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Hold Me

The refrain is from Song of Songs 8:6
The Christchild to Mary


    I am tired of the hay,
    tired of my manger bed;
    hold me in your arm instead,
            there to stay.
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
    as a seal upon your arm.

    Hold me close against your breast,
    against milk and honey's fount;
    pillow me on that soft mount,
            there to rest.
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
    as a seal upon your arm.

    Hold me tight within your heart,
    and keep you my spirit warm;
    and your spirit I will charm
            with love's dart.
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
    as a seal upon your arm.

The God of Gods

The refrain is from Song of Songs 3:5.



The Pagan to the Daughters of Jerusalem




      Pagans we, yet know the truth
            which trumps our ruth:
            all gods are one,
            the idols done.
            I bind you by
the demons and deities of Shaddai.


      The god of gods lies in a trough,
            his glory off.
            A member he
            of trinity.
            I bind you by
the demons and deities of Shaddai.


      Pagans we, yet worship he
            the magi see
            here where they come.
            Worship that sum.
            I bind you by
the demons and deities of Shaddai.

Moan

The refrain is from Song of Songs 2:5.
Mary speaks.


Within my belly jumped my God
with each step that our donkey trod,
each jar, each kick, each twist, each plod.
It ground my groin and I did groan.
My misery made me to moan,
and yet it was not mine alone.
I shared it with the tiny kid
that in my belly big was his,
for he went through all that I did.
    Revive me with raisins.
    Refresh me with citrons.

And thus we journeyed on and on.
It seemed forever and anon,
only the tax from us to con.
Each road-bend promised a new bend.
I thought we'd never reach the end,
the winding road would ever wend.
When I could do nought but survive,
uncertain if I was alive,
in Bethlehem we did arrive.
    Revive me with raisins.
    Refresh me with citrons.

No room in inn, we stayed instead
where cattle board became our bed,
on which I did collapse as dead.
And yet my babe won't let me sleep,
as in my belly he does leap.
He may be born when dark is deep.
He may be born, but I may die
if I've no charm to close ,y eye
as on this reserved hay I lie.
    Revive me with raisins.
    Refresh me with citrons.

Beautifully

Inspired by Song of Songs 1:5-9.


I am beautiful, though I'm not
        white as a gull.
            The hot
sun burnt my face and neck and back.
  I am beautifully black.
  I am blackly beautiful.

Black Kedar's tents made from the coat
        of deep (not dull!)
            black goat—
fine as hangings on Shlomo's rack.
  I am beautifully black.
  I am blackly beautiful.

My brothers' vineyards were my lot
        to keep; I full
            forgot
my own, beneath their whip's sharp crack.
  I am beautifully black.
  I am blackly beautiful.


Why should I cover with a coat,
        or a veil pull
            o'er throat
and face, with but an eye-crack.
  I am beautifully black.
  I am blackly beautiful.

With my black goats I'll seek your spot,
        past the white skull
            I'll trot,
following the white sheep's track.
  I am beautifully black.
  I am blackly beautiful.

The White Wait's Song

This is a parody of Lewis Carroll's "The White Knight's Song".  A "wait" is a caroler.

I'll tell thee everything I can,
    And I will not be mute.
I saw an aged aged man
    A-coming down a chute.
"Who are you, aged man?" I asked.
    "And how is it you give?"
And his answer trickled through my head
    Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I overlook the elves
    That makes the Christmas toys:
I make them put them on the shelves
    With elegance and poise.
I give them unto kids," he said,
    "That behave very well,
"While they are sleeping in their beds—
    I give, and do not sell."

But I was thinking of a plan
    To paint the evergreen
 Pink, and put it in a can
    So it could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
    To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you give!"
    And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale:
    He said, "I go my way
Through snow and sleet and rain and hail
    Driving a flying sleigh;
And then I go from roof to roof
    (Avoiding the church spire),
And tumble down the chimney—poof!—
    And hope there's not a fire!"

But I was thinking of a way
    To feed on snip-snap-dragons
Until too fat to fit a sleigh
    Or fit the largest wagons.
I shook him well from side to side
    Until his face was blue:
"Come, tell me how you give," I cried,
   "And what it is you do!"

He said, "I teach reindeer to fly
    To a tremendous height,
And reach the summit of the sky
    In the silent night.
And these fly all around the earth
    Carrying Christmas toys,
Their work is to spread joy and noise,
    But with but little noise.

