Selected poems
The true meaning
That famous Jewish boy arrived in autumn 4BC
most experts say, not Winter Solstice of year one.
No matter. Solstice celebrations soon embraced
not just our dying Sun's rebirth each year
and bull-killer Mithras' sacred day but also the nativity
of God on earth — as well as Saturnalia, time of joy
for Roman slaves and servants. Back then
that was most of us, definitely
me and mine. A good day to feast.
The myths we take for granted once sprang forth
miraculous, bizarre. Our mild North Pole Santa
started his career a wild-eyed saint
who resurrected murdered boys
and saved drowned sailors.
Yule logs once burned pure Nordic pagan
though our much-bedizened Christmas trees
are modern German things, beloved of Victoria
and her Saxe-Coburg Bert. Still, green boughs
and golden wreaths have wrought their sacred magic
indoors and out from time immemorial.
No need to argue! Celebrate the rebirth of the Sun,
the birth of God the Son, or simply
sunny days with loved ones.
Simply love.
Christmas through the ages
At twelve, halfway through too many stifling hours
crammed in the Holden station wagon, three girls
munch Mum's ham sandwiches
in a Rotary park (sun-yellowed grass, bright
blowsy roses near the road), then on
to the full catastrophe — grandparents, aunts,
uncles, myriad cousins, grey lamb with
Nana's watery mint sauce, grey-green veggies,
soggy pumpkin, Mum's great fruitcake. Presents.
At twenty-five, the man and I trek two days
up the Hume to now-distant parents' homes
for family celebrations, working hard
not to resent the strain. Hard work.
At thirty, waifs-and-strays Christmases
with friends in our adopted southern city.
Mango, nougat, croquembouche. Easy smiles.
By forty, we've declared ourselves a family
in our own right. Coffee with liqueur
for present-opening,
duck or chook roasted in the barbie
(heatwave or heater weather, or both
in the same day) served with sparkling wine.
Naps afterwards. Easy and calm.
Fifties, back north to help exhausted sisters day by day
with diminished parents. Christmas
breakfast lunch drinks dinner salmon salad
strawberries pavlova (never fruitcake)
coddling the blind, the lame, the thoroughly confused.
Each time, hoping it's not the last.
Jenny Blackford's poems have appeared in Australian Poetry Journal, Going Down Swinging and Westerly, as well as The School Magazine and various anthologies. Pitt Street Poetry launched her first full-length poetry collection, The Loyalty of Chickens, in April 2017.