Poetry in memories
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Kevin Egan
It isn’t that it’s lonely.
It cannot be, because
I remember Christmas
When I Was Santa Claus”
This beautiful and hauntingly wistful poem (in full below) shared by Mary Tilki was written by her Dad Kevin Egan many years ago. It may remind us of how we may race through our lives creating memories that later we come to cherish very dearly. Our memories, including those of being in the company of others, can themselves become great friends and comfort to us in times where we find ourselves distant from friends and family in time and space.
Memories help shape our sense of identity and self–worth. We often take them for–granted until we notice them slipping from our grasp. People living with dementia may appreciate support in accessing their own treasured memories. Our culturally sensitive reminiscence resource Cuimhne webpages offer ideas for guiding people into their own memory troves. Within these webpages we offer advice too on how to conduct reminiscence activities with care and sensitivity: the past may be an unknown country; not all memories may be happy ones.
Kevin Egan’s poem may resonate with our own awareness, particularly as the new year approaches, of the evermoving stream of time. The past can feel just like yesterday at times. The poem nudges us to reflect on the value of choosing to engage in activities that we may wish to remember and be remembered for in years to come.
Reading the poem in this year of a disruptive pandemic where we may be experiencing new restrictions on our lives, the poem sounds a message of optimism. Despite the predicaments we may find ourselves in, we may still be able to make choices about how we engage with others and the lens through which we look about at life. We may recognise hardships but choose to focus the spotlight of our attention upon joy. Yes the world shapes us, but we shape our world too.
During this pandemic many people have been finding solace, purpose, pleasure and enjoyment in taking up a pen and writing, writing letters, diaries, reminiscence journals, reflections on life and dabbling in creative writing, poetry too.
Our Cuimhne team would love to receive any pieces of writing about memories that may be special to you. These might be serious, humorous, poignant, reflective, thought–provoking, playful.
With your permission, we would be pleased to share writings with others, building connections, sharing experiences, bringing our community in all its diversity together. We would be especially interested in receiving writing about people’s memories of growing up in Ireland and with permission sharing these with people to support reminiscence activities with older Irish people.
Please email your writing to Champions@irishinbritain.org
I remember Santa Claus
I remember Santa Claus
Feeling in the night
For little feet in little beds
(Not a glim of light),
That cradle, is it Joey’s?
Where did Mary hang her sock?
Silence but for children’s breathing,
Ticking from the clock.
Tiptoe lest he wake them,
Watch that peeping eye
Gently leave the dolly,
Quietly pass by.
Then, they woke in darkness
In the silence of the night.
To rattling drums and bugle blasts,
Hours to go to light.
I put a match to the candle wick
And in the gentle glow
I saw the children’s early morning
Happy Christmas show.
I love to think of the sparkle
In the children’s’ eyes that night.
Sorting out their little things
In the guttering candle light
New dolls cried, and bugles blew –
Trains and aeroplanes
Buzzed and flashed around the floor,
Lorries, tractors, cranes.
In all the high excitement
They couldn’t stop to dress
Barefoot balls of energy
Full of happiness.
Well was I rewarded
At the fading of the year.
The joy that I remember
Keeps away the brimming tear.
For now they all are scattered,
Grown up and gone away,
I’m a retired Santa Claus –
Redundant, and my pay
Is memories of bright eyed children
Romping in their beds
Playing with their coloured toys
Blues and greens and reds
Simple things, they loved them –
Not much, but just enough
Enough? Enough was plenty then
Though times were pretty rough.
Yes. All are gone, and one is dead.
And in the quiet house
I do believe last Christmas night
I heard a little mouse.
It isn’t that it’s lonely.
It cannot be, because
I remember Christmas
When I was Santa Claus.
Kevin Egan