I just had to see! Oh, The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what should my wondering eyes linger over, But an old harpsichord and eight ghostly composers, With an old kappelmeister conducting the flock – I knew in a moment it had to be Bach. More rapid than Valkyries, onward they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Mozart! now, Lassus! now, Schoenberg and Dvorak! On, Cage! on Beethoven! on, Haydn and Bartok! To the dominant seven! To suspended six-four! Now dash away! dash away! appoggiatur'!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So off to a new key they all modulated, For Bach would leave no variation unstated. A caseura, and then on the roof could be heard A cadence resolved with a picardy third. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney old J.S. Bach came with a bound. He was dressed up for Weimar in 1710 And his fingers were stained with the ink from his pen; An un-finished score could be seen to protrude From his pocket — the title said "Die Kunst der Fugue." His eyes—how they twinkled with genius – none finer! He did, after all, write the Mass in B Minor. His mouth was a droll as a tonicization, His wig was a white as unspoiled glaciation; He carried a record of naughty and niceness – That list was as long as the Bach Werke Verzeichnis! His belly looked like it could use a supporter And shook when he laughed, like a Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte. He was chubby and plump, a well tempered old master, And I laughed when I saw him, then wished I'd thought faster; A wink, and a line from a two-part invention, Soon showed me that I should feel no apprehension; He spoke not a word, but went straight to composing, A Musical Offering – it looked quite imposing, Then humming some bars from the St. Matthew Passion, He rose up the chimney in a glorious fashion; He sprang to the keys, raised his hands to the sky And away they all flew, at Allegro Assai, But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

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