A Warm Night
in the Cold
As our troubled, solemn Earth tilts back
on its sharpest draw from our vital fire,
and the koi slumber beneath aspen leaves
drifting in frozen flutters beside the trail,
we drape sparkling garlands on porch rails,
light candles in frosted windows, and chop
our garden spuds and garlic bulbs
into pots of hearty stock.
We circle in silence in a humble home,
our thoughtways settling
as daylight dissolves into dusk,
and breathe deep the air we share,
feeling our fragility quake
like slender needles
in the young winter’s wind.
Then together we stroll
through the too-early dark,
Chaucer’s sojourners in ski togs,
our white breaths tumbling
in rising vanishing clouds
like playmates in the snow
as we shiveringly gigglesing
the half-remembered words
to “Good King Wenceslas.”
We cross beneath a crescent of white lights,
through an unlocked door we needn’t wait
to open, pull off snow-dusted coats,
tuck crusty boots onto patches of tile,
and draw in a fresh homeload of herbed soup
and fresh holly and old wise love.
After an hour of nibbles and chatter
we wrap and zip and step along –
“Who’s house is next? Oh look!
The quarter moon is breaking through!” –
more hugs enfolding,
new flames flickering, more
exotic treats and sweet familiarities.
As the junipers rattle and sway
just beyond our frosted windows,
we gather at our friendside fires
with warm bread and spiced wine,
stirring and banking embers
of an uncommon blaze.
We tell tales, unroll verses,
ring steel strings and sing
with winter courage
from deep in our fast-filling bellies.
Finally, talked out, too happy
for words, we fire up doo-wop,
rock ‘n’ roll and bluegrass
and dance like freed prisoners,
stomping and swirling
and flinging our limbs
until our dizzy heads dim
and our old knees complain.
Then, sated and weary,
breathless and sore, we tread
the few steps – so fortunately few –
to our own quiet homes,
inwardly stacking
our still-green moments
like cord wood in the snow.
This is the night, the warm
layered night, we pull to our chins
when the heartless winds howl
through the spaces between
our homes on higher ground.
Jameson O’Neal
Bend, Oregon 2012
Copyright 2013 Jameson O’Neal
I wrote this poem last year on the afternoon of my neighborhood’s annual Winter Solstice Celebration, which is something of a progressive open house: On the Saturday nearest the solstice, four or five households welcome everyone on the block to a gathering that moves from house to house. Congregating at the first house as daylight wanes, we attend to the start of the year’s longest night in silent meditation. At successive homes, we enjoy beverages, finger foods, soups and desserts. As at some of our other neighborhood gatherings, community members tell stories, sing, play their instruments, dance and put on skits — it’s what winter celebrations were like in all of our old countries, including North America, before we got too much in the habit of farming out art production to publishers and record studios and filmmakers. It’s a handmade holiday, a celebration of localart. Only with electricity.
This beautiful event never fails to deepen our gratitude for each other’s steady companionship. Now, because I live in a tiny cottage, I’m not in a position to open my doors to the neighborhood. Still, I always want to contribute to our celebration in some special way — to share my love with those who so inspire it. So last year I vowed to write a verse tribute to the event as my contribution. It seemed such a simple challenge at first, especially with such a wealth of imagery to draw from, but I was afraid of the project — fearful that false words would cheapen or muddle our precious togetherness.
And so I put off the project. I jotted a few notes, took a stab at a couple of lines, didn’t much care for any of it, set it all aside and went on with the business of life — most pointedly, getting a living. It just didn’t come together. My vow to write for the cherished occasion morphed into a vague intention to craft something someday.
When the afternoon of the party arrived, I felt terribly disappointed that I didn’t have a poem to share. It’s not like I owed my friends a poem, of course; I had mentioned the possibility of writing something but had been careful not to promise. Still, it was the season of giving, and I felt the letdown that always comes with holding back an intended gift. Further, I needled myself with thoughts of all the poets and composers who nailed their deadlines when commissioned to write for inaugurations and bridge openings. So I looked at the clock and did a brave thing: I committed to writing a poem.
“I have three hours,” I said. “Three hours is a poem if I say it is. They’re my friends, and poetry is what I do: I have to just do it.”
And so I wrote what I kept assuring myself was merely a rough draft to be read for friends — perhaps something worth working on in the coming year, perhaps something worth refining for publication someday.
