Splatter: on FILM

It is…afterall…the quintessential Christmas movie. It’s the new generation’s Lampoon or Red Rider BBGun.

At Christmas time the poetry of Billy Collins waxes shiny in my mind.

As the poet laureate of our United States, Collins writes a poem a day. His word-smithing wages war between the subtle sarcastic and the eloquent exquisite. I’d like to take this moment to dedicate the following poem to you.

Insert “Litany”: a recitation by a precocious 3 year old (below).

Billy Collins tricks his readers, prone toward exhaustive exposition of “the deeper meanings” within, into laughing at themselves, at life, and at all things taken far too seriously.

So pair the far-sighted farce with light-hearted fun and watch Elf to your heart’s content knowing it may not be the pine scented air.  But it certainly is the pigeon on the general’s head.

Christmas is a Baby in a manger who, if born into this century would have loved nothing more than sitting by you as this silly lovely movie plays.

So to you and to me, on this Christmas day, know that somehow to me…

You will always be the bread and the knife.

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.