Carols for Christmas

That beautiful carol 'In the Bleak Midwinter' is based on a poem written by Christina Rossetti in response to a commission from the magazine Scribner's Monthly for a Christmas poem in 1872. One hopes they paid well. The lines of one of my predecessors as poet laureate, the Irish poet Nahum Tate, are on our lips still when we sing the lyrics of 'While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night', written by him in 1703 – though usually changed to 'washed their socks' by most school-children. Carols, according to the 1928 edition of The Oxford Book of Carols, are 'simple, hilarious, popular and modern'. They are a kind of folk song where direct poetry and accessible music eagerly meet. The oldest of our carols date from the 15th century and 'give voice to the common emotions of healthy people in language that can be understood'. I hope that by this time next year some of these sparkling new poems for carols will have been set to music. On behalf of all the poets here to you, their readers, I wish you a very happy Christmas. Carol Ann Duffy The Bee Carol Carol Ann Duffy Silently on Christmas Eve, the turn of midnight's key; all the garden locked in ice – a silver frieze – except the winter cluster of the bees. Flightless now and shivering, around their Queen they cling; every bee a gift of heat; she will not freeze within the winter cluster of the bees. Bring me for my Christmas gift a single golden jar; let me taste the sweetness there, but honey leave to feed the winter cluster of the bees. Come with me on Christmas Eve to see the silent hive – trembling stars cloistered above – and then believe, bless the winter cluster of the bees. Carol Fleur Adcock Carry the child at ease in the womb, lulled in a cradle of bone and sinew: a winter child with an escort of songbirds; a summer child for a winter home. Carry the child content in your arms. Carry the child high on your shoulders, tall as a candle: a radiant torch, a solar-powered lamp to light a dark room. Call the child to be dandled with rhymes, livened with drum-talk, cuddled and calmed with flutes and fiddles, anthems and psalmody. Welcome the child with a sky full of chimes. Hark John Agard Drink up the mull till you're full Don't mince on the pies It's the season to gourmandize Stock up on the stockings Crack up with the crackers The chimney looks the same But Santa's gotten fatter Time to be reckless With the turkey in your trolley Feel free to be legless In front of the telly Now with the innards fully filled Spare a thought for tender words – Peace. Share. Goodwill. Carol of the Birds Gillian Clarke Winter sun is cold and low, mew the kite and crake the crow, bird of flame, bird of shadow, ballad of blood on snow. Owls are calling llw, llw, llw, Kyrie , hullabaloo. Small birds come without a sound, starving to the feeding ground, till the robin with his wound carols the ice-bound land. Noctua, hibou, gwdihw, Owl's lullaby – who? who? who? The story tells of pain and blood, the troubles of a restless world, a star that lights the snowy fields, towards a newborn child. Owls are calling llw, llw, llw, Kyrie , hullabaloo, noctua, hibou, gwdihw, lullaby – who? who? who? Mumbai Kissmiss Imtiaz Dharker Of course! Who is not knowing this, that after Happy Diwali comes Merry Kissmiss! Impossible to miss, when allovermumbai, Matharpacady to A to Z Market, rooftops are dancing in chorus and alloversky is fully full with paper stars. Hear! Horns are telling at midnight on every street, happy happy happy! We know very well to make good festival, and Saint Santa is our honoured guest in Taj Hotel. We are not forgetting. And allovermumbai alloversky is fully full with paper stars. See! Tree is shining and snow (cotton- wool but looks good, no?) Small child also face is shining, licking icing, this must be what snow tastes like under the paper stars. And allovermumbai alloversky is fully full with paper stars. Midwinter Song Maura Dooley Snow flies fierce across the land as cardboard doors unfold, a star shines clear on bitterness, on lack and want and cold. An old tale tells of spite's true cost, how greed's full rhyme is need. The City's rime is piss and frost, icesharp in word and deed. A robin's breast, a berry bright, is dimmed by falling night, could starlight melt a frozen heart, a baby make all right? The oldest story's for the newest face, a fire in winter or a moment's grace. Advent for Daisy or Milo Antony Dunn O little child, o child to come knocking at the world's door, for whom, still, your small universe of womb is all