Ballad of the Winter Sea

When I go down to the shore, the tide,

riding a chestnut mare, down to Old Brittany, 

where the salt and storm waves roar,

in the foam I see you, your charcoal ship ghostly.

 

Here in the herringbone sand,

where the ghost ship rides,

beyond the clams and the mussels,

beyond the bow of faceted skies.

 

My sea will rise and meet the sun,

like a woman from her grave,

her gold grave clothes all about her,

her spun linen like cathedral’s nave.

 

My sea, with her fine hair streaming,

in the salt and in the cool,

has grey eyes with wool brine tears,

terra-lithe, and terra’s pool.

 

She has risen from her slumber,

with an angry roar she cries,

for the ghost ship is her lost one,

and on All Hallows’ Eve he died.

 

Drowned below, under the breakers,

fallen to the bars of sand,

crew of the populace, harsh, grey-bearded,

guttural, they sank from land.

 

They would not see old Jupiter’s light,

they would not wake to Gregorian chant,

no longer would they hear her singing,

high and loyal to each sailing band. 

 

Her voice would echo in the morning’s fog,

as the moon sank and flower sun arose,

and the foghorn sounded weary,

while the Monterey Cypress bent like wind-blown rose.

 

Through the bays, and through the masthead,

sails rippling in the light, blow,

round about the harbours, men cupped their ears,

at foreign ports, with savage prose.

 

The fisherman’s spray against the window,

plaid curtain drawn back to see the view,

the 1800’s muntin panes spy low tide

by the French cottage drinking sea-dew.

 

Harvest kelp beds, sap the noon,

pass the poinsettia beds beside,

seabirds, with their wingspans draw me high,

with a walrus’ tusk and with a shell-comb, pull my hair back to the tide.

 

I was poet, I was inkwell’s calligraphic turn,

Noel’s glittering ages past,

before the tree, and before the hearth fire,

here I call you, rise from night, at last.

 

On snowy regal paper, my cranberry Christmas pen will sing,

lofty in the evergreen, my flaxen winter-wind will roam,

as the North star, mariner’s compass followed,

and call the sailor safely home.

 

At the sunset, at the first star,

men in love with the sea would rove,

to find the girl with the mahogany mane,

beside the fireplace of a fishermen’s cove.

—Emily Isaacson

Christmas Video set to Mozart's Requiem

Critique:

“Ballad of the Winter Sea” is, at its heart, a meditation on longing, threshold places, and the sacred interplay between mortality and return. Set against the sweeping, solemn architecture of Mozart’s Requiem, the poem draws on centuries of maritime lore, Christian symbolism, and Romantic-era imagery to craft a narrative that moves with tidal cadence. The opening stanzas establish the sea not merely as a landscape but as a living presence: a liminal space where the boundary between the earthly and the eternal collapses. From the moment the speaker descends “to the shore… down to Old Brittany, / where the salt and storm waves roar,” the poem signals its mythic register—a geography where time folds and memory haunts the surf.

The sea becomes personified fully as Sophia, a feminine embodiment of nature, grief, and transcendence. Her emergence from the breakers—“like a woman from her grave, / her gold grave clothes all about her” —evokes both resurrection and ancient sea-goddess iconography. This dual symbolism situates her between Christian imagery and pagan maritime myth. She is at once the mournful widow of the drowned and the eternal mother of tides. Her “grey eyes with wool brine tears” and “fine hair streaming” further humanise the sea while maintaining its power and mystery; she is beautiful, formidable, and deeply wounded by loss. The ghost ship—becomes her absent beloved, a wandering soul who perished “on All Hallows’ Eve,” aligning his death with the veil-thin night between worlds.

