Day 163: Advent

Advent is always a special time I think - a time not only of reflection and 'waiting', but of anticipation and miracle-making. 

Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh was also a very religious poet, but Advent to me - the period and the poem - resonates on a more general level. It offers the chance of redemption, of grace, of transformation - 'a January flower.'

In the run-up to Christmas, our views on the world can change. Magic can become apparent - the magic that Kavanagh makes the case for here in this poem. And hopefully, we can become just like children again and see 'the newness that was in every stale thing, the light and the wonder that is hidden by a sometimes jaded adult existence.

Advent - Patrick Kavanagh

We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.

And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.

O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning-
We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we'll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won't we be rich, my love and I, and please
God we shall not ask for reason's payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God's breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour-
And Christ comes with a January flower.