The Shepherds!
As shepherds watched their flocks by night
for basically minimum wage,
an Angel of the Lord came down
which they found pretty bloody strange.
“Tonight a Saviour has been born to you,”
the Angel explained to them,
“He is Christ our Lord; you’re thus implored
to get thee to Bethlehem.”
Now from down on the floor, the shepherds weren’t sure
about all this new “Saviour” malarkey,
and nor of the level of this sudden cherub
in the lamb supervision hierarchy.
Then again, they reflected, this odd new director
ostensibly meant them no ill,
and it seemed more appealing than another night freezing
on the side of a windswept hill.
In the mood for a wander, and heads full of wonder,
they followed the Angel’s advice,
grabbing their sheep and abandoning sleep
to set off, with a star in their eyes.
To the West Bank they headed, those two weary shepherds,
originally fast, then quite slowly.
When hours had passed, they arrived there at last:
A manger, so quiet and lowly
where amongst all the cattle, a couple, bedraggled
(but all the same seeming to glow)
were sat, looking knackered, as the stillness was shattered
by the animals starting to low.
A peaceful-ish scene, that manger serene,
though the Angel’s words seemed quite inaccurate;
for they had been lured with the vow of a Lord,
and on top of that, something immaculate.
But then without warning, as bright as the dawning,
they felt a celestial fire:
Something lit up the sky, and the young woman sighed,
and before them, there lay a messiah.
They heard in the distance, to mark His existence
the heavenly trumpets and horns,
as the cherubs and seraphim came and accredited
Jesus, the saviour was born.
And then, in good time, three wise men arrived,
and the child they began to encircle,
delivering presents, as all of those present
in that moment, became truly eternal.
One overawed shepherd, having journeyed intrepid,
Then turned to his colleague and whispered:
“I think weighing it up, this probably makes up
For having to work over Christmas.”
This is probably the longest I’ve spent on a poem for the Advent Calendar so far this year, having been working on this one on and off for a few hours now. There’s something refreshingly enjoyable about being able to dedicate some proper time to a poem, and other than the drive back from Wells last weekend, I can’t really remember the last time I did.
In my own humble opinion, it gets results.
I’ve wanted to write about the Nativity since starting the Poetry Advent Calendar back in 2014. I’m not nearly as religious as I used to be, but even so, from a folklorist perspective, it really is a great story, and there can’t be many that – apocrpyhal or not – have woven themselves into global culture like it. As tales go, it’s up there with the best of them, and it was about time it found its way into the warp and weft of this blog.
I’ve tried and abandoned several times to come at it from my own individual ‘angle’, but tonight something finally clicked, and my Catholic upbringing (heavily influenced, semi-ironically, by the primary school I now work in the office of) allied with my fondness for tenuous wordplay (probably gleaned from the same establishment) has at last given me a Nativity poem I’m happy with.
Today’s photo, by the way, is of the shepherd from my Mum’s Nativity set, which is surely older than all of us combined, and which gathers on the chest of drawers in the lobby/hallway (lobby suddenly sounds a bit grandiose) every December, bringing festive spirit and diligently guarding the gloves, woolly hats and fleeces below. Shout-out to my brother Joe for taking the photo and Whatsapping it to me when he was trying to go to bed. Good lad.
One thing I’ve not been too happy with this Advent is the titles of poems, which I’ve spent little-to-no time on, and which for the first week were pretty much all single-word (although there was something relatively stylish about that, until it became obvious I’d just given up trying to think of more words.) Tonight’s title, however, owes itself to Father Pat, the local parish priest (the third successive Father Pat, as it happens), who without fail, every midnight mass, will give the same Nativity-based homily.
In it, he expounds his theory that the presence of the shepherds (“the shepherds!”) proved that God’s love transcends the boundaries of class as he sent an angel to invite the shepherds (“the shepherds!!”) to the birth of Christ, and the shepherds (“THE SHEPHERDS!!!”) were, in that time, the lowest of the low, the absolute nadir of society. He stopped just short of calling them scum, as I recall, but there was something incredibly Stewart Lee-esque as he got himself more and more wound up about these shepherds, repeating the words with increasing disbelief each time, and all rendered in an already fairly derogatory-sounding Potteries accent.
It’s worth listening to, if you’re in Witney and at a loss as to what to do on Christmas Eve.
A tenuous tangent – if you’re of good Christian spirit (or, y’know, basic decency and morality), and wish to help other parents who are caring for their child in difficult circumstances and unfamiliar surroundings, please give a few farthings to Ronald McDonald House Charities UK this Advent. They provide free accomodation to families with children in hospital, and offer a place of genuine calm and sanctuary during what can be unspeakably traumatic occasions. They were there for me and my family this year, and I’d like to repay them, so if you can spare a couple of quid, head over to the Poetry Advent Calendar JustGiving page and lend them your kindness.
Thanks to everyone that has donated so far, and everyone reading this Advent Calendar (particularly in Ecuador). Finally, after a fortnight, I’ve written a poem for it that I’m properly happy with. Amen to that.
“THE SHEPHERDS!!!” Eleven days to go…
Owen x
The Poetry Advent Calendar 