Holiday poetry returns — under new management

The Poetry Room and the MSU Department of Art, Art History, and Design are thrilled to bring you this year’s Holiday Issue. Poetry has always been a gathering place — a table where we hear one another’s stories and offer our own. With the themes of community, food and the holidays as our guide, we invited artists to share work rooted in the season’s spirit. What you hold here is the result of many hands, much care and deep creativity. We hope it brings you joy, and that you’ll join us in the community soon.

Tinsel Tree  Momma

Momma is throwing

silver tinsel

over

our

fresh cut

Christmas tree

Daddy’s cigarettes dance

and burn

in

the

ember(ed)

Elvis ashtray

The radio blares

as we

bounce

popcorn balls

wrapped in

wrinkled

wax paper

Sugar cookies

cut

frosted

and

decorated

in

red hots,

sprinkles

and

gold balls

placed

on

plates

that

swing

swing

swing

Magical midnight

moon

berried

mistletoe

moves

as

we

kiss

kiss

kiss

by

the

front door

Momma and I

step

step

step

as

red, yellow,

green and blue

color wheel

diamonds

twirl

out

tinsel(ed)

silver stars

swirling

over

our

house

tonight

— Nancy Knox, poet dancing in plates of stars.

The Season We Make

It’s the season of “Give Back” commercials

and photo op charity that feeds more cameras than mouths,

but the real ones have been giving all year–

half their meal,

their last ride,

their time,

their shoulder.

 

We gather in borrowed spaces,

where the heat clicks off mid-sentence,

and somebody says, “It’s fine, just talk.”

We do.

We talk about rent,

about health,

about how tired we are

of surviving being the only tradition that never changes.

 

Still, we cook.

Still, we bring what we can,

a pot of beans,

a song,

a story that almost hurts too much to tell.

We laugh loud enough to make the walls remember us.

 

 

This is the holiday,

not the glitter,

but the grit.

Not the tree,

but the hands that built it from what we had left.

 

We light candles for the ones who couldn’t make it,

and say their names between bites.

We remind each other

that being alive this long is a kind of rebellion.

 

The spirit of the season isn’t found in the store window.

It’s in the soup kitchens,

the shelters,

the neighbor who checks on you

even when they got nothing left to give.

 

It’s the sound of community breathing in unison,

the quiet knowing

that we are each other’s miracle.

 

So let them have their slogans.

We’ll have each other.

We’ll keep making warmth

out of what the world calls scraps.

— Angela Mlot, a poet and advocate in Lansing, whose voice is rooted in feeling, hope and the fierce desire for a better world.

Grandpa’s Cooking

I cannot wait to go home

I cannot wait to go home, I cannot wait to go home

because I heard that grandpa cooked today

It’s boiling in the iron

It’s boiling in the iron, it’s been boiling in the iron

for hours now mama says

And I know what it is, I know what it is

I know that it is gravy jellied to savory perfection

That has been soaked into liver

and those onions and those carrots

and every minute that I am away, every minute that I am away

every minute I am away from my street, my driveway

my front door, a spoon and a bowl  is agony

— Nike Truth, storyteller and poet who resides in West Michigan.

TIME LOOP

I’m home again.

I swore I wouldn’t come back,

but it’s November, so I’m home again.

I said I was out of here,

so soft I turned into the river and ran away,

but the river freezes over and I walk back.

In the morning, there’s snow on the grass

outside the window that used to be my sister’s.

Everything has changed,

but it’s November,

so we’re talking about what to bake for the holidays,

and I’m back on the tile floor that makes my feet burn.

Everything is the same.

Every November I’m older,

everything I thought would happen hasn’t happened,

yet everything has changed.

Soon it will be Christmas.

I’ll wear pink pajamas and be a kid again.

Everything is the same.

The person I’ll spend the most of my holidays with

isn’t here yet, and I’m tired of waiting.

This year I made a promise not to regret anything,

and I’m not going to wait for love

when there’s love right in front of me.

I’ve searched for a place

and there’s a place right here.

I’ve made it home, year after year.

Nothing can change this house while my family is still here.

Even with new cabinets and fresh paint,

nothing has truly changed.

I’ll stop waiting,

I’ll watch the lights,

I’ll stop waiting,

for no one’s waiting for me,

because I’m already home.

— Elizabeth Cooper, author of “Undoing a Work of Fiction” and “Conversations with Hunger.”

