ADVENT 16: Alexander Velky's Begging Letters (Christmas Poem 2011)

"Oh we're letting the africans know that we're dreaming of seasonal snow that we're  missing sales tagets at foux-farmer's markets and now It's beginning to show"

A fucking brilliant and specially created Christmas poem especially for you, the discerning visitor, from my little brother, the mighty Alexander Velky.

Seriously, this is amazing. I am rather jealous. It covers all sorts of ground I wish I'd gone in to on the ATD XMAS LP. I've covered a little of it, but this is fucking dictionary definition EPIC.


And here, for the blind,the deaf, and those that like to READ, is that epic and beautiful and historically correct POEM in all its TEXTUAL GLORY.

Begging Letters

Dear Nicholas,

How are you? It's a long time since I wrote. You see, I've wanted for nothing since you last received my note. I'd like to think I've been good in the interim, although, it's harder to be sensitive when insensible of an incentive, and while I know that if I find myself drowning I might want to learn how to swim, when I know I'm already on land I could never persuade myself to row.

So, I have not murdered, or lied, or coveted anyone else's wives, or taken any more than I was willing to give, or knowingly suffered one whom I suspected of being a witch to live,

but I have asked questions, and I haven't always liked the replies. You wouldn't like them either, Nicholas; you wouldn't believe your eyes if I showed you, for instance, that your red coat used to be green before some puckish person’s penmanship on the cover of a magazine delivered you to Atlanta to a soft-drinks manufacturer, forevermore to be seen on the side of a lorry, with a bottle in hand, and a somehow-unhealthy sheen.

Or if I showed you of yestercentury, when your job was done by another: a sky god like he who you now represent but married to our old earth mother; did you crawl from the ashes of the Yule Goat, or sail here in a steamer from Spain? Did you fall from the heavens in the wildest hunt or walk over the Great European Plain?

And are you still the patron of prostitutes? So many questions, forgive me, dear Nick; it’s just that I hear all these conflicting messages and wonder at the length of your wick.

Would you believe me if I told you that the whole concept of sainthood began only to serve the multifaceted needs of polytheistic man? What would Jesus make of it all, do you think? Do you mind that I ask you that? How would he feel, do you suppose, that the empire he fought to the death against became the empire he begat, which took his death and fetishized it in execution-chic giftshop tat?

Zion's still waiting, sore bear at the bee hive, for something holy to arrive, for something holy to arrive for the first time.

Oh, Nicholas, I never believed in you. At least not in the sense that you needed me to. Perhaps you'd have seemed more plausible if we'd imported Krampus too and been threatened with more than empty stockings if we didn't do what we were told – let blood and bones and entrails replace our frankincense, myrrh and gold – but the disneyfication of our mythology extends to the bible and beyond, including folk tales and legends; It's a Wonderful Life followed on from A Christmas Carol, and the suicide rate rockets annually as you roll out the barrel.

Oh, we're letting the Africans know that we're dreaming of seasonal snow; that we're missing sales targets at faux farmers' markets; and now, it's beginning to show.

With tear-glazed eyes we expect something holy, something holy; we, our lives the size of insects, inspect every text that survives for words long, long ago prophecised and await, like the spiders the flies, that something holy, which must arrive; something holy must arrive, soon, sometime.

Dear Nicholas,

They say it all came from Hydrogen and I'm stuck for a contrasting explanation. I feel sick as they insist that nothing holy can exist; well, how can that be true if I am writing to you? I'm told you're not real and asked if I feel okay. And I did, until I lost the brief belief I entertained as a kid that the gist if not the grist of every Christmas list had a hope of being met by you and the hired help you enlist; weren't you some kind of superman like Moses or Mohammed who could see the potential in all of us: the collateral in the damage?

If there’s no hell for Christopher Hitchens, will your elves carve a coffin he’ll fit in? If there’s no heaven for Mother Teresa, must I dig up her bones now to meet her?

You seemed a reasonable compromise, that promised a measure of clarity; that wove a satisfactory mystery between the history of barbarity and the barbarity of history.

But to me you just weren't compatible; where were you at the nativity? You're a marketing power tool that got out of hand, something serious come of levity; an accidental brand.

Like Saint Valentine before, you have a lot to answer for. You're an icon of berries and stuffing to the joy of getting something for nothing, and the hope perhaps that if we play our roles in a pantomime riddled with plot-holes we'll be rewarded as we strive

and something holy will arrive, something holy will arrive in the half-time; to legitimize our lives that something holy will arrive for the first time.

This is my plea, then, Nicholas; at this cue, which I now give to you, please would you give me a clue;

what should I tell my daughter, dear Nicholas? What should I tell her about you? We don't keep a working chimney, you know, and we never saw reindeer that flew.

What should I tell my daughter, dear Nicholas? What should I tell her if she asks? Should I let a story get in the way of the truth, though it's uglier than that which is masks?

What should I tell little Sybil, dear Nicholas? What should I tell her about you? What if she inquires as to your ethnicity? Are you German, Turk, American, Saami or Jew?

Shall I tell her on Christmas eve, dear Nicholas, as we put out your milk and mince pies, to keep an eye on the sky – half-blind with lightyears of lies – and to wait for something holy to arrive?

Shall I tell her come yuletide you’ll ride overhead, like Odin before, and leave coins in the shoes or the socks that she’ll place at the end of her bed?

Or shall I tell her not to listen, not to fill her head with the silly stories of the other stupid children who mention you, by any name?

Shall I tell her the history and cut out the mystery; throw Zwarte Piet and Rudolph out with our dead Christmas tree? Wouldn’t that be quite a shame?

Could you advise me, dear Nicholas? I need someone to blame. Could you help me?

Yours faithfully,

A. S. H. Velky