All is calm, all is bright;
the cattle are lowing.
Don we now our gay apparel;
let earth receive her king:
Santa Claus is coming to town !
It doesn’t show signs of stopping:
pa rum pum pum pum;
and a partridge in a pear tree
raising the sound.
We all like our figgy pudding,
and all the souls an earth shall sing.
Between an ox stall and an ass
the silent stars go by;
bruise in us the serpent’s head
so frequently to vanquish all.
Lo! He abhors not the virgin’s womb;
a voice, a chime, a chant sublime
disperse the gloomy clouds of night.
Gone away is the bluebird
to see if reindeer really know how to fly—
out jumps good old Santa Claus:
fum fum fum !
The darkness everywhere,
thy leaves are so unchanging,
happy golden days of yore
among the leaves so green:
a star in the sky, or a bird on the wing;
jingle bell time is a swell time—
jingle all the way !
— all lines copied from Christmas carols —
with hair flowing
& eyes glowing,
wherefore the scowl?
Maybe a friend
your shrieks intend
instead of making my dog howl.
She soars through the violin:
swaying, bowing; strings
undercutting low, shimmering
high; communicates emotion
from Prokofiev, the concerto.
The second movement punctuated
and melodic washes over the
normal day of the audience,
pushes existence into artistic
slant, a hypnotic pull – casting.
The soloist knows the magic
– wields the wand –
the conductor, the orchestra:
defenseless—willing to be
stolen away. Bliss lies in the
sumptuous strings of the
Devil’s instrument — sensuous.
All the demons come out
of hiding to cavort in the
last movement; everyone dances,
swoons. The theater pounds,
castanets clapping. The expressive
lines ring out. The vibrations excite,
even as the timpani thud the loud stop—
the swelling applause carries the spell
through the exits into the quiet streets.
The interlaced, crystal glaze
the unsullied, vapor dust
tapers to slush
studded with stuff—
a wonderland interrupted.
There might be something worthy of study concerning the occult;
a medium comes first in the black-jacketed collected works,
tapping into the collective unconscious to conjure up ghosts.
Freud would have none of this nonsense, even after his table split
psychically, then so did the two psychology pioneers part.
Analytical, beyond Freud’s hidden iceberg, fathoms deeper
into the sea, hominids connected by race and history.
If the body is built historically, why not the mind, tied
as it is to the three-tiered brain, cortex beret on the reptilian pate?—
the sharing of unconscious scaffolding: instincts and archetypes,
a tarot deck of universal symbols fanned out in lifetimes,
each a heroic quest crossing the milestones etched in the World-Soul.
The primordial wellspring resurfaces with Christmas trees and
UFO’s, pagan tradition and mandala mythology—
unquestioned—evolutionary, beyond the heart’s duration.
These introverts and extroverts seeking individuation,
the rays of Apollo, intoxication of Dionysus,
tied to functions: sensation, intuition, thinking, and feeling;
eight pigeonholes. Each fledgling develops separate from the nest:
persona to ego to shadow to anima/animus,
communion with the Wise Old Man or Woman, finally the Self.
The unus mundus presents acausal connections for review,
a synchronistic hypothesis that may fly beyond the world.
Formless void, chaos & desolation:
undifferentiated matter and form;
whatsoever, Milton intuited
Chaos as timeless:
alongside the Earth ornament
dangling in space,
The white feathers rustle, then settle—brood:
the dark-nested, watery, cracking egg.
State of the singularity on the edge
of the expanding mainspring of spacetime,
the serpent goddess wakes and unwinds
from the ground-of-being
the lotus crown.
Quantum coils in the water pot,
the storm bolts mete the falling dragon
into the gears on the spindle:
the apportionment of the four elements
onto the bony forces branching
from the primal coccyx,
and the chakral spine—
Tohu wa-bohu predates all,
from heavens and hells.