January 8, 2025: "Aesthetics of the Shah," Darkness, "Listening to Christmas Music on January 8"

Okay, the poems in the first section of The Dead and the Living by Sharon Olds are pretty political.  Olds never shies away from difficult or controversial subject matter.  Stick with me.  There is always something beautiful in what Olds writes, even if that beauty is dark or tinged with violence.

Sharon Olds writes again about a terrible beauty . . .

Aesthetics of the Shah

by: Sharon Olds

(The poster, up all over town, shows

dissidents about to be executed in Iran.)

The first thing you notice

is the skill

used on the ropes, the narrow close-grained

hemp against that black cloth

the bodes are wrapped in.  You can see the fine

twist-lines of the twine, dark and

elegant, the intervals exact,

and the delicate loops securing the bagged

bodies to the planks like cradle boards.

The heads are uncovered, just the eyes

bound with rag.  Underneath

the mustaches like blood.  There is not a

white hair on the whole row,

not a strand.  They are young men and

still alive, swaddled to the neck in this

black bunting, the ropes lovely as

spider-lines against wet stone.

It snowed pretty much all day.  From the window of my office at the library, I watched white pile on white pile on white.  Every once in a while, a plow would rumble by, kicking up a blinding cloud of (you guessed it) white.

I have been avoiding news reports these last few days, unless they are about President Carter's memorial services.  Just can't deal with talk of annexing Canada, invading Panama, or buying Greenland.  Hatred and stupidity are simply not beautiful, period.  However, President Carter's work and life inspires me.  He reminds me what a person with a beautiful soul and intellect can accomplish in this broken world.

When I walk with my puppy at night now, I notice fewer and fewer Christmas trees glowing in windows.  Most houses have returned to huddled, snowy darkness instead.  That rather depresses me.  Tonight, I only saw the glow of TV screens in people's windows, painting everything a weird shade of blue.  

I don't understand this rush come January to jettison all the beauty of the Christmas season.  Darkness will come soon enough.  Why not hold on to the warmth and joy a little while longer?  In most Christian denominations, the Christmas season doesn't officially end until Epiphany, which falls on January 6.  For Catholics, the season doesn't end until the Feast of the Baptism, which is celebrated the Sunday following Epiphany.  

My Christmas decorations will be around for a while longer.  They make me happy at night when I turn off the TV and living room lights and sit on the couch, staring at the tree.  Darkness is right outside my window, pressing its nose against the pane, but there's also a bright moon and stars pressing through the clouds, as well.  Light is never far away.

Saint Marty wrote a poem today about music, possibility, and hope, if you can believe it.  It is based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Close your eyes and listen to music that has no words.  While you listen, what images come to mind?  Allow your mind to go to all areas of the world, into your memories, and into all areas of time.  Do certain instruments bring back childhood memories?  Do certain sounds come with emotions--happy or sad, fear or confidence?  Open your eyes and make a list of everything you saw.  Use at least five of those images in a poem.  If you are having trouble beginning, borrow the line, "I am skimming the edges . . ." from Kelli Russell Agodon's poem, "Yakima Ferry at Sunset."

Listening to Christmas Music on January 8

by: Martin Achatz

This morning I can actually see

red/green/gold lights, trees,

mangers and wreaths disappearing

like blue whales migrating

from one deep place in the Pacific

to another deep place, their flukes, 

humps of their backs packed

into storage boxes in the briny attic.

Soon, everyone will pull on

the winter jackets of their lives,

forget all the brightness

of the last few weeks, resume

their ordinary days, like the one

where my dad died in a hospital bed, 

Mom holding his hand, telling him

he was a good husband, a single tear

clinging to his cheek like an unshaved

whisker.  I don't know what song

they first danced to at their wedding,

but I like to think it was Doris Day,

maybe "Whatever Will Be Will Be,"

or "Secret Love," the violins filling

their young bodies with longing,

my mother whisper-singing into

his ear.  Neither knew how many

Christmases they would share together,

and perhaps they didn't care, swept 

up as they were in their closeness

to each other in that tinseled

moment as they swayed, held

on, slowly inching, inching 

slowly toward a future where 

I waited impatiently for them.