Some of us celebrate Christmas. Some of us don’t. Some find it a time of anticipation, others experience it as a time of longing or pain. Then there are simply the images. Snow (at least in the North!), gingerbread, candy canes, ribbons, evergreens, cranberries, candles.
Share your favorite “Night Before Christmas” kind of poem in the comment box. Or pen your own, including maybe a few images we don’t ordinarily associate with the holiday. Let’s make a celebration of words.
A Visit from St. Nicholas
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
—Clement Clarke Moore (or Henry Livingston Jr, as the case may be)
Photo by Andrew Kelsall, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Poem is in the public domain.
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Bethany Rohde says
Over the Crowd
The slow work of defrost now fans across
my breath-covered windshield.
I force my hands deeper down
into their pockets. Fingertips jam
against the receipt-scraps of my evening.
I catch some movement through the glass: a girl,
half the height of a Christmas tree.
She’s crawling up into a window display
that’s advertising: Buy
one get one free.
Her face is fixed on a tidy pyramid of ornaments.
They almost match her earmuffs
of candy apple red.
She’s hanging the globes, shoulder to shoulder, on one
brow-level branch.
With her back to the ever-scrolling crowd
(which does not see her either)
she dots the flocked tree with color.
I leave my car in park.
She’s making room for the last of the baubles,
while occasionally sweeping their price tags
just out of her eyes.
KM kirkpatrick says
Nicely done Bethany… love the vividness of your movement and imagery in the poem.
Bethany Rohde says
Thank you so much for reading my poem and for the comment. I look forward to reading the other poetry here next.
Richard Maxson says
Bethany, I love the entire poem, but especially the “ever-scrolling crowd” – nice original image.
Bethany Rohde says
So kind of you to leave feedback on my poem, Richard Maxson. I really appreciate it. I’m going to read the other poems now.
KM kirkpatrick says
Paused in their tracks, two by two they were called…
To an ark made of wood, they followed a sign,
To renew a world, that had long forgot,
How to love and pardon,
How to be in a garden,
How to walk together in its light sublime.
Like a statue it stood just off the road,
A wolf as white as the snow she tracked,
Was it something she heard, a silent word,
Falling onto the earth,
Announcing a birth,
As I raced past, a trunk load of gifts to unpack.
At the window, he purred, nuzzling its glass,
Entranced eyes fixed on the clear night’s glow,
Or was it that star, I had seen from the car…
As my candy cane, jacked – up children played,
In the back seat screaming – my thoughts disarrayed,
Was the cat’s meow something I was meant to know?
No time to think, dashing out again,
Racing to church, we’ll be late for the mass,
To celebrate something passing over to fast…
Is there time for a pause,
Just to breathe – just because…
Now, why is that grey owl staring at us?
Perhaps it is wisdom born of his watching,
Watching us spend these days on the spending,
Forgetting its reasons, keeping up with what’s trending…
Still I cannot forget,
The wolf, owl and cat,
How they remind of that star on this evening.
Then into the church, now its almost midnight,
Time suspended, yet dancing, with crimson and light,
I am one of the readers, for this Christmas Eve Night.
And my children sit listening,
At my southern drawl, christening,
What the animals knew on that Bethlehem night.
They were called, one by one, by a sign in the skies…
Paused in their tracks for the birth of a child,
Who renewed a world, that had long forgot,
How to live and pardon,
How to share a garden,
How to love one another so tender and mild.
Looked up from my reading, my little ones nodding,
Fell asleep in my lap as I sit there listening,
In seraphic light now, how silent its glistening,
I am taking them home,
Counting deer as they roam,
And I wave to that owl, still watching and staring.
All heads are in bed, the night finally silent,
I fire up the fireplace, my soul to reflect,
And I sit by the window’s star light with the cat…
And I’m warmed by a presence,
A timeless wisdom’s essence:
Animals can be Angels, for even they know…
Now I’m filled with the meaning of a Christmas Night’s glow…
And I watch with the animals, for even they know.
Richard Maxson says
Very warm and welcoming Christmas poem, much like its fireplace.
Bethany Rohde says
Thank you for sharing your poem with us. These lines particularly resonated with me:
Was it something she heard, a silent word,/Falling onto the earth,
and
How to live and pardon,/ How to share a garden,
Richard Maxson says
The Baby in the Barn
Like these words, you were stolen.
Symbols beget symbols,
but these days you are lost in them,
like a blue flag against a clear sky,
or desperate breaths in a giant wind.
Today you would be left in a car,
while your mother picked up her check
from the wise men. Things have changed:
Someone would discover you
on the scanty farm, the three of you
huddled among the hungry animals.
The headlines would read: Baby Found With Pigs!
You would be rescued by good intentions,
but function follows fate, the fall comes calling.
The headlines would read: The Baby in the Barn Left in a Car!
Abandonment needs its mandalas.
There were great plans for you that night,
best you should have kept it quiet, kept the lights low,
you were warm, in the company of kindness
and simplicity and love without reason.
Now, with gold, perfume, and spices, they come for you,
but distance swallows them. The epiphany is lost,
in the lights of each new year, on a TV in Louisiana.
Bethany Rohde says
What an original piece. Placing the nativity in a modern setting really clarifies what it’s like to lose Jesus in our Christmastime. I particularly loved the simile in: “like a blue flag against a clear sky.”
Marcy Terwilliger says
Christmas Past
What if Christmas doesn’t come from a store?
A heart full of love instead.
An old book of Sonnets tucked in his pocket,
He begin to walk to her place.
One knock is all it took,
Door was opened wide
She smiled with eyes sparkling bright
As he came inside.
Gown of crimson,
Long black wavy hair
Held a crimson ribbon
He gave the day before.
One he took from a Christmas gift,
Opened a week ago.
Christmas night was spent by the fire,
Warmed their souls and mind.
Hand slipped into his coat pocket,
Book of sonnets
Gift for his love.
Spent the evening reading,
Warm glow filled the air.
Her eyes glistened too.
She looked to him,
With eyes of blue,
Merry Christmas and thank you.
Love bloomed forth,
That Christmas Night
Snow fell silent outside
Warm hearts came together,
Soul to soul met their match.
Merry Christmas to all,
And to all Goodnight!
Marcy Terwilliger says
Christmas Love
Love came down at Christmas,
The form of a soft white dove.
She was sitting alone
On the concrete bench
Waiting for the church
Bells to ring.
The snow white bird,
Exquisite and soft white
So enchanting, like a glimpse of
Purity from heaven’s shinning light.
She froze there that night,
Covered in white snow
With the dove perched
Upon her finger right.
Sight no one could believe,
Sad but true
She loved the birds and
They loved her too.