Happy Christmas, everyone. I don’t have any Christmas poems (I just keyed Christmad – Freudian?) and I haven’t mastered the trick of adding pictures to the blog, so here’s a poem instead and be content with it. It could be gruel. If you have any shiny paper left you could wrap the poem in it, or alternatively insert it in a chocolate, although WARNING: it may be nuts.




When you slip under

The long lying line of waves

Strange shapes will come

Silently propelled by waft of flipper

Or sinuous pulsing of a streamlined torso

And some maybe you knew and had forgotten

Dirt shovelled over the well has been removed

Remember the time before you broke the surface

Gasped, fumbled, burrowed

And survived by stratagem?


Now you return to them

Learning to be like a fish

Wander and linger

Here where the pearly nautilus waves unchanging

Here with the ammonite and plesiosaur

And where squat fish that never see the sunlight

Thread through great feathery banks of frond

Of hidden sting and jaw


Do you rise up towards the scattered sunlight

The crushing waves, the inconsistent wind,

The seabird that will fly to a rocky island

Drawing life from the depths, their crowded night?


When you are playing with the waves

Will you remember

Here on the fine-grained shore (maybe imagine)

Beneath the corals and the painted fish

Down with the vents, the eyeless creatures

Some heavy hidden box

That had an answer,

Where you will return?

Will you return?


Anyway, Happy Christmas. And if you’re reading this in June, Happy Christmas to you too. Just imagine it’s much colder (or much hotter if you’re an antipode).

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  1. Sterling work.

    ~ The Dippylomat esq.

  2. Caddo Veil

     /  December 29, 2011

    This is tremendous–no need for Christmad wrap, though the chocolate part sound yummy! You see things differently–in a different world than I know–so it’s cool to have a look in the window, thanks!!

    • Thanks, Caddo. I think we do share some perceptions and our worlds are not totally different; but I’d never assume someone’s poetry (or any other art) was a complete expression of them.


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