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Monthly Column by Charity Gingerich

Preface to the poem:

For those who are perhaps less familiar with some of the oddities of post-modern poetry, I thought it necessary to assure all who should need assuring that this poem is in no way meant to be disrespectful. The Christmas season is for me one of the most beautiful and sacred times of the year, and yet yearly I am saddened by how insincerely this holiday is approached – even by Christians, sadly. Sometimes I get the feeling that we treat Jesus like another Christmas ornament and pack Him away after New Year’s. What I have attempted to do with this poem is to juxtapose it with Burne-Jones’ The Nativity, which is a lovely, traditional view of the first Christmas. It is my belief that while we cherish and idealize this “traditional” view of Christ’s birth, we have become too much like robots in actually “living” the Christmas spirit. But, so as not to seem hypocritical when dealing with hypocrisy, I join the prophet Isaiah in using first person in the poem so that any pointing finger begins with me.

Sincerely Christmas                      

While shepherds knelt I thumped my skull
and hurried across rain-splatted streets
unaware of their tired soiled knees thinking
unkindly thoughts of cousin Poppy with the
new poodle ‘do and perennial inability to
be pleased. Perhaps a blue tart platter from
Cracker Barrel as the angels wait for their
‘Glory to God’ cue – key of C please and no
dipping under that G-flat or how about a
set of silver cheese forks from Amazon.com
while the goats and donkey roll a bit in the
mud and get into costume? As Mary waddles
across slippery cobbles with a limp Joseph
at her elbow to entreat the heavily-jowled over-
worked innkeeper with the perspiring fringe
around his ungraciously bobbling mostly bald
head I dart into Harry London’s for the yearly
ten pounds of chocolate-covered marshmallows
for fifteen pound overweight aunt Emmy
& furiously brainstorm about what font
should be used when composing the much-
loathed but necessary mass E-card to myriad
and sundry friends & acquaintances (admittedly
mostly the latter). While staring grumpily at
the sluggish clerk (who deserves to be fired
for his inability to insert the middle d in
“hundred” when counting change) I remain
oblivious to the angry shouts from Harrod’s
throne room as he grills some foreign
astrologers about the possibly celestial
phenomenon daring to shine so blindingly
through his eastern windows at night he is
forced to wear two gold pendants over his
royal eyes until I remember the tea shop just
around the corner serves Chai just the way I
like it and think to say “Merry Christmas”
instead of “Happy Holidays” because I don’t
want to leave out the true meaning of my
purchase. Later, as Jesus whimpers in the
cold stone stable just behind the crammed
Inn with a benevolent cow whoosing soft
cud-chewing cow breath on his damp-fuzzed
head I do “ah-AH-ahs” in the mirror just
before the concert and practice sing-saying
“Jesus the Savior is born” in my prettiest
voice until steam obliterates my judgment
of a correct mathematic circumference of
the lips which, if mastered, prevents
crisp vowels and fricatives from being
engulfed, thus leaving these most
precious words undamaged.

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Copyright © 2006 by Charity Gingerich.