 

Christmas Eve, 1997

The dark December air

forges nose crystals

forces our blood into retreat

blushes our cheeks

reminds us we have lungs

It’s a night you would call

painfully crisp

On this longest night

the house is bright

red, green, white lights

encircle the homestead

winking from bushes and eaves

a circumambulation

repelling the darkness

yet the darkness

lives here now

a black hole the shape of you

bending the light

it is wholly night

We sing tradition in a minor key

leave a seat for your shadow

good news and great joy

discordant and muted

the memories

painfully crisp

On this longest night

we whisper the promise

that this darkness will diminish

as the light begins its

reclamation project

— Chad Sanders, a retired Everett High School journalism teacher who enjoys the idea of hiking.

Blue Star Christmas

                   (dedicated to my parents)

A hand carved wooden blue star on my tree,

cheap twist tie                                    holds,

1974 was lean.

 

They said I do,

celestial white paint

U.P. winter                               warmth.

 

I am reminded each December,

if anyone loved me more,

I can’t                                                remember.

 

Please come back

but hang up your oxygen cords

I need you                                now.

 

But you aren’t my now,

you are before

and the stories I pass on,           folklore.

 

50 years have come and gone

But the star does not fade

It’s not youth, friendships or light in the sky

 

and that soothes the ache

just for a minute, but it’s actually                  a year

until I see it back on the tree

 

And I try not to be  green

for those who post photos

unaware of their                        four leaf clover.

 

My blue star is what I see.

I hear her voice, his laughter.

A homemaker and a working man.

 

And if you also grieve as the lights twinkle,

know my blue star, my north star,

hangs on for                             you too.

— Becky Jensen, a Lansing-area poet, communications leader and mother to one incredible daughter.

Benediction                   

Below the sparkling

tinsel that makes the tree

shimmy

the green wreath

candy dish handle

glued back on.

time to use the good china

rim of silver circling

the memory of a marriage

the poinsettia fills

the kitchen table

alive with cheer

              

you told me I should think

about having a child

I might be sorry

you told me

you would make

a good father

heated debates

that shattered

the holiday feast

below the tinsel

is a smooth red heart

made from recycled glass

I light candles

remember

I do.                             

— Maureen Hart, freelance individual, environmental consultant.

 

In Memoriam: Christmas Greetings

Suspended in the space outside a snow-framed window,

grief floats above the sandy snowscape to comfort me.

On my couch trapped in the gravity of loss, I flip

calendar pages that once again counted down

another year without you.

 

Again, we will not share the lights of our Christmas tree

nor sample cookies I bake for Christmas Day.

I won’t catch you stealing deviled eggs

from the trays I plan to take to parties.

And I know, even if that is all I’d want for Christmas,

I cannot bring you back.

 

So as you funnel down to that emptiness above the snow

and evaporate into the stars, look my way as you go.

Feel the pull of my love suspended in that inaccessible blankness

where once we touched, where I still embrace

what bridged us, and in the brightness of that light

wish me “Merry Christmas” once again.

Originally published in “Reading Lessons,” by Mary Fox (Finishing Line Press, 2019).

— Mary Fox, retired teacher (Fowler Public Schools, LCC writing instructor, author of three books of poetry).

 

A Softer Season

I’m happy to report back to myself
that I’m learning to hold the good,

the way I hold a warm plate fresh from the oven,
careful but unafraid.
I used to grip so tightly I’d lose what was meant for me,
as if joy were an ornament ready to break,
as if love needed armor.

But this season
in my crowded kitchens

with my loud families,
and the comfort of community
I’ve been learning to trust.
To let things rise in their own time,
to believe what stays
is choosing to stay.
I’m trying not to rush ahead,
not to sweeten the story too soon,
not to fear tenderness
just because I’ve never been fed it gently.

And still, when the noise fades
and the night folds in,
I feel that ache of wanting:
the warmth that lingers,
the memory of connection
sticking to me like spice on my hands.

Sometimes I worry I’m too much
too flavored, too intense,

but maybe that’s my gift.
Maybe caring deeply
isn’t a flaw but a seasoning.

And those small check-ins,
those ten-second thinking of you moments
they light me up like holiday lights
I didn’t ask to plug in.
They remind me I’m remembered
in rooms I’m not standing in.

People say I seem lighter lately,
like someone turned up the heat inside me.
Maybe joy has been teaching me
to breathe softer,
to let life warm me
instead of burn me.

So I’m letting affection be what it is,
a shared table
instead of a claim.
And in the quiet

while I cook, wrap, move

and emptiness tries to fill me,
I’ll follow that something warm and steady
pulling me forward.

I’m happy that when the snow falls this year.

I’ll be one step closer

to being me once more.