The poem’s characterisation of the lost loved one is indirect but evocative. He exists primarily as a haunting: a charcoal silhouette in the foam, a ship that reappears in memory and myth. His crew—“harsh, grey-bearded, guttural”—conjures a 19th-century maritime world, tying the poem to historical seafaring cultures of Brittany, France, and the Pacific Coast. The references to Gregorian chant, old Jupiter’s light, All Hallows’ Eve, and “the 1800’s muntin panes” together construct a layered temporal atmosphere: part medieval, part Romantic-era, part Victorian Christmas. This chorus of eras creates a timeless world appropriate to Mozart’s sacred score, where centuries speak to each other like the overlapping movements of the Requiem.

Symbolically, the poem treats the sea as a repository of memory—a vast archive holding the grief of drowned sailors, the unresolved prayers of travellers, and the quiet hope of return. Sound imagery reinforces this: Sophia’s voice “echo[es] in the morning’s fog,” the foghorn is “weary,” and men in distant harbours “cup their ears,” as though listening for messages borne across continents. This reflects the narrative arc: Rufus and Sophia, separated across the globe, are nevertheless bound by sound, tide, and spirit. The sea becomes the narrator, the medium, and the bridge—her voice the thread that keeps the world stitched together.

The poem’s atmosphere shifts from elegiac to luminous as it progresses. Early stanzas dwell in storm, slumber, and mourning, but by stanza twelve the speaker reclaims their identity as poet: “I was poet, I was inkwell’s calligraphic turn… before the tree, and before the hearth fire.” This suggests a meta-narrative: the poet herself is both witness and participant in a lineage of storytellers who keep maritime memory alive. The Christmas imagery here is subtle but profound—Noël, evergreen, the North Star, and the mariner’s compass become symbols of divine guidance and homecoming. The Requiem’s themes of prayer, judgment, and deliverance resonate beneath every line, lending the poem a sacred stillness even in its stormiest moments.

Visually, Ballad of the Winter Sea is cinematic, providing rich material for a multimedia film. The poem offers sweeping seascapes (“Monterey Cypress bent like wind-blown rose”), intimate domestic glimpses (“plaid curtain drawn… French cottage drinking sea-dew”), and mythic actions (Sophia rising from her watery grave). These images move with a painterly sensibility reminiscent of Waterhouse or the maritime Romantics. The final stanza brings the saga home: men following the first star—like shepherds or sailors of old—walk toward a hearth, a girl “with the mahogany mane,” completing the cycle of wandering and return. It echoes both the Nativity journey and the archetypal sailor’s longing for safe harbour.

Ultimately, the poem weaves together myth, Christmas symbolism, maritime history, and spiritual longing into a unified narrative and tableau of separated lovers finding their way home through the guiding forces of nature and the divine. Set to Mozart’s Requiem, its movements of grief, yearning, revelation, and peace align beautifully with the emotional structure of the poem. “Ballad of the Winter Sea” becomes not only a story of Rufus and Sophia, but also a meditation on the human condition: our perennial desire to cross the gulfs between us, to rise from night toward light, and to be called safely home.

Generated by AI courtesy of WLI.

Requiem of the Bells

 

High above, in cathedral bell tower,

where call the bright Sunday chimes to worship,

echoing over the snowy hay fields,

here petal-white doves would roost, aflutter.

In his oiled dun coat the old bell ringer

would raise his arms on this bright occasion

in deference to dark’s harsh abrasion

and modest sound would emerge, a singer.

Pealing a song of joy the true bells sound,

with minute ceaseless praise escalating

to fall on a brown head below in arms:

depth to depth, mirrored navy sea will pound,

with it bringing its salted driftwood’s ring,

thrown home at last when in the shore’s bare arms.

 

What ears could bear this token glory’s strain

as Sunday’s first call to raise the stone dead?

The cold are warmed and given Christmas bread

at this early hour where the sun’s light stains

the sky with sudden brilliance, an arrow

that streaks through the silence of our dawn chilled,

coldest of all with her copper bow raised

was there Deborah—not less harrowing 

than the saints in vivid Petrarchan hues,

reasoning with heaven’s glory in red—

in all its celestial pardon, doves reached

her log cabin with forgiving soft coos,

midnight stream arias, the ringer lead;

his art was implicit, hers unreleased.

