Posts tagged ‘boxing day’

Thursday, 26 December 2019

Boxing Day by Vern Rutsala

In the mud we
begin to understand.
Fictions fall away—
old skin, old hair,

old midnight pledges
scale in wet light.
Whatever was following
has caught up.

It is with us now.
Old vacancy, old tramp
riding the train
whistles, old ugly

come to visit,
old bastard Daddy
crazy drunk, warbling
hello and hacking

like a bullfrog.
We are his favorites.
His dark pockets
are stuffed with gifts—

Christmas candy matted
with lint and tobacco
is peeled out like ore
and it is just for us.

From: Rutsala, Vern, “Boxing Day” in Poetry, January 1972, p. 193.
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=119&issue=4&page=11)

Date: 1972

By: Vern Rutsala (1934-2014)

Tuesday, 26 December 2017

Boxing Day by Julian Stannard

The dogs are going crazy.
I think Mother slipped them
some amphetamines.

A truly enormous ham
is being cooked

and the dogs are becoming idiotic and psychotic.

My ex-wife is late which is good
and not so good. Mother pulsates.

Welcome, ex-wife, have some ham.
I watch Mother slicing slicing slicing.
Two pieces of ham for ex-wife,
and three pieces of ham for me.

O Bethlehem!

O Bethlehem!

In England we eat boiled ham, Mother says.
Do you like boiled ham? Mother asks ex-wife.
Ex-wife says, I have been to West Ham,
I may have taken the wrong line.

After the enormous ham
Mother shouts, Pudding!
and off she walks to the special shed.

I am left with ex-wife.
Shall we dance? No.

Water has flowed under the bridge,
says ex-wife. Not enough, I’m thinking.

Flee whilst you can, ex-wife! Flee!

Mother’s walking back to the house,
the dogs have conked out
in some post-amphetamine afternoon lockdown.

Mother appears with a trifle.
An enormous trifle.
In England, Mother says, we eat trifle.

From: http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/poems/boxing-day/

Date: 2017

By: Julian Stannard (19??- )

Thursday, 26 December 2013

Boxing Day by Peter Rose

One by one
they drift back
to their apartments,
company cars laden
with feral gifts –
after-shave, a racquet,
vintage port
in balsa boxes
to decorate a tip.
Neatly knotted,
a stray tie dangles
from a visor. Night
flicks over like a
vinyl record, scratched.
Grilling steak,
bachelors whistle
in the only cool,
regretting stomachs
no longer flat.
Celebrations over,
they sprawl on beds
territorially,
new fans cooling
day-old resolutions:
sobriety, gymnastics,
the horn of independence.

From: http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/rose-peter/boxing-day-0127026

Date: 1993

By: Peter Rose (1955- )