A Christmas Poem

Dear all,


As it is the days after Christmas many of us will be full of food, drink and mindless comedy specials which will have led us to vegetation, essential to end the year of hard work and stress! Now would not be a good time to turn our minds to philosophical logic about self-identity or the nature of time and space.

I have decided, therefore, to write a short poem about the festive time. I hope this will paint a picture of Christmas with my family and capture something of the festive season in England.

I would like to say that I love my family and I’m really glad I can spend this last Christmas before being ordained with them. They, like me, will want it all to be over after three hours (four if we’re lucky) and this poem is about that sense of seeing the monstrosity of oneself in the frustrations with the family.

Every time you wanted to roast a relative remember that they probably considered doing so with you!

May God bless you with His peaceful presence this season and may you know His deep, unwavering love for you and your family.

At Home

At home,
Holding heavy hearts
Hindered by hurts of another hard year.
Health holding on for news of improvement.

At home
With family;
The familiar faces frowning,
Frustration of feeling forced
To fake friendly thankfulness
Gritted teeth.
The advent wreath
Forgotten on the heath
Of hearts hanging onto hatred…

Rivalry of childhood rekindled for the festive fights.
“You always… I never.”
The detainment feeling forever,
Not sure why we’re together
At home.
Siblings waiting,
Voices grating,
Still the hating
All the slating…

And yet.

At the moment your mind
meanders to murder,
a memory.
“Another looks at me.”

Standing in the room of steely silence,
Sibling’s games turned to solitaire.
Crackers and carcass.
Colours to cover car crash conversation,
Can’t conceal

Like an unassuming infant
Born in unattractive surroundings
Amidst clamouring conflict and
Contradictory claims.

Not to conform
But transform
The tumultuous heart’s storm
To Peace.
Self-control to not kill,
Maim, choke to death
With the malevolent remote;
To love.

At home,
Sitting with yourself
Distorted but persistent
In another.
‘They’ become ‘we’
With difficulty.
But we are,
In the presence
Of the present
Of Grace.

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About nedlunn

Ned Lunn is a minister in the Church of England. Before this he ran a theatre company, el mono theatre, for seven years. He now writes on spirituality, philosophy, poetry and arts and is a member of a community called, 'Burning Fences', in York which explores art, spirituality and philosophy. He's married to Sarah and lives in York.