Poetry guide Catherine Bowman offers one of her own contributions to the body of Christmas poetry. "Santa Blues" is the chain of associations that the very name Santa unleashes in her.
LINDA WERTHEIMER, Host: Over the past year, we have been checking in about once a month with Catherine Bowman, our poetry guide. She's been introducing us to the work of poets around the country. Catherine Bowman is a poet in her own right, so we asked her if she would write a Christmas poem for us, and she did.
CATHERINE BOWMAN, Commentator: `Santa Blues.'
Santa jelly and Santa charm and neon Santa necklaces, St. Nick on St. Nicholas and the one-armed Santa waving a hammer at the Cat Paw shoe shop,/I know he's making eyes at me from the Valley of the Jolly Ho-Ho-Ho and North Pole Polaroid instant Santa./`Come on, let's see that smile,' my dad used to say when I had to go to the doctor to get a shot./ He'd say, `Don't be afraid, just close your eyes and think about -'/
Nightlights, salsa, Santa, baby dolls, Easy-Bake, paprika and pomegranates, Santa hat snacks, Santa knickknacks, Santa bellies and Santas wall to wall./Those boots were made for surfing Santas, low-riding the red hoods of Barbie sports cars, and even today when they pull out the syringe, push in the sanitized, pull out the sterilized, push in the blood, drawing aseptic equipment, even that Christmas when the sugar-bearded orthopod took the knife to my knee in surgery,/Nineteen I totaled out four cars in two days' time - a Nova, a Cadillac, a Monte Carlo, a truck,/even then, even now, that's right for all minor or major procedures./It's Santa I always try to see./
So I got to where I loved the doctor and his needle in Santa Land, all bound and drugged and over-tickled, and the whole world must be in pain this winter on a snow white examination table in this city in this year of our Lord because everywhere I look, I see his face./There's Santa in the subway selling cranberry incense and imitation Obsession, Santa cast and plastered at the Bowery Mission, Santa all in black bearing a gift sack of returnable beer cans, black belt security Santa decals at the Autovision Transmission Station./There's Bruno, the leather Santa, piercing at the Unisex Shop, a seaweed Santa at the sushi bar, a smoking hot-pants Santa, a Tinlu [sp] Meat Market Mott [sp] Street Santa, a aqua-motion Santa, hand-carved Renaissance wood Santa, cuing on a drop-pocket pool table./There is no Sanity Clause./
Go on to the Santa Botanica. Take your pill with a Caribbean Santa in grenadine espadrilles,/because tonight a woman way out on the plains is loading up her Pathfinder hoping to sell her wares at the annual Christmas crafts fair./She spent her last few dollars on a six-foot Christmas tree and covered it with starfish Santas, St. Moritz Santas, glittering on skis, full-moon Santas with little glass feet, cloved merman Santas, berry-stained snake Santas with milk-colored fangs, hundreds of savior Santas staring from a Scotch pine pyramid, their eyes all shining in the dark./
One morning she sat by the window praying, and as she prayed, the sky cracked open and the dove of God flew down and began to feast on her heart./Yes, Santa, the world hurts and the doctor's taking longer and longer vacations, and his medicine is so expensive./From Santa Monica to Santa Fe to the St. Lawrence Seaway, there's no room in the hospital for this couple on a donkey./Mr. President Santa, Mr. Court Jester Santa, Professor Emeritus Santa, Very Reverend, Mr. Right Reverend, Most Reverend Santa, hold me in the hollow of thy hand, Santa, overall, overrule, overshadow, Santa, the royal we Santa, the editorial we Santa, the plural of dignity Santa./
But tonight, at least for tonight, in this house or that one, everything will be all right./Because he's giving her that red crushed velvet catsuit with the white fake fur sleeves and collar that she's always wanted,/And the kids are all snug in their beds, and she's giving him what he wants right there in front of the Christmas tree./And outside in the silent night, the snow begins to fall./Three men stand on the corner and sing up to a distant satellite or star, `I was born by the river in a little tent.'/And the world is spinning, spinning in the loving arms of Santa Klaus.
LINDA WERTHEIMER: The poem is `Santa Blues' by Catherine Bowman, who lives in New York City.
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