"I sometimes put candy in socks
    And clothes beneath the tree—
But naughty kids get only rocks
    And coal and ash from me.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
    "By which I spread my wealth—
And very gladly will I drink
    Your Honor's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
    Completed my design
For making snowmen out of dust
    To give my valentine.
I thanked him much for telling me
    The way he spread his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
    Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er I chance to hear
    Jingle bells softly played,
Or madly shoot a leaping deer,
    Or kiss the dairy maid
Under a sprig of mistletoe
    Because she is so cute,
I laugh, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know—
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was was nothing like a crow,
Whose eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his "ho!",
Who rocked his body to and fro,
Who muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth was full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo——
That Christmas evening long ago,
    A-coming down a chute.

Beautiful Pine

This is a parody of Lewis Carroll's "Beautiful Soup".

Beautiful Pine, so rich and green,
Waiting patient to be seen!
How the lights upon you shine!
Pine of the holiday, beautifil Pine!
        Beau—ootiful Pie—ne!
        Beau—ootiful Pie—ne!
Pie—ne of the ho-o-liday,
        Beautiful, beautiful Pine!

Beautiful Pine! Who cares for you?
Everybody, that is who!
Those who see you with delight cry. N
obody hates you, beautiful Pine!
        Beau—ootiful Pie—ne!
        Beau—ootiful Pie—ne!
Pie—ne of the ho-o-liday,
        Beautiful, beauti—FUL PINE!

The Reindeer-Quadrille

This is a parody of Lewis Carroll's "The Lobster-Quadrille".

"Will you fly a little faster?" said old Santa to the deer,
"There's a storm-cloud close behind us, and the lightning bolts I fear.
See how eagerly the elves pray that the thunder will not last.
They are pressing the sleigh forward—will you fly a little fast?
Will you, won't you, will you won't you, will you fly a little fast?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you fly a little fast?

"You can really have no notion how dangerous it will be
When the lightning strikes around us with dread electricity!"
But the deer replied, "Too fast, too fast!" as the storm clouds amassed,
Said they'd follow Santa blindly but they wouldn't fly that fast,
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not fly a little fast.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not fly a little fast.

"What matters it how fast we go?" the flying reindeer plied,
"There is another calm, you know, upon the other side.
The further we go in the storm, the sooner it is passed.—"
"Please don't go so slow," old Santa said, "But fly a little fast—
Will you, won't you, will you won't you, will you fly a little fast?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you fly a little fast?"

Twinkle, Twinkle Rotund Saint

This is a parody of Lewis Carroll's "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bat", which is in turn a parody of the first verse of Jane Taylor's "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star".

Twinkle, twinkle rotund saint!
How I wonder what you ain't.
Up above the world so high,
With the reindeer in the sky.
              Twinkle, twinkle—

Crib of Corn

In most countries "corn" refers to some kind of grain other than maize.

No cradle but a crib of corn.
The wool that from the sheep was shorn
provided him something to wear
To keep him warm. A single tear
fell from his mother's eye when he
screamed and wailed and wept, for she
did not know why. Did he need changed?
Or fed? Or his bed re-arranged?
Yet all seemed right. Perhaps he saw
the day he would show his meat raw,
his flesh impaled upon a stake.
Perhaps he just had a headache.
Perhaps he felt a bit forlorn—
no cradle but a crib of corn.

The Black Madonna

        Her skin is dark.
        And was it so?
        I do not know
the shade—the birch's or oak's bark.

        Her skin is black.
        And was it thus?
        She is all us
who mother God in our heart's shack.

        Our every shade—
        the dark and light,
        black, red, brown, white,
yellow, dwelt in that lovely maid.

        Give birth to Christ
        and join with her.
        The shade of her
is your own shade. Give birth to Christ.

Song of Simeon

"Love is like the lion's tooth."
                                  -Yeats

God himself in flesh disguising
you shall love with maiden's love,
you shall love with mother's love.
Rising falling—falling rising;
and the sword shall pierce you both.
Love is like the lion's tooth.

God himself in flesh revealing
you would with your soul protect,
you would with your breasts protect,
near your heart safely concealing;
and the sword shall pierce you both.
Love is like the lion's tooth.

To the Christmas-Eve World

This is a parody of Lewis Carroll's "To the looking-glass world" from Through the Looking-Glass

To the Christmas-Eve world it was Santa that said,
"I've a present in hand, I've a hat on my head.
Let the Christmas-Eve creatures, whatever they be,
Not stir with my reindeer and elves dear and me!"