 

The bells ring and they should, crescendo loud,

struck by cascading arrows from below:

prophetic summons of those in the fold—

the farmer rests from his eternal plough,

the tireless milkman’s cows plod on beneath

the dressmaker’s lamplit velvet cape’s glow,

the baker and his flour-smooth kneaded dough,

the shopkeeper’s balsam holiday wreath . . .

clergy call these wool sheep—the churched praying

dig deep in their pockets for their last coins—

generous, the devout at Christmastide.

May they find rest from their troubles in prayer,

solace at the window of heav’n deployed,

to those in need from the faithful kind.

 

The poor, the needy with their hand outstretched,

heard the bells that chimed on Christmas’ bright day,

high and revelling above the sea’s gray:

there was no coined respite for the wretched.

There was a melodic train that cello

and violin wore beneath the bronze eaves

of the cathedral, their sonorous leaves

of chant, carol accompanied, mellow-

sung for a thousand days in stained glass blue.

Deborah’s mouth cupped in a hollow sound

for poverty’s dire want moved into song

and its ethereal grace swept the roof,

as outside, she reverent knelt, wore crown

of the adoring poor as they followed.

 

One by one, the sisters trailed through, white-clothed.

Crossing the wood floor and renaissance tile,

they sang in quiet tones, in single file,

the garden holly tree, frosted with snow.

Lady Fatima’s berries gleamed of high

worth, while the nuns at their work kneaded bread,

and sang from the prayer book stitched with fine thread,

respite the Sacred Heart of Jesus shrine.

His statue at cathedral close each night

would weep unbidden the salt tears of sea,

they would trickle down his marble-pale face

puddle on the sanctuary floor’s shine,

sorrow at the woman kept outside, he

wept tears at her wholly undesired place.

 

At this miracle, the priest remained stayed

to his station, for he could not Christ leave

with suffering crucified hands and feet,

opal eyes who cared for the poor, too moved.

It was on the morning—distilled crystal—

swathed by a blue shawl, her turquoise eyes raised 

to the finery, decorations praised,

that Deborah entered the cathedral.

The two were rivals before the wood doors

of the prophetic and miracles, ring

the long soundless bells: the artistry

of the bell ringer seemed to stale echo;

she was the cultivator of White pine,

her hands were gold, she excelled in farming.

 

All hallowed voices chant and eyes hushed close;

from indelible—thousand murmurs cry,

at rivals’ settings: silver words reach skies’

translucence of a coal-brimmed gem—opal.

“Emmanuel,” she rang, ran right into

the arms of the bell ringer, piercing straight

to the heart, redemptive plea, the bells mate

in tower—a mighty gong, pine or two.

As refrain rises, the bell ringer is

captured once again with the mind of Christ—

who knows all things—a stained glass window’s height;

for he is wise counsellor through the mist 

and his wisdom shines sweetly as the first

bell, beaded bow of everlasting light.

                                   Christmas Video of poem

Critique:

“Requiem of the Bells” is a richly textured Christmas poem that fuses cathedral symbolism, prophetic tradition, and rural winter imagery into a narrative of rivalry, revelation, and reconciliation. The poem opens high in the bell tower, immediately situating its drama within a sacred architectural space—an elevated realm where human sound becomes liturgy. The bell ringer, dressed in an “oiled dun coat,” stands as a guardian of the church’s ancient call to worship, surrounded by “petal-white doves” whose purity and peacefulness tint the opening scene with spiritual expectation. The poem’s atmosphere is contemplative yet charged, much like a Christmas vigil before dawn: heavy with unspoken prayers and the tension of prophetic voices about to awaken.

