For December's Poem of the Month, I have chosen the poem Here We Go Again by Sharon Jane Lansbury. It is taken from her collection Chocolate Spitfires.
 
 
























HERE WE GO AGAIN

Here we go again
in the middle of it –
what?
That Christmas Thing:
Tsunami
starts mid-December
trying to remember
what I gave him/her
last year –
aliens queue in
supermarkets
up and down the towns, cities,
fields;
gathering nuts in May
for that one day.

Christmas Eve – forgotten
something, probably loads
of things:
Unexpected guests –
didn’t buy you a present,
didn’t think you’d be here;
didn’t send you a card,
didn’t get one from you
last year.

Have a Sherry,
sausage roll,
mince pie,
search for reindeer in the
sky, even though you’re old enough
to know better.

Speeds to its close,
as if Christmas Day knows, and
thinks:

I agree –
it’s bollocks for you
and bollocks for me. Load
up the car,
on our way,
M1, M4
join the others heading for
Christmas day and
all its barmy illusions,
delusions, promises –
oasis in the arid desert of the year:
Eat, drink, tear the wrappings
from gifts, love them
hate them, totally indifferent:
Oh thank you! My God how lovely!
Just what I’ve always hoped I wouldn’t want.

Mulled wine, turkey,
sprouts undercooked,
Christmas crackers
overlooked:
Knew I’d forget something.

TV on – Christmas Selection
tasteless, predictable, eat
more, fall on the floor,
filled glasses, mess
everywhere, and some anal misfit
gets the Hoover out.

Wave hits:
We didn’t see, didn’t know
that planet Earth was
celebrating Christmas too –

Boxing Day, wave spent, flood
recedes, water lies
like too many mince pies
in bloated bellies
and we float, powerless,
try to laugh at the
usual shows as another Christmas
flows into history.

More booze. Have a date, Quality Street,
(but not the purple ones) –
tangerine, and where
have you lot been?
(outside for a fag) – listening to
the smoky fog sound
of people having plastic fun
in the town, pubs, wine bars, streets,
private parties;
doing what we do in
an emergency:
Coming Together.

Time to clear up the mess,
get over it, move on,
rebuild,
new beginnings
for a nice shiny New Year:
New Year’s Day –
wake up, feel new,
feel changed (as though
life really has),
get up, plug in my computer,
wait for ages for Google to appear
and see what it says in my
HOROSCOPE:
I see, with a deep inner, almost
psychotic fear
that I’m lined up for another
amazing, groundbreaking, fabulous year.
I write this poem, metaphorically speaking
painfully aware, that so many are weeping
real tears.