Advent
We have tested and tasted too much, lover –
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.
And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.
O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning –
We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we'll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won't we be rich, my love and I, and please
God we shall not ask for reason's payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God's breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour –
And Christ comes with a January flower.
~~
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)
from A Soul for Sale, 1947
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]
"Advent" read by The Passionate Transitory.
Dry dry black bread and the sugarless tea as penance for Advent. A child's soul as a luxury. Newness in a stale thing? New to a child, as all things are new to a child. Iam familiar with 'bog-holes'... at our cottage 60's... remember watching my father dig one, a mouse 🐁 found the next day in the bottom of thee unfinished hole... a hole so deep I could not see the top of my 6' 3 father just the dirt being tossed... and he did this on the weekend in the summer heat to drag himself back to work for us, to gift us this memorable life, he did this... watched him as he brought that mouse back to life, then let it go... scurry off under the cottage. My father, too, took me to the ballet, took me with him on-site painting, bought me a antique cloth bound copy of Leaves of Grass... loved my poetry, I 'spect more than anything loved it because I wrote it... miss his presence.
ReplyDelete"dreeping: To lower oneself from an elevated object such as a roof or a wall by twisting around and holding on to the edge of the object while facing it." Urbane Dictionary
Christ comes after Christmas in a flower... 💟💟💟💟💟💟
Nice video share George... 💟💟💟💟💟💟
Author Poet Kavanah what a beautiful poem. It reminds me how innocent a child is. Child like thoughts, vision and understanding without preconceived ideas or judgments. Entertained by the splendor before them. Where there was doom and darkness like consumed and confounds the dark. The dawn of day brings a newness we must not ignore. Beautiful. Thank you for sharing.
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