Central to this poem is the symbolic contrast between the bell ringer and Deborah, the poet-prophet who dwells outside the cathedral walls. While the ringer’s music is ritualised and steeped in long tradition—“his art implicit”—Deborah’s voice is described as “unreleased,” suggesting a prophetic calling not yet sanctioned or recognised. She is introduced as “coldest of all with her copper bow raised,” a striking image that blends warrior-like resilience with agrarian identity: a woman-farmer of White pines whose connection to the earth gives her a prophetic depth distinct from ecclesiastical authority. This establishes the story’s central tension: two prophets, representing institutional and grassroots spirituality, contending for legitimacy within the sphere of divine revelation.

The poem’s imagery draws from medieval Christian iconography, Renaissance colour theory, and natural winter landscapes. References to “Petrarchan hues,” “stained glass blue,” and “Lady Fatima’s berries” cast Deborah’s world in a palette associated with Marian devotion and high-church aesthetics. Simultaneously, rural scenes—milk cows, dressmakers, bakers, shopkeepers—tie the prophetic drama to everyday labourers who form the backbone of the community. The symbolism here suggests that divine messages are heard not only through the lofty peal of bells but also through the lived experience of ordinary people. Christmas becomes a season in which heaven bends low to touch the earth, and prophecy emerges from both cloister and countryside.

A major thematic thread is the poem’s engagement with injustice and exclusion within the church community. Deborah, though deeply spiritual and beloved by the poor, is repeatedly placed outside the cathedral. The statue of Christ “weeps unbidden the salt tears of sea” at her exclusion, signalling divine grief over institutional hardness. This striking personification of Christ aligns with a long Christian tradition where miracles expose moral failure and call the church back to compassion. The sea imagery in His tears bridges this poem to Emily Isaacson’s broader symbolic language: water as revelation, cleansing, and truth-telling. Deborah becomes a figure for all marginalised prophetic voices—valued by heaven though dismissed by the gatekeepers of religion.

The atmosphere of the poem shifts from solemnity to awakening as music and prophecy interweave. Emotional crescendos—bells “crescendo loud,” cello and violin “beneath the bronze eaves”—evoke a liturgical symphony surrounding the central conflict. These sonic images mirror the internal crescendo of revelation: both prophets reaching toward the moment when truth must break open. The sisters moving “in single file,” the nuns kneading bread, and the chanting of ancient prayers create a layered soundscape reminiscent of a multimedia film sequence: voices, instruments, bells, and silent snowfall building toward one unified spiritual climax.

When Deborah finally enters the cathedral, the poem’s characterisation arcs resolve. The rivals stand before the “wood doors of the prophetic and miracles,” and their conflict transforms into union. Deborah’s voice rings out with “Emmanuel”—God with us—a prophetic cry that breaks barriers and joins her calling with the bell ringer’s vocation. The embrace that follows symbolises reconciliation within the church: institutional tradition and grassroots prophecy merging into one act of worship. The bells “mate in tower,” an image that suggests harmony restored, creation aligned, and unity heralded across the community.

Ultimately, “Requiem of the Bells” is a narrative of healing within spiritual conflict, portraying the church not as an unbroken structure but as a living body that must continually repent, reconcile, and renew itself. The poem’s historical echoes—Renaissance imagery, medieval devotion, agrarian Christmas traditions—combine seamlessly with its modern theme of internal division giving way to peace. In its final lines, the bell ringer becomes “wise counsellor through the mist,” aligned with the mind of Christ, and the poem closes on a vision of radiant wisdom: “everlasting light” shining from the first bell. It is a profoundly fitting Christmas message for a world hungry for reconciliation—within the church, within communities, and within the human heart.

Generated by AI, courtesy of WLI.

Oratorio of the Holy Grail

Aria One.

 

One snowy winter night a poet walked

through the crunchy ice down the old lane way.

He had heard the voice of God in his day,

and believed this deity spoke and talked

with those who composed song and word, the joys

of the realms above. Yet, this cold evening

he heard nothing, knew no glorious ring,

and his melancholy, dismal alloy.