Once I had it in hand, I felt reluctant to go through with the reading. It was a casserole cooked well enough to satisfy hunger but not well enough to serve friends. But my neighbors weren’t about to let me shelve it. They are kind, big-hearted people by any measure, but I had never modeled the sort of patience I was requesting. Everyone around here has heard me call upon friends to lead us in song even if they only half-remember the words. And because I’ve emceed variety shows, everyone has heard me say to reluctant performers: “May you always debut among friends who are sure to love you at evening’s end.”
After I read the poem at the party, my friends told me how it touched them, how it captured their feelings for our community and this event. They pleaded with me to send it to them all. I explained, “Well, what I read tonight is just a rough draft. I would have to work on this for a long time before it became something I’m prepared to distribute.”
My friend Annie, who weds directness and grace just as Kathryn Hepburn did, pointed to the pocket where I’d stuffed the poem and clarified her request.
“I don’t want the poem you get after you’ve fiddled with it and made it perfect,” she said. “I want THAT poem — the poem you read tonight. Please send it to me.”
So I did. And I sent it to other neighbors who requested it, and they passed it along to friends until . . . well, it sort of got away from me. Still, I figured I wouldn’t submit it for publication until I’d had time to refine it. And I didn’t make time in the ensuing year. Had a living to get.
A couple of weeks ago, as plans for this year’s Winter Solstice Celebration were forming, my friend Marilynne, one of the party planners, approached.
“You’re going to read your Winter Solstice poem again, right?” she said. “We love that poem. Which house do you want to read it at?”
“Oh, that,” I said. “I dunno. I’m still dissatisfied with it — and, frankly, I’m feeling more proud of things I’d written since. If I were to take on that assignment today, I’d approach it differently. I’m not sure I want to do that one again this year.”
“But now that’s the poem that says ‘Winter Solstice,’ just the way it is,” she said. “That’s the poem people want to hear. Would you please just read us your poem?”
Well, I said, maybe I would just tinker with it a little first.
“Jim,” you can’t fuss with it now,” she said. “Now it’s ours. We just want you to read it.”
(I must say, I can’t put my finger on the moment I lost final edit on that project.)
I replied that I might read the 2012 version but that I wasn’t giving up on improving it.
When other friends asked if I would be reading the poem, I demurred, saying I really kind of wanted to keep it on ice for awhile. I offered to read older poems of mine, or a classic by Hopkins or Yeats, or some prose I’d written recently.
That’s when I learned the honor of being invited to give a command performance.
“Look,” went the message I finally heard, “it takes a lot of effort to put on a celebration like this. People have committed to cleaning and decorating their homes. Natalie is baking whole-grain bread and Henry is making three kinds of soup — and he hasn’t cooked anything from scratch since Emily died. Sam is clearing space for a house concert. The Barkley kids are planning a dance routine. The Jellison boy has been working on his guitar piece night and day. All we’re asking is for you to show up at one house and read your old poem from last year — can you do that, please? Is that asking so much?”
I had to admit, it wasn’t asking so much. When you’re a poor poet with an abiding urge to give, it’s heartening to take requests. So I’m reading my poem once again this year, and passing it around. And since I’ve been focused on my website, I’ve decided to share it with my visitors as well. And if anyone wants to pass it along, you know what? That’s OK. My 2012 “A Warm Night in the Cold” is my gift to anyone who cares to read it this season.
I hope the poem inspires other neighborhoods to throw Solstice Celebrations, or perhaps similar commemorations of New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. The world can never get too much friendship — or too much homemade art and food. (There are so many possible ways to throw neighborhood parties. This is a big pot, and I really want to stir it, friends.) If your neighborhood does something like this, please write and tell me about it. If it catches on, I’ll report on it next year and let my visitors know where they can find the story.
I’m still not done with this poem, by the way. I still want to workshop it — to hear what other poets have to say. I want to know what works, what doesn’t, what gets in the way. I want this poem to join the Army and become all that it can be, but I don’t know when or if I’ll ever participate in an M.F.A. workshop. So I’ll just ask for kind, constructive comments to poet@jamesononeal.com. I intend to revise the work using my correspondents’ suggestions, then sell it in time for publication in 2014.
Peace on Earth
Jameson O’Neal
December 2013
Bend, Oregon