The poem describes a child who creeps downstairs on Christmas Eve holding her favorite bear. The Christmas tree is decorated with lights and ornaments. The hushed street outside is covered in snow, with cars blanketed and bearing paw prints. The child stares out the window at the night sky, watching planes speed by like a pulled cracker, as she looks above for a sign while the moon shines down like a gold coin over the snow-covered town.
The poem describes a child who creeps downstairs on Christmas Eve holding her favorite bear. The Christmas tree is decorated with lights and ornaments. The hushed street outside is covered in snow, with cars blanketed and bearing paw prints. The child stares out the window at the night sky, watching planes speed by like a pulled cracker, as she looks above for a sign while the moon shines down like a gold coin over the snow-covered town.
The poem describes a child who creeps downstairs on Christmas Eve holding her favorite bear. The Christmas tree is decorated with lights and ornaments. The hushed street outside is covered in snow, with cars blanketed and bearing paw prints. The child stares out the window at the night sky, watching planes speed by like a pulled cracker, as she looks above for a sign while the moon shines down like a gold coin over the snow-covered town.
I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill and did not know where I was going except to the top of it. In those days we went out like that. Even children went out like that. Someone was crying hard at home again, raging blizzard of sobs.
I dragged the sled by its rope,
which we normally did not do when snow was coming down so hard, pulling my brother whom I called by our secret name as if we could be other people under the skin. The snow bit into my face, prickling the rim of the head where the hair starts coming out. And it was a big one. It would come down and down for days. People would dig their cars out like potatoes.
How are you doing back there? I shouted,
and he said Fine, I’m doing fine, in the sunniest voice he could muster and I think I should love him more today for having used it.
At the top we turned and he slid down,
steering himself with the rope gripped in his mittened hands. I stumbled behind sinking deeply, shouting Ho! Look at him go! as if we were having a good time. Alone on the hill. That was the deepest I ever went into the snow. Now I think of it when I stare at paper or into silences between human beings. The drifting accumulation. A father goes months without speaking to his son.
How there can be a place
so cold any movement saves you.
Ho! You bang your hands together,
stomp your feet. The father could die! The son! Before the weather changes. Ode to an Encyclopedia
By James Arthur
O hefty hardcover on the built-in shelf in my parents’ living room,
O authority stamped on linen paper, molted from your dust jacket, Questing Beast of blue and gold, you were my companion on beige afternoons that came slanting through the curtains behind the rough upholstered chair. You knew how to trim a sail and how the hornet builds a hive. You had a topographical map of the mountain ranges on the far side of the moon and could name the man who shot down the man who murdered Jesse James. At forty, I tell myself that boyhood was all enchantment: hanging around the railway, getting plastered on cartoons; I see my best friend’s father marinating in a lawn chair, smiling benignly at his son and me from above a gin and tonic, or sitting astride his roof with carpentry nails and hammer, going at some problem that kept resisting all his mending. O my tome, my paper brother, my narrative without an ending, you had a diagram of a cow broken down into the major cuts of beef, and an image of the Trevi Fountain. The boarding house, the church on the corner: all that stuff is gone. In winter in Toronto, people say, a man goes outside and shovels snow mostly so that his neighbors know just how much snow he is displacing. I’m writing this in Baltimore. For such a long time, the boy wants to grow up and be at large, but posture becomes bearing; bearing becomes shape. A man can make a choice between two countries, believing all the while that he will never have to choose. An extract from 'Another Night Before Christmas'
By Carol Ann Duffy
On the night before Christmas, a child in a house,
As the whole family slept, behaved just like a mouse . . .
And crept on soft toes down red-carpeted stairs.
Her hand held the paw of her favourite bear.
The Christmas tree posed with its lights in its arms,
Newly tinselled and baubled with glittering charms;
Flirting in flickers of crimson and green
Against the dull glass of the mute TV screen
The hushed street was in darkness. Snow duveted the cars –
A stray cat had embroidered each roof with its paws.
An owl on an aerial had planets for eyes.
The child at the window stared up at the sky,
Where two aeroplanes sped to the east and the west,
Like a pulled Christmas cracker. The child held her breath
And looked for a sign up above, as the moon
Shone down like a gold chocolate coin on the town.