No combination of note and wisdom

could alleviate his inner torment

from decay to risen hope in this time.

There were decorations of the season,

but they did not raise his spirits; lament

was the only note on his tongue, not rhyme.

          

Strumming his guitar, he sang of Moss—girl

down the road that he imagined was saint

as she was still young: long dark hair plaited

as if in a Renaissance painting, pearl.

Her purity was lovely as her skin,

freshwater-pale with such verdant-lustrous

lines that local others were covetous.

Singing the Christmas story of her kin,

now shepherds of the street with crook-matched niche,

to denote a few of those who blithe cared

to visit her Mary under the eaves.

Where she sat on the porch, with smoky titch

of a cigarette in her hand, she fared

as a child ’neath a tree of tattered leaves.

 

Yet one tree in her mind stood against blue

frosty sky, and the stain of its glass-like

open air—with a church, its streaming light

down the road, door swung open, misconstrued

altar call that one could see to the cross.

Somehow the janitor had forgotten

to lock the door: Virgin’s new begotten

babe Jesus was bright visible to Moss.

She languished there that she was invited

to heaven, where icons forever lived,

and her birth father’s petty thievery

was overlooked, by someone short-sighted;

the scooped chocolate mint ice cream was craved

by her mother, who scolded peevishly.

 

Moss hung her head in shame, the church door swung

shut in disbelief, that any pure would

enter its fold, as sheep to a shepherd.

The call had mercy-come. The bells had rung.

Her mother and father must have then made

her exempt to salvation. If only

this combination—bright-eyed love, souly

stealth-given to any eager patched-faith

passerby as a form of last bitter.

penance to sit on the stoop, eventide,

the chastened violet time of the end—

made the people’s street poet a writer:

who stared vacantly blue until he sighed,

began again to compose his God-send.

 

When all earth reposed, and the world languished

in silence—there was a hush, and snow fell

on evergreens, crystal sparkles would tell

of how both hope and joy were long banished.

Hearkened then here, to this abandoned place,

the angels of shining realms staccato,

and Gloria, they sang as piccolo—

result be farmer’s fields of snowy lace.

Onlookers down below removed their hats,

and scratched their heads: they had not before seen

such things. Celestial glorious song

streamed down, and gentle words of heaven last

could not help but render the shepherds’ green

pastures a wider thoroughfare along.

 

Beneath this star-filled night, and ever-near,

drew close to straw manger of a stable,

the shepherds of rustic lowly hovel

where, dim in shadows, poverty their tears.

Here, they gathered dressed in shepherd’s rough cloaks,

and baby’s song was new and innocent:

to their wounds, cloth and cooling liniment,

the crux of restoring, to their cries; smoke

rose from the fire. They held their hands to warmth,

they grinned from ear to ear, now excited—

life, love, sounded their calling to the poor.

Witnesses entered new sacred re-birth

from the child Emmanuel, once blighted

under an oppression to dusty floor.

 

Here, one babe anew would enter this light

pronouncing browned ragamuffins worthy

of redemption, despite faces swarthy.

Abundant harvest trumped the dark earth’s blight.

One trumpet-shaped flower would sound its horn,

and with its solo shape the hearts accrued

of women from flagrant to wanting true,

of men from lust to cherishing pure morn . . .

White curtains in the window were hung bright,

and Moss had a ring on her finger shine.

The subtle diamond spoke of a poet

who lived down the street, was walking one night—

the winter moon shone through the needled pine,

Christmas Eve, when presents occupied most. 

 

Aria Two.

 

Far in the East, they travelled through the night—

Magi who followed the star to the child—

astronomers who were learned men, mild

was the kingdom they sought by this pure light.

In regal clothing of kings, they passed on

through town and country, all in desert line,

their gifts to present, gold and perfume fine:

frankincense and myrrh to the Virgin’s son.

What would they give, beyond the holy grail?

Could wise men so wealthy now give their hearts?

