December, by James Schuyler

It has been going on 3 years since I first posted here the poem “December” by James Schuyler.

I was first attracted to it for the snide oblique personal references, people’s names—as if trying to puzzle out relationships, decode the poet’s life. Schuyler’s sarcastic tone as I perceived it:

*Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event”

* The giant Norway spruce from Podunk

Podunk. That one word illuminating his disgust for Middle America, the fly-over regions, folks—people who take the holiday seriously, who refer to it as Christmas, who over-spend while afterwards always say, Next year I’m keeping to a budget. The gaudy tinsel and shiny balls and bright lights. Yet . . .

It grows on each of us. We re-visit the sights, sounds, smells in memory so that when we are surrounded by Christmas we can’t help but sink into sentimentality. The poet confesses:

catching glimpses, hints that are revelations: to have been so happy is a promise, and if it isn’t kept that doesn’t matter.

What is this hope? Schuyler’s secret longing?

It may snow, falling softly on lashes of eyes you love and a cold cheek
grow warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

This year—give in to Podunk, revel in the over-commercialized event, hang out with folks.

“December” by James Schuyler

Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES
The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound,
this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center.
I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs
the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments
recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey.
Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event”
and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance
to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all
the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops
and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation
of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids,
Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends
It’s like what George and I were talking about, the East West
Coast divide: Californians need to do a thing to enjoy it.
A smile in the street may be loads! you don’t have to undress everybody.

    “You didn’t visit the Alps?”
            “No, but I saw from the train they were black
                    and streaked with snow.”

Having and giving but also catching glimpses
hints that are revelations: to have been so happy is a promise
and if it isn’t kept that doesn’t matter. It may snow
falling softly on lashes of eyes you love and a cold cheek
grow warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.