there is to know, strike dumb the voices of our worldly gloom; no room, no room, no room. O little child, make good the sum of human love. Of every crumb create a thousand shares. Presume this much, at least, that there's one home from which the answer will not come, no room, no room, no room. In Winter's House Jane Draycott In winter's house there's a room that's pale and still as mist in a field while outside in the street every gate's shut firm, every face as cold as steel. In winter's house there's a bed that is spread with frost and feathers, that gleams in the half-light like rain in a disused yard or a pearl in a choked-up stream. In winter's house there's a child asleep in a dream of light that grows out of the dark, a flame you can hold in your hand like a flower or a torch on the street. In winter's house there's a tale that's told of a great chandelier in a garden, of fire that catches and travels for miles, of all gates and windows wide open. In winter's house there's a flame being dreamt by a child in the night, in the small quiet house at the turn in the lane where the darkness gives way to light. The Passion of the Holly (air: The Sans Day Carol ) Ian Duhig We're the Sans Day carollers who call once a year; if we're sans bread and sans brass, we are not sans care, for the coming of Jesus, born poor to be king and the passion of the holly at Christmas we sing. O the holly bore a berry as white as a bone, for we sing of one new life but many more gone so we sing for those grieving as all theirs who died, whether Christian or not at this cold Christmastide. But the holly bore a berry as green as new grass, as Our Lady bore Jesus who died on the cross, and if summer seems laid in the sepulchre's night, there's no dark hold so strong it's not broken by light. When the holly bore a berry as black as a mine, we lit thirty-three candles like Christ's years, a sign; for poor miners give daylight their living to make, and some sacrificied more when the holly wore black. Now the holly bears a berry as Christ's blood it's red, for the Christ-child means good that can rise from the dead; and much sharper than holly was Jesus' crown, and yet he was raised up and Lord Satan cast down. O our holly and its berry were soon turned to dust, as were we who in singing and kindness put trust; and yet though we sing now to you from the grave, you can hear us because we are singing of love. What Ails Thee, Santa? Ruth Fainlight Oh what can ail thee, Santa Claus, woebegone instead of jolly? In fact we think you look almost off your trolley. Oh what can ail thee, Santa Claus? You have a job, though times are hard, in this well-heated shopping mall. Thank your lucky stars. So stretch a smile across your face, get back into Santa's grotto, check your beard is still in place, then coax that toddler toward your lap, to hotly breathe into your ear her present-list. She slides off, happy. The next seems more suspicious – but you win him over. Morning, afternoon, it doesn't matter. Still another month to Christmas. What ails thee, Santa? Carol Ann Gray We sit down together at Christmas, we toast those who cannot be there, throughout the laughter and plenty we all know there's one empty chair. There's frost on the grass in the orchard where songbirds have gathered their choir, snow colours the hawthorn, the holly, we've heaped up the logs on the fire. Those that we love may be fighting, in countries where we've never been, where it freezes at night in the mountains, we wish they could be here to see there's frost on the grass in the orchard, where songbirds have gathered their choir, snow colours the hawthorn, the holly, we've heaped up the logs on the fire. There are those who may have had children who'll have families now of their own, they'll phone when they're carving the turkey but their old folk will still feel alone, though there's frost on the grass in the orchard where songbirds have gathered their choir, snow colours the hawthorn, the holly, we've heaped up the logs on the fire. There are some who can't think about Christmas, It's a picture they've seen on a tin. There's no table, no family, no plenty, they're always outside looking in. There's frost on the grass in the orchard where songbirds have gathered their choir, snow colours the hawthorn, the holly, we've heaped up the logs on the fire. Let's open our hearts then, this Christmas, look out for those who're alone, Lay one extra place at the table, throw open the doors of our home, because there's frost on the grass in the orchard where songbirds have gathered their