What would be their ebony life’s true call?

Was there a king, who, without gifts, looked frail;

and usually his donkey drew a cart.

With their off’ring he triumphed o’er the fall.

 

Precious oil streaming down at such a thing!

His radiant face to be found by men:

amid the turmoil of the furthest sin

and farthest country’s scarlet heart, beating.

Studying the dark sky would lead them on

through forest and over river, through field;

he was a truly long awaited child,

the ancient Holy Scriptures from of old

predicted it, had prophesied a King.

This new King would be a King over all,

his reign would extend to the far countries,

to the ends of the earth, where children sing

of his love, women—lullaby, cradle—

and men at this great act of mercy, weep.

 

Through thicket and thorn, men will seek him still,

dressed in all garments, rich, and poor, comely

child-king with a voice that calls out, lovely

on the mountains, deep and rich in the hills,

and in the valleys like the smoothing wind,

blowing the cypress here and there, soothing

our distress: coming to earth, repealing

our sentence from a curse, and rescinding

the Jewish Law for our sake, our old chains

that would convict us, enemy seers

instead of friends. Loss of that enmity

allows us to behold his face and reign,

adopt his patterns, running like the deer,

falling rain into the desert. Glory!

 

Like myrrh in your body, Emmanuel,

you are being accustomed to kind love,

that you are Christ-child from the realms above;

those who adore you carry your sandals.  

Those who are trained in classical arts paint

you in the halls of palaces of earth;

you reside also in the homes of dirt—

for there, joy—laughter is heard of the saints.

Here now, you have holiness ascended,

you have risen into all earth’s glories,

you have taken our evil by surprise.

From shining Jacob’s Staircase descended,

while the hero of our children’s stories,

the feature of our aching thoughts, surmise.

 

Like frankincense, you are prepared for life

and for death, you are entombed and adorned

with lilies around your neck, and the horn

of plenty accompanies us: believe

that I who was protected and kept safe

will also keep you. In the depths of care,

you are fragrant bathed, dried in my long hair,

yet prepared as a warrior for strife.

You next—loudly sound my trumpet of war—

for you are armed as if by fine silver;

the eyes of Eucharist can see in you.

Retinas of blue tansy are aware

that this life in you will be a river;

living water that refreshes your soul.

 

Like gold, you are costly and of value,

for eternity, you are accepted

as one—by my great wealth—now provided

for, and my kingdom of heaven, to sue

for divorce the old realms of want and fear:

the curse on humankind has now been stayed.

Divided in mind between plenty’s face,

and water and blood, there is a thorn-pierced

Saviour who shed his cloak for this dark world:

his crimson blood poured out, his love now streamed

unrestricted, censored, too explicit—

in purity, a wild lily, a pearl,

too stricken on the cross of Calvary,

and in his dark, obscene death, complicit.

 

Moss looked up from the altar where she knelt,

the shepherd had opened the door again

to the sanctuary, leaving Satan,

as this Jesus in his church was heart-felt.

The devil sat on the dusty doormat,

to be rejected, as some called Jesus

to turn water into wine, for reasons

unknown, to fill the copper wedding vat;

and to walk on water, to be stable,

to wax eloquent in verse—the poet

concluded now—in pen, with a flourish

on eloquent parchment on the table.

Here was where winsome bride of Christ lowered

her sea-eyes, and held out her hands, nourished.

 

Aria Three.

 

The poet opened his scroll, with favour,

he read again of how he had been saved

from the fire of purification, slave

to sin, he had needed a pure Saviour.

His spirit had rejoiced that Moss was now

as beautiful as the Virgin Mary,

out beneath the night where she was starry—

she twirled under the snowflakes falling down.

The church kept Moss beneath their feathered wings,

taught her how to practice lent and goodness,

how to be a Christian wife with hands out—

she worshipped at the Saviour’s nail-pierced feet,

a woman with her head covered, modest.

The poet reading, her husband, had clout.

