Al olmo viejo, hendido por el rayo

To finish the year, here is a fine poem by Antonio Machado, rooted in appreciation for nature and the countryside and features so dear to him. An old almost-dead elm tree which has been struck by lightning has caught the poet’s attention, sparked his imagination and inspired this lovely poem. It is poems like this which motivate me to really look at seemingly insignificant things with attention, rather than looking without seeing.

 
A UN OLMO SECO

Al olmo viejo, hendido por el rayo
y en su mitad podrido,
con las lluvias de abril y el sol de mayo
algunas hojas verdes le han salido.
¡El olmo centenario en la colina
que lame el Duero! Un musgo amarillento
le mancha la corteza blanquecina
al tronco carcomido y polvoriento.
No será, cual los álamos cantores
que guardan el camino y la ribera,
habitado de pardos ruiseñores.
Ejército de hormigas en hilera
va trepando por él, y en sus entrañas
urden sus telas grises las arañas.
Antes que te derribe, olmo del Duero,
con su hacha el leñador, y el carpintero
te convierta en melena de campana,
lanza de carro o yugo de carreta;
antes que rojo en el hogar, mañana,
ardas en alguna mísera caseta,
al borde de un camino;
antes que te descuaje un torbellino
y tronche el soplo de las sierras blancas;
antes que el río hasta la mar te empuje
por valles y barrancas,
olmo, quiero anotar en mi cartera
la gracia de tu rama verdecida.
Mi corazón espera
también, hacia la luz y hacia la vida,
otro milagro de la primavera.

From <http://www.poesi.as/amach115.htm&gt;

The first surprise is that the elm, although seemingly dead and rotten, still has some life in it as a few leaves have sprung forth with the rains and sun of April and May. However, it is very old and battered and will not be a fit home for nightingales. Instead ants and spiders are hard at work wearing away its trunk.

So the poet wishes to immortalise this tree before it gets cut down and some carpenter works with it, or some miserable household uses it for firewood, or some storm blows it away into the mountains, or the river carries it away to the sea. The poet knows the elm will be lost in some way unless he writes this poem in his notebook, recalling the green branches.

The final three lines bring the focus back to the poet himself in a very personal fashion. Just as the old elm has sprouted leaves in the springtime, he is hoping his heart will also experience a miracle of spring, perhaps by falling in love.

The message is of renewal and hope, built on the foundations of the past and the experiences and learnings of our surroundings. This is a great poem to read when passing from one year to the next.

Happy New Year to all

The Poetry Dude

En l’an trentiesme de mon aage

Here is an enigmatic poem from TS Eliot. I like it for its absurdity and non-sequiturs, unexplained thoughts and juxtapositions, but with a distinct flavour of place and time coming through – London in the first half of the twentieth century. I enjoy this poem in the same way as I enjoy “I am the Walrus” from the Beatles, it makes no sense but it has verve and panache.

 
A Cooking Egg

 
En l’an trentiesme de mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…

 
PIPIT sate upright in her chair

Some distance from where I was sitting;

Views of the Oxford Colleges

Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,

Her grandfather and great great aunts,

Supported on the mantelpiece

An Invitation to the Dance.
.    .    .    .    .

I shall not want Honour in Heaven

For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney

And have talk with Coriolanus

And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven

For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond:

We two shall lie together, lapt

In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven,

Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;

Her anecdotes will be more amusing

Than Pipit’s experience could provide.

I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:

Madame Blavatsky will instruct me

In the Seven Sacred Trances;

Piccarda de Donati will conduct me…
.    .    .    .    .

But where is the penny world I bought

To eat with Pipit behind the screen?

The red-eyed scavengers are creeping

From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.

Over buttered scones and crumpets

Weeping, weeping multitudes

Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s.

 
From <http://www.bartleby.com/199/16.html&gt;

So what are some of the questions to ponder on reading this poem?

What does the title mean and how does it relate to the poem?
Why does it open with two lines in mediaeval French?
Who is Pipit, and why does the poet belittle her compared to the luminaries he will meet in heaven in the second stanza?
Is there a logical sequence of ideas following from the first stanza to the second to the third?
Is Eliot just showing off?

Answers welcome, please, by comment or email.

The Poetry Dude

Dites-moi ou, n’en quel pays

Here is one of the most famous French poems of the 15th century, from Francois Villon, a notorious low-life character who mis-spent his life and was in and out of prison for much of it. It is a poem of nostalgia for the great beauties and remarkable women of previous ages. The final line of each stanza has been memorably translated into English as “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”.

A side benefit of reading this poem is to try and find out about the women who it immortalises, there are indeed some remarkable women mentioned.

François VILLON   (1431-?)

Ballade des Dames du temps jadis

 
Dites-moi où, n’en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Romaine,
Archipiades, ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo, parlant quant bruit on mène
Dessus rivière ou sur étang,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine ?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan ?

