373. The Christmas of the Trump Election

What was it that made me think of Hollis Summers, Ohio University's own poet (and Distinguished Professor), as I put down another despairing state-of-the-nation piece in the New Yorker?  I looked back through my collection.  Ah yes, there it was, in one of his annual Christmas poems, circulated to his friends.  The words "reasonless season."  Here's the poem:

Unsequined, squinched, squenched into winter,

lately belittled by ailing bones,

we have announced, if only to each other,

if only in whispers,

No Christmas Cards This Season,

no notes this reasonless season.

We have seated ourselves in the rear

of all our auditoriums,

thinking no joyous merries,

considering only our blatant miseries.

And, inevitably, we have confronted the backs

of all the heads in front of us.

We have been compelled to concentrate

on the backs of basic, friendly heads.

And, mental telepathy being what it is,

 you have turned to consider our staring.

Here you are, bearing magic admonitions.

Here we are, smiling back at you.

      Be joyous.      Be Christmas.

Laura and Hollis

And this made me think of another of his poems, appropriate to our season.  It's in Seven Occasions, and titled "Very Well."

Very well, very well, very well, very well,

I respect his circumstance,

Remembering his father's arrogance

And his mother's compulsion to tidy hell

And the unfortunate seasons of his upbringing

In an utterly withering place

Wearing his straight winter face

Among the most odious of odious siblings;

And I understand the universal hex

Placed upon men of paradox

Who walk both liberal and orthodox

Among depressions, wars, and sexes;

I accept him totally, with study

And the aid of your mental riches,

But you are both sons of bitches
And I am tired of loving everybody.