 

The steaming world would not come to an end

without the poet having the last word:

a gnarled pear tree grew up in the sheep fold,

with fruit for all that travelled ’round the bend—

wizened road—it was a juicy harvest.

All those sheep who would enter this domain,

under the shepherd’s direction remain

(with bent crook and navy corduroy vest).

The poet’s chivalrous words would rivet—

Moss now wore dresses to the fire-warmed floor—

she was his queen of an eternal vein—

in linen and in emerald velvet:

dame in stone castle of words unspoken,

and he was builder of the last door’s frame.

 

The poet and Moss dined on wine, coarse bread,

drizzled with olive oil. Stew with onions,

sheep feta with tomatoes and scallions,

she sewed their soft clothing with silken thread.

The hunters brought them their caught hares, wild game,

from the ceiling the brass pots hung, glowing,

teapots for Moss to pour black tea, steeping;

she cooked savoury soups, with cream and sage.

Silk, linen fabric was the mainstay, life

weaving away—the making of clothing

brought coloured material from afar,

and its folds made her slender form a wife,

she, lighting beeswax wicks, needed nothing,

her private smile indicated no scar.   

 

Moss’s hands were blessed with the making of fare,

her husband was well kept and undefiled,

and in due time she gently swelled with child.

They both grew sleek upon the woolen pears

dripping juice—they drank, without e’er lacking,

and their wounds of life no longer blistered:

life on the porch had been traded for bliss

instead of a surreal horrifying

reality that could degenerate

on any day into despair. Jesus,

not fortune’s fine lady, smiled on the folk.

Later, the poet had been handsome paid

for his artistry, eight million pesos . . .

and on into infinity he wrote.

 

On the bright day her son was born, Moss spoke—

she had kept her silence all those years, then

singing to herself when coins were bare spent,

weaving on through time with unflinching hope—

she called him “Barron Cypress,” that he was.

He was to inherit their good castle,

so his mother stroked, sang him old wassail

songs from the woolen cradle—where he saw

her kindly nature, and knew repentance.

He grew in the shadow of the stable,

the poet wrote pristine words of glass-blue,

and all who entered there, graciously blessed,

for they shared repast at his wood table,

and talked into the night, prayed to be new.

 

Barron Cypress studied equally hard

as his father had, and literature

became his pursuit. Even he matured

to a man with chestnut horse, and unmarred,

he approached the world with serenity

like a swan in dark waters that swims ’round

the pond with calm resilience on his brow,

in firm peace, with frugal regality.

His volta resounds throughout the poem

of his father, wisened through many years

of comforting his wife and lively son,

of banishing the death from the gray stone,

of loving God and people through their tears,

until, from the clouds, emerged yellow sun.

 

The poet, now aged, carried a cane;

his hair, fiery white, to platinum rings

as he entered the palaces of kings,

and people stared at him as he was lame.

He was still something of an oddity

with parchment scroll in hand, bound with leather,

around the house Moss had planted heather,

told to demurely fast and when to eat.

God still spoke to her often while in dreams,

when she was awake she could hear his sound—

insistent and endearing, he was choice,

resonant—her devotion to his means.

When, on her son’s return, his cry was loud:

as she lay cold and still, the poet’s voice.

Photographs: Courtesy Armstreet Clothing Co 

Christmas Video of the poetry

Critique:

“Oratorio of the Holy Grail” is a sweeping, creche-like narrative poem that blends sacred pageantry, domestic realism, and spiritual allegory into an expansive retelling of the Christmas story. True to its title, the poem functions like a musical oratorio: moving through thematic “arias” that build layer upon layer of revelation. Set against a winter landscape of “crunchy ice” and dim seasonal lights, the story begins with a poet whose faith is muted by melancholy—an archetypal seeker who has once heard God’s voice but now walks through silence. This spiritual dryness mirrors the long-awaited Advent hush before divine intervention breaks through. The poem’s atmosphere is contemplative yet yearning, as if the cold itself were the prelude to warm, celestial illumination.

