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“Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown.”
-- Tennyson
CHRISTMAS BATS
This poem
came to me
when I thought it should not:
on Christmas eve.
I wanted to give a gift sweet
but following the laws of poetry
this verse stubbornly refused
to recognize my ideal Yuletide.
The poem told me,
“I will sing of bats--
even if you don’t
write me down,
bats will be sung.”
So when I continued
to resist, the poem began
to holler all the way
from the soles of my feet
to the crown of my head.
And what did the poesy proclaim?--
“Batty bats,
cave,
and dung,
gah da-da-da-dung!”
--and for the second stanza:
“Stalactite...
stalac-bite--
when bitten by the ba-ba-ba bat
I woke up. And when I woke up
I flew out.”
But how could I allow
such speech to be free
on this most holy day?
This day of new life
in the darkest dark?
On the other hand,
I couldn’t keep swallowing
that bat back down--
every scribe must obey
his sentence.
But after the poem
had finally flown,
the child in me
said, “Okay,
now what about Christmas...?”
I tried--but in vain--to placate
that hungry innocent
with this honest observation:
don’t all my poems
speak of Christmas?
© 2009 Michael R. Patton go back
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