seasonal sounds

So I've been cheating on Advent, I've been sneaking into Christmas music and I'm going to boast about it. So if you are one of those few who successfully waits to put up the tree until Dec. 24th, you might want to save this post for later.  This year, in addition to my favorite Sufjan Stevens Christmas albums and The McGarrigle Christmas Hour, I now get to be filled with cheer by Tori Amos and Sting as well. I am especially fond of Tori's "Star of Wonder." Why she couldn't have launched that album at Grace Cathedral I don't know, the Men & Boy's Choir would have provided amazing backup vocals.

This early step into Christmas is partly due to planning Incarnate, an adventure of sorts for St. Cyprian's where we've invited a few rockabilly musicians to play some seasonal tunes and other folks to share poetry. You can join us on the next two Thursday nights at 8 p.m. The poem that gets me most serious about the meaning of Christmas, isn't a carol or a hymn but a poem by San Francisco Beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Christ Climbed Down.

Christ climbed down 
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no rootless Christmas trees
hung with candycanes and breakable stars

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no gilded Christmas trees
and no tinsel Christmas trees
and no tinfoil Christmas trees
and no pink plastic Christmas trees
and no gold Christmas trees
and no black Christmas trees
and no powderblue Christmas trees
hung with electric candles
and encircled by tin electric trains
and clever cornball relatives

Christ climbed down 
from His bare Tree
this year 
and ran away to where 
no intrepid Bible salesmen
covered the territory 
in two-tone cadillacs
and where no Sears Roebuck creches
complete with plastic babe in manger
arrived by parcel post 
the babe by special delivery
and where no televised Wise Men
praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey

Christ climbed down 
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where 
no fat handshaking stranger
in a red flannel suit
and a fake white beard
went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
in a Volkswagen sled
drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
and German names
and bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
from Saks Fifth Avenue
for everybody's imagined Christ child

Christ climbed down 
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where 
no Bing Crosby carollers
groaned of a tight Christmas
and where no Radio City angels
iceskated wingless
thru a winter wonderland
into a jinglebell heaven
daily at 8:30
with Midnight Mass matinees

Christ climbed down 
from His bare Tree
this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable
and impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
the very craziest of 
Second Comings