All of the
editorial comments with which I could surround this poem are so obvious, upon
reading it, that silence serves us best. Only this: Almost 50 years ago this poem was published
in The National Catholic Reporter. The
triple evils of materialism, racism and militarism, enumerated by Martin Luther King, Jr., still feed the
fears of this country, and continue to define so very much of its drive to
dominate, destroy and silence most of the world. But that was true in the days
when the decree of Caesar Augustus went forth, that all might be subject to a
census...and it is true now, when far too many are not counted at all.
what kind of
world
is it indeed
that forces
christmas to
our winter
and some
poor ragged jesus
to stumble
over starved dead
rotting in
the jungles
to steel
himself against
shouts of
men behind
stone walls
and take upon himself
a cold world
and fall again
in his still
fruitless coming
we have
never fully
understood
what kind of world
it is indeed
we have
in our land
this winter
a famine of
simplicity:
homes
food
magnificent
hallelujahs
for a
hundred resurrections
and a
thousand births
but no straw
no animals
no shepherds
struck
dumb with
fear and wonder
no virgins
no silent and
adoring kings
no not this
year i
do not want a savior’s coming
our nights
are neither quiet
calm nor bright
we have
everything
to keep us living
and go about
collecting
scraps of
mute despair
to stuff in
window cracks
and under
doors to keep away
our
loneliness
this biting
awful cold
what kind of
world
is it indeed
wait
awhile sweet
jesus just a year
to give us
time
just a
year to give
us time
but you will come
i know:
you must
you will
come now
in this dead
and barren
world
and stumble
and be cold
and grow
more ragged
and more
poor until
gasping
blood you spit
your anguish
into the dry earth
and cry to
be delivered
and you will
and we will
and they who
come
after us
will
this winter
waiting
is our
ritual
it must be
carried out
even though
we
no longer
keep the mystery
of our
fathers
give us time
perhaps a
year
will bring
us mysteries
and we may
beg
a savior’s
coming
-- Luke (1969)
