In this month’s Manx Bard column, Bradley Chambers get into the Christmas spirit with a festive poem.

How would I sum up Christmas? Anticlimactic. It’s like everyone is waiting for something that never quite arrives.

It’s a melancholy time, when we remember the past, friends and family long gone, and a life partly lived. Regrets? Well, Frank Sinatra had a few. Not me though.

Christmas entails rejoicing in the present and maintaining hope for the future. We never know what’s round the corner. I hope that it’s something good.

The Isle of Man always looks to the future but cares deeply about it’s past. Its traditions keep it grounded. I’ve referenced some of that in this poem. Traditions must exist side by side with other streams of reality – the Christian message for one. I’ve referred to that also.

For some, neither Manx traditions nor Christian theology have much meaning, and those people need a voice also.

So how to combine all three strands? I mentioned the notion of an anticlimax. Just what is it that we are waiting for? There is no sense in waiting endlessly, year to year, for a party that doesn’t go anywhere.

Peace, love, forgiveness, togetherness – I think we all need to have those close to our hearts all year round. That’s what this poem is trying to say. I hope you like it.

Waiting for Christmas

Christmas is coming

it’s creeping through your door -

there’s someone in the chimney

and there’s presents on the floor.

The tree went up, November

- it lasts longer every year

why then, can’t we always

raise a glass of Christmas cheer?

Spread shee as graih through Mona’s Isle

Embrace the ghost of Oie'll Verrey

Whilst tractors trail with lights aglow.

Hey, now don’t throw peas at me!

And some behold the Christ child

some maintain the pagan way

and some of us are not so sure

feels like there’s more to say.

Tell me, have we lost Christmas;

is the meaning dissipated?

When the day is done and gone

we might ask why we waited.

Is Christmas just a spectacle -

a wasted haze of greed and glitz,

or is there still some substance

in amongst the broken bits?

Do we mean it, mean it really

peace, goodwill to everyone;

if we mean it, really mean it

then why not all year long?

There are bells and carols

and mulled wine

and there may well be snow.

The Kissing Bush, until 12th Night.

let the season’s spirit flow -

the darkness is behind us now

family, friends will join the feast.

Swaddling bands, wrapped-up hope,

a bright star shining in the East.

When day is done, we Hunt the Wren

there is a point in these traditions.

When it’s done, we slouch towards

our contemporary positions -

wine is drunk, there’s not much left,

was it worth all the elation?

There’s only ten more months to go

before we prepare our celebration.

The tree comes down; the tree goes up

and we prepare once more,

Christmas is always coming,

it’s creeping through the door.