Associate Poet Laureate of North Dakota Madelyn Camrud returns to The Great American Folk Show to share two Christmas poems, and talk to Tom about her creative process. Listen to their conversation above.
—
"The First Snow" by Madelyn Camrud
Day breaks and lights on the deck. Takes a message from the timer, then switches off.
Christmas not far away, with a sense of what to do or not, I stop at the window.
The first flakes of the season begin to fall, and I pull my chair close to glass, watch the falling as if I've just received a gift, and it must be acknowledged.
Snow thickens in minutes, evergreen boughs grow white and heavy in seconds, small black feet scratch silence underneath.
I watch as if I must then walk backwards. In my mind, I go home.
Time falls below the glass, and I listen as if a song might begin, and I am called to listen.
The dark days of winter break into light with the coming of snow.
This is Christmas. I sit by the glass of my window, and the falling continues. The day unravels, and I go back to where I began.
The farm's a good place to start.
Barn animals straw-bedded, cows locked in stanchions, chewing their cuds as if contented with the steamy smells that rise from the gutters.
We don't talk much about the barn when Christmas begins. We call it a "stable" that was likely not so different from my barn.
I believe sorrow is eaten under the cover of straw.
This is Christmas. I go back to the farmhouse and cuddle close to black metal heat. Bituminous, it warms my stocking feet while I study colored pictures in a book I cannot read, until suddenly I am a child riding to school in a horse-drawn sleigh.
Boy neighbors hold the rings. I sit in the back of the sled under the weight of heavy quilts. Winters were cold, our parents told us, but we didn't notice. We drive through it.
Now I sit at the round oak table by my window. My ballpoint rolls and rolls through snow.
I sit by the window and write what's been written about the necessity of a room with a view. Most certainly true. I've grown old with my window.
Now, snow grows the evergreen taller while the weight of it heavy in white flowers. The bowls, small black feet scratch silence underneath.
It's time to watch and listen for the life we've been given renewed every year like a credit card.
This is Christmas. Stay with me. There's a baby on the way.
—
"Christmas Eve" by Madelyn Camrud
A child I lived in silence. I am three, close to four, when my silence is interrupted.
Once I hear that people hear me, it's easy to talk. Words slip across my tongue and slide like butter from my lips.
I learn to speak words with someone else. And for me, that is Mother. Together, we rehearse the piece I speak from memory for the Christmas Eve Jesus Program.
The trip to the church, little more than three miles, takes forever to get there. Father drives the '41 Ford across the frozen landscape.
A shadowy blue, more blue and beautiful than all other blues under the moon.
After what seems a terribly long time, I take my place behind the altar curtain and stand on the platform in my white high-topped shoes.
The curtain opens on me, the little girl with long blonde curls, a blue velvet dress. I stand and recite, stand straight as a cornrow and look past a river of faces in pews.
Parenthetical comment here, Mother told me to do this.
I recite words I learned by heart. Mother's orders pour from my mouth, speak loudly, clearly.
They have to hear you. In the back row, I remember her words and I speak mine as loud as I can to the back row of people.
I look farther and find Father standing behind the last pew. He leans forward as if to hear me better. Then I speak louder. I speak my words only for him.
He seems pleased and all these years later, this is the first and last time I remember seeing my father in our church.