choir, snow colours the hawthorn, the holly, and we've heaped up the logs on the fire. Carol James Harpur The falcon flew from dark to dark drew silver from the Northern Star and headed for the crinkled hills, the rivers, lakes and waterfalls to find the source of light on earth the source of light on earth. And as three weary pilgrim kings looked up and saw his glittering wings the falcon saw a darkened town a stable glowing like a crown and knew that he had found the truth that he had found the truth. The falcon hovered like a star his wings spun out a spirit fire that drew the kings inside the shed: the child asleep in his straw bed was dreaming of a silver bird was dreaming of a bird. His task now done, the falcon rose a spark ablaze with joyful news; he lit the stars, he lit the moon then vanished in the arc of sun that dawned beyond the Southern Cross beyond the Southern Cross. Happy Christmas Frieda Hughes At Halloween the Christmas baubles Already decorate the stores, Ignoring guilt as high as corbels Shoppers stalk the shopping floors. The birth of Christ is pushed aside Not aided by the fear his name Might irritate the shopping public And distract their shopping aim. But there is no gift worth more Than our company – it's given free To those we love, more precious than Any gift beneath a Christmas tree. Maw Broon's Jings! Bells! Jackie Kay Speeding thru the snaw, on ma one guid wooden tray, doon Glebe Street I go, greetin' hauf the way. Bun on big heid stings, body warmer awfie ticht – but whit a nicht to wheep and wheesht! A bag-pipe blast the nicht! Och Jings, ma belle, Jings ma belle, Jings Jings a' day lang! Aw whit a scream it is to see, Paw's lang face as I tear awa on ma one guid wooden tray. The snaw bricht in the moon licht; the stars daeing a merry jig; and Maw Broon's pretty infra-dig, Aw Jings, bairns; Jings twins, Jings Jings a' the way, Och get yer ain happy haggis, Steam yer ain clootie dumpling! I'm aff tae hae ma ain day. Gie me peace and nae nativity! Ho, ho, ho! Michty me – in ma one guid wooden tray. I've had it up tae here. Christmas dinner every year. It's me that peals the tatties. Me that fries the stovies. It's time to break awa. I'm sorry Paw. Sorry Hen. Wull I no be back again? Crivens, mibbe no, ye ken. Och Jings, ma belle, Jings, ma belle Jings Jings a' day lang. Aw, whit a scream it is to see, Paw's soor face as I tear awa on ma one guid wooden tray. Christmas Tree for Jacob Michael Longley You are my second grandson, Christmas-born. I put on specs to read your face. Whispering Sweet nothings to your glistening eyelids, Am I outspoken compared with you? You sleep While I carry you to our elderly beech. Your forefinger twitches inside its mitten. Do you feel at home in my aching crook? There will be room beneath your fontanel For this branchy diagram of winter. I take you back indoors to the Christmas tree. Dangling for you among the fairy lights Are the zodiac's animals and people. Carol Lachlan Mackinnon The power to annihilate Our public and our private fate Is sleeping in a manger. Be you sage or shepherd, stranger, Lean close, then leave before he wakes And his clear gaze clear judgment makes On all your works and days, The little terror, born to raise The dead and, yes, the living dead, The bled by bankers, the unfed, And every mortal soul That labours for its daily dole Of pittance from the pitiless Unceasing rasp of dailiness, That shivers like a child When the nocturnal wind goes wild About the outhouse and the things Left out to dry. An angel sings And all of us are hushed By something that will not be rushed, The sweetness pure as heather honey, The fortune never told in money, This little scrap will bring. Yes, you have heard an angel sing: Now go you, you have seen enough To carry this good news through rough Terrain to careworn days, New angels, with unending praise. song for the longest night (dig the stillness) Paula Meehan my old friend still holding at the end of a needle or a gun too much dope or not enough the shadow on the wall the swinging rope let's take the old road out of town we'll stop by the woods do you remember? we went there as kids there's a fire path up to a ring of standing stones we could lay there under stars our eyes open wide pinpricks in the night trace our mortal fate across the glittering chart we could sleep there at the heart the moon waxing full the deepest dreamless sleep and wake at first light to a new spangled year look back along the trail our trackmarks in the snow the falling snow Christmas Hero Grace Nichols Let the Yuletide