A central symbolic contrast emerges between the poet—wandering, creative, spiritually restless—and Moss, the young woman he sings about. Moss, described with Renaissance purity (“long dark hair plaited… freshwater-pale skin”), becomes a contemporary Mary-figure positioned at the edges of society. Her cigarette on the porch, her parents’ small failings, and her shame before the open church door create an image of modern marginalisation. Yet it is precisely this unlikely girl who receives a glimpse of heavenly invitation through the mistakenly unlocked sanctuary—a metaphor for grace breaking past human barriers. Moss’s longing, innocence, and woundedness echo the biblical themes of God choosing the lowly and overlooked.

The poem then transitions into a vivid Nativity tableau, one of the most visually powerful sequences in the text. Angels fill an “abandoned place” with staccato Gloria; shepherds gather in their rustic cloaks; firelight warms their hands as they approach the manger. Isaacson draws directly on traditional Christmas pageantry while enhancing it with rich sensory detail: the snowy lace, the scent of liniment, the crackling fire, the newborn’s cry. This tableau forms the oratorio’s central creche image—a living hinge between heaven and earth where poverty meets divine grandeur. Through these details, the poem taps into the universal appeal of Christmas storytelling, which your multimedia video brings beautifully to life.

One of the poem’s most profound threads is the journey of the Magi, placed in Aria Two. These wise men wrestle not only with what gifts to give but with the meaning of kingship itself. “What would they give, beyond the holy grail?” the poem asks, expanding the familiar narrative into deeper theological reflection. Christ becomes the King who transcends wealth, culture, and geography—one whose reign stretches to “the ends of the earth,” granting mercy and overturning the curse of the Law. The imagery here is both ancient and contemporary: thickets, rivers, cypress winds, and frankincense interwoven with spiritual warfare, Eucharistic vision, and divine adoption. The tone becomes sweeping and majestic, appropriate to oratorio-style music, where themes of prophecy, kingship, suffering, and triumph unfold in grand arcs.

A third thematic pillar is Christ’s dual identity as child and warrior, symbolised through oils, lilies, gold, and tears. These sacramental images anticipate both His crucifixion and His victory. The poem emphasises His tenderness—“bathed, dried in my long hair”—yet also His readiness for spiritual battle. This juxtaposition enriches the Christmas narrative with eschatological weight: the infant King comes not only for adoration but for redemption, deliverance, and cosmic renewal. Meanwhile Moss, witnessing these revelations, steps further into her Marian role, kneeling at the altar as the poet pens his revelations. The devil barred at the door marks a symbolic shift: spiritual authority now enters the domestic worlds of Moss and the poet.

The later stanzas depict a remarkable transformation of everyday life into sacred vocation. Moss and the poet marry; they eat coarse bread and olive oil; she sews garments; hunters bring game; beeswax candles glow. This domestic beauty echoes the Holy Family narrative—simple, hardworking, and sanctified. Their son, Barron Cypress, grows into a man of serenity and learning, inheriting both literary legacy and moral fortitude. These scenes anchor the earlier heavenly pageantry in lived human experience: the Incarnation extending not only to shepherds and Magi but into kitchens, cloth-making, study, and family bonds.

Ultimately, Oratorio closes on a poignant note of mortality and everlasting devotion. Moss’s death and the poet’s grief complete the oratorio’s arc: from divine silence, to revelation, to family flourishing, and finally to the solemn return of the poet’s solitary voice. The palaces of kings, the leather-bound scroll, and Moss’s dream-visits from God all underscore the enduring union of art, faith, and love. The poet carries forward the song—older, limping, but luminous—affirming that the Incarnation’s light continues through grief, aging, and human frailty. It is a fitting conclusion for a Christmas poem: a reminder that Christ’s coming transforms every chapter of life, not merely the cradle.

Generated by AI, courtesy of WLI.