Saturday, 28 November 2015

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 103 Advent Calendar


ADVENT CALENDAR

Wikipedia defines an Advent calendar thus- An Advent calendar is a special calendar used to count or celebrate the days in anticipation of Christmas. Since the date of the first Sunday of Advent varies, falling between November 27 and December 3 inclusive, the Advent calendar usually begins on December 1, although many include the previous few days that are part of the season. The Advent calendar was first used by German Lutherans in the 19th and 20th centuries but is now ubiquitous among adherents of many Christian denominations.
This Advent calendar was not like the ones in supermarkets in Australia with chocolates behind the doors, but rather images that glowed if it was on a window in the day as the paper backing was thinner than the front. Of course, in Australia Christmas is in summer. This was a gift from a lady who had escaped the Nazi's with her Jewish husband. It was as little like the one in the illustration. The poem is about time, memory, meaning and vision. 

 


 

                   ADVENT CALENDAR

So many years have passed to old
from long-past time of child
where wish for free and festive weeks,
beneath the south-world sun,
came with the turn to hot December
when all the year of school was done.

As inward power,
what's past is present now
as I remember
some many-detailed parts
of such departed days.

Those times would start
with one old advent calendar,
a European gift,
upon a window's morning light,
light bright as summer sight,
its twenty-five doors shut from lying
beneath hard books, eleven months below...

its village street in moon-still snow,
its river frozen and its church
in silent prayer to star-deep sky:
a night of winter-folded world,
apart, in my imagination,
from all free summer days' creation.

And I recall a wonder at each revelation,
each door I opened with an eager sight
to find behind an image shining:
an angel winged with white,
a large-eyed owl
like wisdom's sight,
a sunken treasure in a river,
a pirate with his cutlass high
and in a barrel curled
a worm with spectacles and book.

And through the opening of each morning,
I found another pictured nook
until upon the twenty fourth
came Father Christmas sweeping through the starry sky.

And on that final day of child's delight,
upon that long-awaited dawning,
the last illumination was
nativity in summer light.

Though this is all long lost
in time's unresting turning,
and most of its once-glowing scenes
forgotten in their fullest shine,
I grow aware of time's rebirth:
how even smallest things
leave traces after vanishing,
and resurrect
in inner sense;
like silence that informs
imagination opening doors,
beyond the obvious, to other being...

the secret birth of other light,
and a sight beyond the outward seeing.

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