Mean

A poem should not mean, but be. - Archibald MacLeish

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Advent (for nelson mandela)



It seems unlikely to me, this season of Advent,
a story of an unwed Mother journeying far,
for reasons unclear, to a filthy manger,
to give birth to the Child - covered in blood -
in a pile of hay. And Joseph, a seemingly mute witness,
watching the story unfold, sensing
the grief that will one day enfold them.

Then there was a Star and three Wise Men.
From the East they came,
to the Mother and Child. Kneeling,
they brought gifts that he already knew then
he would need later. Reconciliation not being an
easy affair.

When Mandela was born, there was no Star, but
the Wise came to him eventually, if reluctantly,
and only much later. And Gifts?
I imagine freeing the oppressed counts.
He was not nailed to a Cross, but he carried one
for twenty-seven years
in a small cell and alone.

A man who forgave the enemies that tortured him,
imprisoned him, spat on him. A man who reconciled
an entire nation exacting no retribution.
And in this season of Advent,
Mandela has gone, called by the Child.
How long the people of South Africa waited
to follow their Star out of the wilderness.
How they must now grieve.

Listening to the news,
how foolish I feel in this season of shopping,
as I straighten the star on the top of my plastic tree,
take the dusty, sanitized manger yet again
from its old cardboard box,
and wrap gifts that are not wise at all
for people who know not what they do.


- r. russeth


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