jump-up begin. What you having? Wine? Rum? Gin? The more we are together the merrier we will feel the weather. So come in your glad rags – go with the flow. Good tidings hiding under the mistletoe. Welcome, welcome one and all. Just follow the holly around the hall. Outside Jack-Frost might be nipping but inside hot as carnival O guess who's coming ever gallant through the snow? Yes, Robin Redbreast my Christmas card hero. So let's make a toast to our special guest, who warms us all with the flame of his chest. Carol To the tune of " In the Bleak Midwinter" Sean O'Brien Darling, look, it's snowing. We should make them pay, The idle herd who spoil the view by getting in the way. Soon we shall have altered the meaning of "estate" When all these charvers line up on the wrong side of the gate. They don't just want an orange, they want a bag of nuts – I should bloody coco. Let them live on cuts. Let them dine on cardboard, lie down in a ditch. Will they never listen? Jesus loves the rich. Whip them through the parish, close the work-house door. Oh let us be realistic: all they are is poor, And therefore not quite human – nothing left to sell. Merry Christmas, darling, and the rest can go to Hell. Oh, the snow keeps falling, and the cold is cruel. There's a thought – why don't we use the poor for fuel? Stack them up like firewood, burn them in the street, So when my love's in Knightsbridge she may warm her feet. Slowed Down Blackbird Alice Oswald Blackbird fretting in the frozen hedge In the first Slow-fall of the year when wind Stuck in a Slow-drift lags behind The twilight's trailing edge Three inches underfoot The Slow is settling Stillness is afloat Last chorister holding the longest note Lost in a Storm of Falling Slow he sings As if engrossed by inward awkward things The tick tick tick of leaves Keeps losing time the Bleak Sky barely breathes All evening long a Slow-cloud drips and grieves Three inches underfoot The Slow is settling Stillness is afloat Last chorister holding the longest note Lost in a Storm of Falling Slow he sings: In the New Year the wind will blow The world be shaken the shadows grow But on this Slowy night nothing but Slow Which if it lasts nothing will be but Now Why Is the Mute Swan Singing? Brian Patten How calm the snow, how white it is, How clear and pure the air, How perfectly each little flake Illuminates the atmosphere. Why is the old fox smiling, Trotting through the snow? What is the rabbit dreaming In the warren deep below? Why is the mute swan singing? Why is the wren so bold? Why are the wild geese staying And the spider weaving gold? How calm the snow! how white it is! How clear and pure the air! How perfectly each little flake Illuminates the atmosphere! Why are the black crows cawing, That were once so numb with cold? From amongst the ice-flecked branches What can they see unfold? Why are they so excited On such a winter's night? And why is the stable glowing With such translucent light? The kingfisher shakes off rainbows, The river stops mid-flow, Buried in the owl's blood Is something they all know. Annunciation after Fra Angelico Robin Robertson He has come from the garden, leaving no shadow, no footprint in the dew. She bows to him, slightly, arms crossed over, shielding herself. He bends one knee, folding his hands below his chest, to mirror hers. They hold each other's gaze at the point of balance: everything streaming towards this moment, streaming away. A word will set the seed of life and death, the over-shadowing of this girl by a feathered dark. But not yet: not quite yet. How will she remember the silence of that endless moment? Or the end, when it all began – the first of seven joys before the seven sorrows? She will remember the aftersong because she is only human. One day she'll wake with wings, or wake and find them gone Grace at Christmas Jean Sprackland Not only for the way the whisky flames in the glass and thaws the blood; not only for the rattle of hailstones down the chimney and doused by fire; not just for the way the brand-new ring, slipped cool on a finger, flushes with life; or the warmth of the bed, and the warmth of another, when streetlamps are spinning snow outside. But also for the good, true cold, shocking us back to all our senses: the broken-off star of ice in the hand, the sting of the wind and the quickening heart. For the splintering light, and the frost in our voices, striking, and making the strung air ring; December cold with its wilder gifts – for when are we more alive than now? The Midwife's Carol Michael Symmons Roberts Deserts freeze