Toward the Winter Solstice

I was looking out this morning, contemplating the somewhat dark outdoors. The sun did come out a little bit this afternoon, but in the morning it was dark. At this time of year, when the sky is overcast, and the sun comes up late, it can feel like twilight for much of the day, and night for the remainder.

First I remembered a little conversation I had with my dad once, some time ago. The previous night had been windy, and I said I had heard the wind while I was lying in bed at night and it sounded -- "cozy," supplied my dad. I had been going to say "spooky." I think it's an indicator, either of one's personality or state of mind, how the wind sounds to you at night in the dark.

Anyway, I was trying to think of some meaning to attach to the darkening days. This afternoon, I googled "dark winter poems." Of course, one of the ones to appear is Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush." I love that poem, but I don't totally identify with the protagonist, who sees his century (the Nineteenth) dying, and his world as kind of dried out and lifeless, at least in part because of his loss of faith. I haven't lost my faith, though I do sometimes have bleak moods that can make me empathize with Hardy, so I like the poem because I'm so glad the thrush gives the narrator some glimpse of hope to lighten his darkness.

"The Darkling Thrush" is a poem for two weeks or so from now. What's on my mind today is the approach of winter solstice. I'm looking forward to it because after that I can keep reminding myself that the days are growing longer. I saw a link to a poem by Thomas Campion called "Now Winter Nights Enlarge," which is precisely about the shortening days. His poem is one of those "love is folly" types. He talks about all the fun things to do at this season, light fires and candles, dance, sing, read poetry, and says "Though love and all his pleasures are but toys / They shorten tedious nights." That's a bit too cynical for me.

Then I tried one with a promising title, "Toward the Winter Solstice." The poet, Timothy Steele, was unknown to me. I don't know all that much about living poets. I only discover them by hearing of them somewhere. For instance, I became acquainted with the works of Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon (who is no longer living) by seeing and hearing Donald Hall in person at Calvin's Festival of Faith and Writing some time ago. Anyway, here is the poem:

Toward the Winter Solstice
Timothy Steele

Although the roof is just a story high,
It dizzies me a little to look down.
I lariat-twirl the cord of Christmas lights
And cast it to the weeping birch’s crown;
A dowel into which I’ve screwed a hook
Enables me to reach, lift, drape, and twine
The cord among the boughs so that the bulbs
Will accent the tree’s elegant design.

Friends, passing home from work or shopping, pause
And call up commendations or critiques.
I make adjustments. Though a potpourri
Of Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs,
We all are conscious of the time of year;
We all enjoy its colorful displays
And keep some festival that mitigates
The dwindling warmth and compass of the days.

Some say that L.A. doesn’t suit the Yule,
But UPS vans now like magi make
Their present-laden rounds, while fallen leaves
Are gaily resurrected in their wake;
The desert lifts a full moon from the east
And issues a dry Santa Ana breeze,
And valets at chic restaurants will soon
Be tending flocks of cars and SUVs.

And as the neighborhoods sink into dusk
The fan palms scattered all across town stand
More calmly prominent, and this place seems
A vast oasis in the Holy Land.
This house might be a caravansary,
The tree a kind of cordial fountainhead
Of welcome, looped and decked with necklaces
And ceintures of green, yellow, blue, and red.

Some wonder if the star of Bethlehem
Occurred when Jupiter and Saturn crossed;
It’s comforting to look up from this roof
And feel that, while all changes, nothing’s lost,
To recollect that in antiquity
The winter solstice fell in Capricorn
And that, in the Orion Nebula,
From swirling gas, new stars are being born.

It could be "my kindly agnostic neighbor's enjoyment of Christmas," unless it's more than that. I'd have to read more of his work to gauge where he's coming from. At any rate, I like the picture it draws of the California neighborhood and ambiance. I never lived in L.A., but I did live in San Jose for more than a dozen years, and I like the mood he creates. And L.A. probably is a lot more like the ancient Holy Land than we realize.

I followed more links to read about Timothy Steele, who writes poetry with form (hurrah) and teaches in Southern California. I'd like to get to know more about him and his writing and see if he is what Anne Shirley might call a kindred spirit.