— Karionna Graham, local high schooler and founder of Teens for Thanks who writes stories tuned to the rhythms of the world.

 

Snowflake (reclaimed)

*

What’s

the

point

if

not

to

become

more

than

you

are

alone

?

***

 — Danita Brandt, educator and East Lansing resident with a penchant for economy in written and spoken communication.

 

Great Grand

My brothers are eight feet tall now

When the first snow comes, they run in circles outside like they are smaller

Play football in the backyard and stomp freezing 5k

I wipe my nose and grin

We are still here to celebrate

 

The good, the bad, and the Christmas tree picking come gather around the dinner table

When we were younger,

it mattered so hard it broke our faces open

cracked smiles so the light could peek through

I knew snow like an extra day home with my mother

I knew holiday like family shoes piled at the front door

I watched the birds leave and wished them well

I nursed the full stomach and thanked a god I named once yearly

 

I wanted to be warm

so I closed my eyes and imagined the dog at the back door

My mother’s hands around a dish rag

Everyone at the table

and everyone shouting goodbye as they wandered out

All the air in the room used and satisfied

 

When a season closes,

there is only the host waving and cleaning the feast

Snow covers the driveway but it is warm in here

Warm where we plan and fight and love

Warm where I ask you how you’re doing

and pray for you like I mean it

 

My brothers are eight feet tall now,

but we are children in these walls

We return home,

more space in our bodies only to eat what they make us

and laugh louder into the dark weeks

 

We lay our heads down at night to pray

already grateful for tomorrow

— Claire Donohoe, writer, performer and MSU alum based in metro Detroit.

 

Silent Snow

Christmas morning greeted us one year

 with a thick blanket of vivid snow and

six turkeys perched in the bare branches of the mock apple tree.

 Like a song offered through those boughs, 

…My true love sent to me.

Christmas morning last year, another thick blanket of snow.

No turkeys, no flutter of cardinals by the feeder.

 Only a stillness, like an aftermath.

In the bare branches of a distant tree

the unmoved stature of a Cooper’s Hawk.  

Blood and feathers below

in the silent snow.

— Kathy Swearingen enjoys writing, nature, dogs and wondering where the next sentence might lead.

 

Candles

They burned us for our power

to see, even

to heat a little pot of water.

 

To remember the dead, wreathed

in lichen and worms, and to attend

 

spirits, breath over the water,

wind flickering and even feeding

 

the flame. They burned us to sell

and to celebrate, defiled oil we just

couldn’t shake.

 

In the window, on the floor, our

hovering eyes claim another:

 

who has come to be hypnotized,

and who has come to dance?

— Gabriel Biber, local nonprofit leader, community organizer and collaborative instrumentalist. 

 

Marcescence

Could we see it

as opportunity–

the annual wilt and wither,

of a planet atilt?

 

Survey the newfound ice

caps of our alienated home-

scapes with curiosity

as lighter days fade?

 

Bundled, we follow

fresh animal treads

roving over frozen grounds.

Sojourning together

 

to the smooth beech–

called closer by

the waves of her

spirited leaves,

 

signal fires of frost and forest,

of the ingenuity and perseverance,

that the dimming

season demands, having

 

launched from long days

of hanging out

into the cold, breathless air

of hanging on.

 — Joel Nagel, nonprofit director and writer living in the Lansing area with his wife, daughters and a dog who has devoted her life to crime.

 

Sailing Home

Dark of the moon at Christmas time

Stars are tiny fires on the dark and silent bowl of night and

We are sliding slowly and steadily

Across the flat and calm and misty ocean

Across the flat and calm and misty ocean that paints

A lovely green and phosphorescent wake behind us

Our wake becoming a series of rolling glowing lines

Spread out astern in a phosphorescent V

And I am sprawled on a pile of damp and crackling nets

In the stern of the heavy old trawler

Gazing toward the bow

I see before me the mast

A perfect cross before me in the misty night

Glowing in the phosphorescent green of St Elmo’s fire

A green and glowing cross that represents a third of a God

In whom I see a symbol of a man whose story I admire

A man whose loving kindness and generosity I celebrate

The son of a God in which I cannot convince myself to believe.

We are sailing home to a death that brings us peace at last.

From the vagaries of life: a hope for loving eternity

A release from the desperation of needs

At last we can flee into the boundless universe of lightness

Loving what our work has done for us, for our humanness

And hope that those who follow us in life and death

Will come to peace at last

And sail home together

— Daniel Carleton, a rhetoric teacher, a lobster fisherman, a machinery dealer: 77 years old and still writing.