Merry Christmas was my first attempt at a poem after I decided to take writing seriously, in 2009.
I had written many an angst-ridden or lovelorn verse in my late teens when I thought I was a cross between Keats and Blake. I stopped writing poetry when, at twenty, I realised I was neither.
Christmas again and what will it bring?
Goodwill to all men? That kind of thing?
It would be a first, I do have to say.
It’s not what we normally get on the big day.
Year after year on the festive screen,
we see death and destruction along with the Queen.
The world seems at peace as the church choir sings,
but a disaster or two always lurks in the wings.
Earthquakes, tsunamis, mudslides and worse,
soon have us reaching for wallet, or purse.
But this year it’s different there’ll be none of that,
I’m leaving the box off. I’ll eat and get fat.
I won’t see the starving, the dying, the slain.
I won’t hear the crying of people in pain.
The phone won’t be answered, I won’t take that call.
Or read the papers that drop into my hall.
Instead I’ll play music, I’ll hum a refrain.
As I walk with my dogs, in the park, in the rain.
And after twelfth night when nothing’s left to be cursed,
I’ll turn to the world and say, "you did your worst."
‘I’ve not been caught up in your gloom and despair.
I’ve sailed through this Christmas with a nonchalant air.’
And though I’ve survived I’ll be chilled by the fear,
of knowing it happens again, this time next year.