Christmas Poetry Review Andrew Youngs Christmas Day, 1947
Last night in the open shippen
Last night in the open shippen
The infant Jesus lay,
While cows stood at the hay-crib
Twitching the sweet hay.
As I trudged through the snow-fields
That lay in their own light,
A thorn-bush with its shadow
Stood doubled on the night.
And I stayed on my journey
To listen to the cheep
Of a small bird in the thorn-bush
I woke from its puffed sleep.
The bright stars were my angels
And with the heavenly host
I sang praise to the Father,
The Son and Holy Ghost.
Youngs poem Christmas Day is very Christmassy poetry to say that the word Christmas does not feature in it at all apart from in the title. It invokes in me a Christmas image of great peacefulness: a much more traditional and pleasant image of Xmas than the drunken consumption-fuelled frenzy that Ive witnessed in the UK in my lifetime.
Reading the first verse conjures up an image of the newborn baby Jesus of Nazareth resting peacefully in the manger and the cows calmly standing there twitching the sweet hay. Twitching describes a jerky movement, but I imagine the hay to be soft as a babys bed, and the cows to be gently twitching, otherwise they wouldnt be tolerated so nearby!
I like to imagine that the poem is a first-hand account by one of the shepherds who visited the newborn Jesus in the stable and was wending his weary way home on the very first Christmas morning. But perhaps Young meant to depict Xmas Day many years later rather than the original Christmas Day! The Bible doesnt mention that it was snowing on the original Christmas Day. It does snow in Bethlehem, but only rarely, and you never get thick snow that you have to trudge through. Surely the shepherds wouldnt have left their sheep outside, as in the Christmas nativity story, if it was snowing anyway! Nevertheless, the inclusion of snow contributes nicely to the Christmas feel of the poem, bringing Berlins song Im dreaming of a White Christmas and the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby to mind.
I myself remember trudging through crisp powdery snow on Christmas Day 1995 in Yorkshire, UK and I do recall it being very peaceful. The magical Christmas feeling was in the air even though there werent any people around. The streets were deserted: everyone at home with their families on such a special day.
The snow-fields in the poem are described, with lovely soft alliteration, as laying in their own light. It would probably have been quite dark if the birds were still sleeping, but one can imagine the magical light of the snow and bright stars. The softness of babies and whiteness of snow and stars is hereby contrasted with a prickly thorn-bush in the dark night. But this black/white dualism is instantly tossed to one side, the author, experiencing with wonder the interconnectedness of everything: himself, the bird, bush and night. Andrew Young is said to have been fond of walking and observing wildlife and nature (see http://www.templevillage.org.uk/temple/people_01.html). It is not surprising that he wrote such a poem.
Young certainly identifies with animals, seeming sorry to have woken the bird from its puffed sleep. What a great and simple description for the bird! Through just one adjective we imagine the bird to have been fast asleep with all its feathers puffed up, and even perhaps having puffy eyes like humans do when they are rudely awakened.
The last verse rounds the poem off magnificently. I love the metaphor The bright stars were my angels. And the wonderful alliteration heavenly host brings instantly to my minds ear a large army of angels singing along with Young. I imagine them to be singing praise for the baby Jesus, as well as the snow, the bird and the bush. The singing of praise in this poem may also perhaps be linked to the enormous relief of peace that will have still been felt at the time, the poem having been published in 1947, not very long after the end of WWII.
The structure of this Christmas poem is simple with the end of the 2nd and 4th lines of each verse rhyming. Taking into account the syllabic density of some words each line can be read as an iambic trimeter.
I look forward to reading other alternative and perhaps more thorough reviews of this poem.
Hope everyone has a peaceful Christmas!
by: Helen Silverwood
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