and oceans glaze, The polar sun turns blue, Then on winter's whitened page A single star prints through. New-made maker, helpless king, Born to joy and suffering, Our rescuer, our child, Our rescuer, our child. I haul my catch into the world, I shake him into breath, His cry, so clear it splits the skies, Could wake a man from death. He cries for milk who gave it taste, He aches for touch of skin, Yet he spun every human hair, And ushered love begin . I count his fingers, wipe his eyes, Then whisper in each ear. I wrap him in my thickest shawl, Bound tight to keep him here. My hands have cradled many heads, Cut countless cords and cauls, But never held eternity Within such fragile walls. The maker of all worlds is made, Infinity becalms, From speed of light to feet of clay, My saviour in my arms. An Angel So Eager Jeffrey Wainwright An angel sang in a holly tree A holly tree Can you see? An angel sang in a holly tree On a cloudy Christmas morning. I'm bored with heaven the angel sang The angel sang The garden rang I'm bored with heaven the angel sang Can I share your human Christmas? I'll help you set the tree up straight Then fly to the top And shimmer atop I'll help you set the tree up straight And get those lights a-working. I'll smile when I'm in the checkout queue And take my cue To say thanking you I'll smile when I'm in the checkout queue So the girl won't feel so weary. I'll write all your Christmas cards Christmas cards Best regards I'll write all your Christmas cards And none shall be forgotten. To each mall and square a choir I'll bring A choir I'll bring And how we'll sing To each mall and square a choir I'll bring And gently unplug the muzak. All the arguments of who and where Are they coming here? Are we going there? All the arguments of who and where I'll charm away in a jiffy. I'll peel the sprouts and baste the bird Undeterred Whatever the bird I'll peel the sprouts and baste the bird And set the pudding flaming. I'll help the teens put up with it all Put up with it all Crackers and all I'll help the teens put up with it all So they can grin and bear it. I'll take some soup and Christmas pie Christmas pie Best you can buy I'll take some soup and Christmas pie To those who're on their uppers. I'll fold my wings on the tired child The tearful child The lonely child I'll fold my wings on the tired child So they'll sleep through till morning. But Twelfth Night I must fly down And leave your tree And leave you be The Twelfth Night I must fly down And these are the words I'm leaving. It's not so easy to live as you do Live as you do Live as you do And that's why I'll come back to you For you'll always need a Christmas. Holly (It's the female holly that bears the berries.) Susan Wicks November, and you see her everywhere, a thousand eyes, a rush of red in hedges. She's awake, alight, a burning bush, a burning bush. December, and you cut her, bring her in. You bind her to a wreath. You twist and bend her tender branches back until they meet, until they meet. Against the glass she shivers in the wind till Christmas. She adorns each house. Her satin ribbon lifts and shreds itself on thorns, itself on thorns. On Christmas Day she stands on tiptoe twig unwilting through the steam while someone stoops to light a match and pluck her from the flame, her from the flame. And then she's over, all her burning life is shrivelled, berries dry as clotted blood, her leaves like knives. So clear her all away, her all away. Her sisters, softer now with frost and rain, feed birds between the trees and wait for creamy blossom, sun, the buzzing of the bees, zing of the bees. Carol Kit Wright When Man Anthropomorphic Gave all the creatures speech, And Music-makers Orphic Enchantment lent to each, They made a game of magic Within their children's reach. It seemed the human thing to do: They never thought that it was true. And when the catastrophic Obtruded on their days, They shaped a philosophic Account for their malaise : They harmonised the tragic In lots of different ways. It seemed the human thing to do: They never thought that it was true. And when they sought exemption From Death's unswerving law, As agent of redemption They laid a child in straw, The son of their Oppressor, To cherish and adore. It seemed the human thing to do: They never thought that it was true. But when the world about them Filled with such whopping lies They could not fail to doubt them, They found, to their surprise, The tale of their Redresser, They viewed with different eyes. Compared to all the other stuff, The tale was more than true enough.