Around a decade ago I found among my parents’ old books a small volume of Christmas poems by Rod McKuen. I remembered to pull it down for a read only a handful of times since I first kept it for myself, but each time I did I found that the writing was sadder, more poignant than it previously seemed. Does this mean I’m getting older?
This uneducated writer looked up Mr. McKuen today. Big big shame on me for even thinking he might tragically be with the Hallmark card school (you know the kind I mean). Far from it, this American poet, in fact, appeared frequently alongside Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg in the 50s. The difference is McKuen enjoyed long-term commercial success that his beat contemporaries did not. He even shared a great friendship with Jacques Brel until Brel’s death in 1978. McKuen still writes today and has received nominations for the Pulitzer and Academy Awards for both his written work and musical compositions.
The book I have kept is called Twelve Years of Christmas. It is a compilation of poetry, originally written as Christmas cards for his friends over a period of you guessed it, twelve years. With that clumsy introduction out of the way, here is what I really wanted to post:
1968
Corners
I turn each corner still
hoping for the Virgin Mary to appear.
She’ll be dressed in cardboard blue
the way she was in Sunday school
and stepping out in front of me
she’ll lead me through another town.
Afterward,
her many miracles
still bulging from that shopping bag of hope,
she’ll leave me standing by myself and
wondering.
I know that love
like radios and ripe bananas
is auctioned in the market place
and all things meant to last were made
pre-1940.
Still a man can smile while waiting for the
light to change
and hope the Virgin Mary on her busy rounds
will stop to drink strong coffee
on the English Common
or in a North Beach Square.
Kennedy and King,
you had the means but not the time.
And though the Virgin Mary
is nothing but a dream
her hair is soft and silky in the night.
by Rod McKuen
