Places 12: Holding a Moment

Note: This Advent Season poem is not my usual. You may think it cynical, laced with negative subjectivity. I actually do like some jazz and blues— but not stuck records or tapes that never end. And the anomaly of night club music on an early Sunday morning in an upscale hotel lobby all lavishly decorated for Christmas was disturbing. So, well before dawn one December day about fifteen years ago or more, this poem started to write itself—an outlet.

It all came about because my family was staying at a fine hotel after attending a farm conference. I was sleepless. Not wanting to disturb my husband, I went down to the lobby to read and journal. Saturday night’s club music still played through the deserted lobby’s amplifiers. I think/hope the poem caught the seductiveness of the sound, the hollowness of Christmas traditions in that particular setting and the sandpapering, i.e., the refining abrasion, that Christians often feel because of being in the world and not of it. (At times, it’s a mark of our immaturity. As we grow closer to Jesus, it’s easier to rest in His presence anywhere).

Oh—for the record—I love Christmas traditions like holly, trees, garlands and all. Christ fills our cultures with Himself. But at the poem’s moment, the traditions felt empty, wrong, play-acting. Read the poem and see what you think. It’s a long one. If you get bored, know that the monotonous repetition is intentional, I wanted to capture and hold my feelings as I wrote it. Keep reading, the mood and tone will change.

Holding a Moment

brush – dum – click – pum —

Waiting—
sinking into velvet
soft cushions sized for three of me,
cozied under wingbacks
of smoothly fine grained
brain-tanned hide
I’m all wrapped up,
I hide, entrapped,
within the strangest Christmas scene—
where the manger-birth of Jesus
seems delusive dreams

waiting—while saxophones weave over drums,
piano strings wing-it, searching out rhythms,
that flow with the hum
dum
brush
click
pum

—drugged with sleeplessness and sounds
the steady slides start tickling
over subdued clicking-clacks
of ups and downs and all arounds—
dizzy roller coasters seeking—
and finding—tracks
through my unguarded heart—
drums—meant for entertainment
snaring me to soul-entrainment.

mentally, I consider the river—
their hypnotic lulling rhythms dull.

meanderings notes—slipping every which way—
without the civility of predictability—
unsettle my empty classic stomach;
seductively denying order and iambic progression,
refusing every turn of tired mind
that tries
to defy
the woo and call
of all
this lawless sound;
thoughts rise, and then fall down.
I think the dj’s disc got stuck—
I’m going round and round  . . .

Remembering where I am—
The Christmas season in Southern Mississippi,
Sitting in the lobby, before dawn on Sunday morn,
listening to old yesterday’s
wailing night-club horns
in a slowly-moving-many-starred hotel
where amplifiers play tradition to the ground
in stale sounds.

Hoping toward Bach and violins—
stringing myself in—
valiantly, I grope against allurement on my ears
to focus on medleys from memory—

Pete Seeger’s banjo rings out clear;
sounding old, he’s freely bold
for “This land—yours and mine.”
Renee Fleming, stands on Ground Zero,
wrenchingly, her singing soothes
Amazing Grace into our angrief-tears.

Then, childhood’s thin soprano strains
from little boys and girls
fling out refrains of “twinkle, twinkle little stars,”
and change, to wave up high against my ears
their little pudgy faith-filled -fingers
until I turn to hear
“this little light that shines”
so loudly that Sinatra’s “I’ll have it my way bends and bows
to break before a standing crowd—
all rising to their feet to bring
a mighty Hallelujah, Chorused to the King of Kings.

While underneath my singing heart
the saxophone drones  on—and on—
a marathon of tones that join along—
inviting all for one more drink
and one more round.

Its process—ever incomplete—
haunts hungry eyes with  longings
for eyes they’ve never met—
for listening ears that finally will hear—
for romance that isn’t big enough
to join in cosmic dance—

as reality runs-on in sentenced-segues
through repeated trains of thought—
steam engines without destinations—
pages without paragraphs—
carnival rides with broken brakes—
reiterate beneath my joy-filled song
as this bluesy jazz mopes on—
longings, longings with out end
stale the early morning air—
as still the music wanders—
meanders to and fro
over hearts whose liquids pump and flow
through systems and circuits
that actually can, if willed, withstand, ignore, detach
from all illusion-waving facts.

Voices cut through —
I look toward the elevators,
seeking you.
Early risers meet, greet
and leisurely order breakfast treats.

Elegantly seated and deftly served
by gliding men with silver trays,
softly smiling well-trained faces,
weave across this hotel scene
that overflows with costumed graces,
well-mannered men
uniformed by customs,
traditions framed quite long ago—
Red jackets and brass buttons,
Red tie-bows and ornaments of gold.

Giant poinsettias and evergreen garlands,
scarlet holly and sequined leaves
with garnishes of glitter
distract the guests from a few missed bits
of last night’s party litter.

Cut-glass drops, look pure, like crystals upon snow,
lead-glass, these hardened tears,
suspended in the air—
unshed—
dangle down from chandeliers,
adding to the ambience
of gracious-living, luxury flow,
and the saxophone drones on
and on
and on.

Lord, arise.
Help us escape
this hell of a world of No-El.

Oh Lord, draw near
Immanu-El be with us here.
For You we long.
We’d join the heavenly hosts in songs
of Joy unto the World,
of Love forever birthed upon this earth
that Silent, very Holy Night

We’d Come. Let us adore You.