                Then fill up the stockings as quick as you can,
                And sprinkle the cookies with chocolate and bran:
                Put mints in the cocoa and milk in the tea—
                And welcome Old Santa with thirty-times-three!

"O Christmas-Eve creatures," quoth Santa, "be still!
I've a tattle to tell and a stocking to fill:
'Tis a privilege high to find under the tree
A gift from my reindeer and elves dear and me!"

                Then fill up the stockings with snow-cones and meat
                Or anything else that is pleasant to eat:
                Mix oil with oxen and ketchup with kine—
                And welcome old Santa with ninety-times-nine!

The Mad Caroler's Song

This is a parody of Lewis Carroll's Mad Gardener's Song from Sylvie and Bruno.

He thought he saw a plate of ham
    To cause his stomach strife:
He looked again and found it was
    A present from his wife.
"If it is only cheese," he said,
    "I'll use my pocket-knife."

He thought he saw a stocking hung
    Up from the chimney-piece:
He looked again and found it was
    The sister of his niece.
"Were she but filled with sweets," he said,
    "Her size would much increase!"

He thought he saw a Christmas tree
    Lighted for Halloween:
He looked again and found it was
    A rag with which to clean.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
    "Is that it is not green!"

He thought he saw a snowman dance
    Beneath a magic hat:
He looked again and found it was
    A grinning Cheshire cat.
"If this should melt away," he said,
    "The mouse will stir, not scat!"

He thought he saw a Santa Claus
    Ringing a silver bell:
He looked again and found it was
    A covered wishing well.
"Were I to give a coin," he said,
    "There's nobody to tell!"

He thought he saw a maiden fair
    Beneath the mistle-toe:
He looked again and found it was
    Some wild oats to sow.
"A kiss is but a kiss," he said,
    "And yet I'll tell her no!"

He thought he saw three sailing ships
    That shared a single hold:
He looked again and found it was
    A saint merry as old.
"You'd best be getting home," he said,
    "The nights are very cold!"

He thought he saw that rotund saint
    Out from his chimney fall:
He looked again and found it was
    An India rubber ball.
"It's big and red indeed," he said,
    "But brings no gift at all!"

He thought he saw an argument
    That Plato might propose:
He looked again and found it was
    A reindeer's shiny nose.
"Should that prove bright indeed," he said,
    "To show it only goes!"

Before I died

I died before I died.  I do not mean
I died before I died.  I died, then died.

Still Falls the Rain: Seventy Years Later

This one was inspired by Edith Sitwell's "Still Falls the Rain", in which "the rain" refers both to the air-strikes of WWII and the blood of Christ.

        Still falls the rain
seventy years since Sitwell wrote,
    and still some quote
        her words of pain
    with air-strikes in the brain.

        Still falls the blood,
and where the flesh has been torn wide,
    it gushes from Christ's side
        alike on good
    and bad, all brotherhood.

        Still falls the rhyme
along with air-strikes in the brain.
    Still falls, still falls the rain.
        Still falls the crime.
    Still falls the sand of time.

My Crutch

Your cross my crutch—
I call it such

whene'er I talk
of your abode;
I cannot walk
upon that road

without its aid.
My debt you paid;

my pain you felt—
each sin a sore,
each doubt a welt;
you made my "more!"

into your loss,
my crutch your cross.

A Song of Two Gardens

        In a garden you wept
        as the others slept.
A garden is good for reposing.
A garden began your life's closing.

        One came with a kiss
        that no one could miss.
A garden is good for betraying.
A garden has start- but no stay-ing.

        A garden's new cave
        became your last grave.
A garden is good for descending.
A garden could prove your life's ending.

        Although you descend,
        begin past the end.
A garden is good for surprising.
A garden might well prove your rising.

Rondel of the Scape

Three trees grow tall.  The skull is green.
My soul, it sorrows at the sight
of Jesus on the tree upright.
My soul, it sorrows at the scene
of three trees with three bodies lean
nailed to them at a dreadful height.
Three trees grow tall.  The skull is green.
My soul, it sorrows at the sight
of dying love.  What can it mean?
My soul, it sorrows at the night
in mid-day, all with darkness bright,
as the thieves cry, "Unclean! Unclean!"
Three trees grow tall.  The skull is green.

Triolet on a Theme from C. S. Lewis

God in his mercy made
The fixèd pains of hell,
and in that hell he stayed.
God in his mercy made
himself a ghastly shade,
as into hell he fell.
God in his mercy made
The fixèd pains of hell.