by Joseph Brodsky<\/p>\n
When it\u2019s Christmas we\u2019re all of us magi.
\nAt the grocers\u2019 all slipping and pushing.
\nWhere a tin of halva, coffee-flavored,
\nis the cause of a human assault-wave
\nby a crowd heavy-laden with parcels:
\neach one his own king, his own camel.<\/p>\n
Nylon bags, carrier bags, cones of paper,
\ncaps and neckties all twisted up sideways.
\nReek of vodka and resin and cod
\norange mandarins, cinnamon, apples.
\nFloods of faces, no sign of a pathway
\ntoward Bethlehem, shut off by snow.<\/p>\n
And the bearers of gifts, unassuming,
\nleap on buses and jam all the doorways,
\ndisappear into courtyards that gape,
\nthough they know that there\u2019s nothing inside there:
\nnot a beast, not a crib, nor yet Her,
\nround whose head gleams a nimbus of gold.<\/p>\n
Emptiness. But the mere thought of that
\nbrings forth lights as if out of nowhere.
\nHad Herod but known the stronger he seemed,
\nthe more sure, the more certain the wonder.
\nEvery year this constant relation
\nis the basic machinery of Christmas.<\/p>\n
This they celebrate now everywhere,
\nfor its coming push tables together.
\nNo demand for a star yet awhile,
\nbut a sort of goodwill touched with grace
\ncan be seen in all men from afar,
\nand the shepherds have kindled their fires.<\/p>\n
Snow is falling: not smoking but sounding
\nchimney pots on the roof, every face like a stain.
\nHerod drinks. Every wife hides her child.
\nHe who comes is a mystery to no one:
\nbut the signs are confusing, men\u2019s hearts may
\nfind it hard to acknowledge the stranger.<\/p>\n
But the draft through the doorway will part
\nthe thick mist of the hours of darkness
\nand a shape in a shawl stand revealed,
\nand the Christ-child and Spirit that\u2019s Holy
\nwill be sensed in the soul without shame;
\na glance skyward will show it\u2014the star.<\/p>\n
–Read at St. Lydia’s on December 23, 2012<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Joseph Brodsky When it\u2019s Christmas we\u2019re all of us magi. At the grocers\u2019 all slipping and pushing. Where a tin of halva, coffee-flavored, is the cause of a human assault-wave by a crowd heavy-laden with parcels: each one his own king, his own camel. Nylon bags, carrier bags, cones of paper, caps and neckties […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[9],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2019"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2019"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2019\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2021,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2019\/revisions\/2021"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2019"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2019"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stlydiasliturgy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2019"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}