Où est la très sage Héloïs,
Pour qui fut châtré et puis moine
Pierre Esbaillart à Saint-Denis ?
Pour son amour eut cette essoine.
Semblablement, où est la roine
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fût jeté en un sac en Seine ?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan ?

La roine Blanche comme un lis
Qui chantait à voix de sirène,
Berthe au grand pied, Bietrix, Aliz,
Haramburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jeanne, la bonne Lorraine
Qu’Anglais brûlèrent à Rouen ;
Où sont-ils, où, Vierge souvraine ?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan ?

Prince, n’enquerrez de semaine
Où elles sont, ni de cet an,
Que ce refrain ne vous remaine :
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan ?

From <http://poesie.webnet.fr/lesgrandsclassiques/poemes/francois_villon/ballade_des_dames_du_temps_jadis.html&gt;

Each of the first three stanzas is in the form of a question, asking where are the women mentioned, whether they are real or mythical, a sort of “where are they now” game. The first stanza has Flora, Arcibiades, Thais, and Echo, so all from classical history or mythology.

The second stanza enquires after Heloise, the lover of Abelard and then the unnamed queen who ordered that theologian Jean Buridan be thrown into the river Seine tied in a sack.

The third stanza talks of Queen Blanche, big-footed Bertha,(Charlemagne’s mother, I think), Beatrice and Alice, and Joan of arc, who the English burned at Rouen.

The fourth and final stanza is addressed to the prince and asks him not to find out this week or this year what happened to these women, so that he will still be able to ask, in the catchy words of the refrain, “Where are the snows of yesteryear?

Catchy indeed, and a fascinating glimpse into mediaeval history. I wonder which women would figure in a modern version of this poem?

 
The Poetry Dude

Aqui la envidia y mentira

Apparently, Fray Luis de Leon was not always on good terms with the religious hierarchy – perhaps he was insufficiently focussed on rooting out heretics instead of elevating his own soul. Anyway, he must have spent some time in prison, on the evidence of this short poem, written on his release from a prison cell.

 
ODA XXIII 
A LA SALIDA DE LA CÁRCEL

Aquí la envidia y mentira
me tuvieron encerrado.
Dichoso el humilde estado
del sabio que se retira
de aqueste mundo malvado,

y con pobre mesa y casa
en el campo deleitoso
con sólo Dios se compasa
y a solas su vida pasa
ni envidiado ni envidioso.

From <http://www.los-poetas.com/f/frayluis1.htm&gt;

In the first two lines he puts the blame for his incarceration on the envy and lies of others – an entirely plausible supposition at the time of denunciations to the Spanish Inquisition. But he goes on in the rest of the poem to take comfort from the advantages of prison, which are rather similar to those enjoyed by a hermit in a rough cave. These are – withdrawal from the cares of the world, rough living conditions, communion with God, and the state of being neither envied nor enviable.

As a man of religious faith, Fray Luis probably found it easier than most of us to be stoical about these unhappy circumstances. But what is just as admirable in my view is the economy of expression and the precision of language he uses in this poem to convey his experience. This is one of his shortest poems, among those I have read, but it has just as much impact as many of his longer pieces.

The Poetry Dude

Well I woke up this mornin’ it was Christmas Day

A poem for the season, by Adrian Henri, the Liverpool poet of the 1960s and 1970s. In fact it is a poem about the dark side of Christmas and the New Year, when the trappings of the holiday season are there, but the poet’s loved one is absent, so what is the point of it all.

A poem for all those who struggle t get through Christmas because their love or their family is absent, you are not alone…
Well I woke up this mornin’ it was Christmas Day
And the birds were singing the night away
I saw my stocking lying on the chair
Looked right to the bottom but you weren’t there
there was
apples
oranges
chocolates
. .. . aftershave
but no you.

So I went downstairs and the dinner was fine
There was pudding and turkey and lots of wine
And I pulled those crackers with a laughing face
Till I saw there was no one in your place
there was
mincepies
brandy
nuts and raisins
. . . mashed potato
but no you.

Now it’s New Year and it’s Auld Lang Syne
And it’s 1 2 o’clock and I’m feeling fine
Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot?
I don’t know girl, but it hurts a lot
there was
whisky
vodka dry Martini (stirred
but not shaken)
…. and 12 New Year resolutions
all of them about you.

From <http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/adrian-henri-s-talking-after-christmas-blues/&gt;

This poem is definitely meant to be read aloud, so you can hear the rhythms of the lines, not obvious just when you see them on the page. I think Henri terms this a “talking blues”, so there is a clue.

The three stanzas of the poem take us on a journey from despair in the first stanza at waking up alone on Christmas morning, seeing the traditional contents of the Christmas stocking, but no loved one; the second stage, in the second stanza is about dissimulation, as the poet is pretending to have a good time with the traditional English Christmas dinner with turkey, Christmas pudding and, of course, pulling Christmas crackers. The third stage is at the New Year’s party, singing Auld Lang Syne with some hope and some decision to get back together in the New Year. Many resolutions fall by the wayside of course, but one hopes that the prospect of happiness renewed may have some success in the New Year.

 

The Poetry Dude

La chambre est veuve

Here is a nice poem by Guillaume Apollinaire, writing in the early 1900s, about the type of cheap hotel you can get if you arrive in a strange city, without much money and with no contacts. The hotels in question are probably near the railway station, on a poorly lit back street with a dim sign, just saying “Rooms”. This rings a bell with me, reminding me of travel in Europe when I was a penniless student.

Hôtels

La chambre est veuve
Chacun pour soi
Présence neuve
On paye au mois

Le patron doute
Payera-t-on
Je tourne en route
Comme un toton

Le bruit des fiacres
Mon voisin laid
Qui fume un âcre
Tabac anglais

O La Vallière
Qui boite et rit
De mes prières
Table de nuit

Et tous ensemble
Dans cet hôtel
Savons la langue
Comme à Babel

Fermons nos portes
À double tour
Chacun apporte
Son seul amour

Guillaume APOLLINAIRE, Alcools (1913)
© 1920 Éditions Gallimard

 
From <http://wheatoncollege.edu/academic/academicdept/French/old-ViveVoix/Resources/hotels.html&gt;

The atmosphere of dingy suspicion is established right at the start – the room is like a widow, with no companionship, the hotel owner asks for a month’s payment in advance but in fact is always wondering if his clients can pay.

Boredom, the incursion of noise from the street and the smell of tobacco from the next room; the night-table with one leg shorter than the other, ironically compared to Louis XV’s mistress, Mme La Valliere, who walked with a limp – the room is uncomfortable, somewhat sordid but with outdated remnants of grandeur.

As in the tower of Babel, many languages are spoken in this hotel, as drifters and down and outs from all parts of the world pass through here, trying to eke out their meagre earnings or savings. They are all together in the same boat, but they are all alone. The final stanza is particularly poignant, make sure your door is double-locked, there is no love but for yourself in this hotel.

 
The Poetry Dude

A Child’s Christmas in Wales

It is Christmas in the year of the centenary of Dylan Thomas’ birth. What better way to mark this than ” A Child’s Christmas in Wales”. No further commentary needed.

Merry Christmas to all poetry lovers everywhere

A Child’s Christmas in Wales

 
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero’s garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows – eternal, ever since Wednesday – that we never heard Mrs. Prothero’s first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor’s polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
“Fire!” cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, “A fine Christmas!” and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

“Call the fire brigade,” cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
“There won’t be there,” said Mr. Prothero, “it’s Christmas.”
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.
“Do something,” he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke – I think we missed Mr. Prothero – and ran out of the house to the telephone box.
“Let’s call the police as well,” Jim said. “And the ambulance.” “And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires.”

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim’s Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, “Would you like anything to read?”

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: “It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”

“But that was not the same snow,” I say. “Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards.”

“Were there postmen then, too?”
“With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells.”
“You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?”
“I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them.”
“I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells.”
“There were church bells, too.”
“Inside them?”
“No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence.”

“Get back to the postmen”
“They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ….”
“Ours has got a black knocker….”
“And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out.”
“And then the presents?”
“And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger’s slabs. “He wagged his bag like a frozen camel’s hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone.”

“Get back to the Presents.”
“There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o’-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o’-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles’ pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why.”

“Go on the Useless Presents.”
“Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor’s cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons.”

“Were there Uncles like in our house?”
“There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms’ length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers.”

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o’-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
“I bet people will think there’s been hippos.”
“What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?”
“I’d go like this, bang! I’d throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I’d tickle him under the ear and he’d wag his tail.”
“What would you do if you saw two hippos?”

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel’s house.
“Let’s post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box.”
“Let’s write things in the snow.”
“Let’s write, ‘Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel’ all over his lawn.”
Or we walked on the white shore. “Can the fishes see it’s snowing?”

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying “Excelsior.” We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn’t the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. “What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?”
“No,” Jack said, “Good King Wenceslas. I’ll count three.” One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wenceslas looked out On the Feast of Stephen … And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
“Perhaps it was a ghost,” Jim said.
“Perhaps it was trolls,” Dan said, who was always reading.
“Let’s go in and see if there’s any jelly left,” Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang “Cherry Ripe,” and another uncle sang “Drake’s Drum.” It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

 
Dylan Thomas

From <http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-child-s-christmas-in-wales/&gt;

 
The Poetry Dude