NOËL - A J.R.R. Tolkien Poem

 

Christmastide greetings! A few days before Christmas, the YouTube algorithm gave me a gift that that was most welcomed, which is not what we might normally say. But in my feed it showed me a video of a "lost Tolkien Poem" being sung by a sacred music group. I was so intrigued, and I'll admit, a little skeptical. I had to investigate. How could a Tolkien poem be lost, first of all? 

Indeed, I discovered that this poem was in an annual magazine published by an Oxfordshire Catholic High School in 1936 and not seen again by public eyes to be published until 2015 when it was "found". What an amazing discovery - that Tolkien wrote a stunningly beautiful poem for an annual school magazine. Granted, Tolkien was not a poet in the literary world sense, he was a professor of Anglo Saxon at Oxford, but this poem is a treasure. It sounds like something from Anglo Saxon and his sub-created world of Middle-earth. The language and rhymes flow so beautifully. I do think Tolkien was a masterful poet as he was a master of language, even if poetry is not what he was known for.

The sacred music group, Floriani, who composed this poem to music, is immensely talented and I cannot stop listening to this song with its beautiful, wistful storytelling and invoking ancient words. The way Tolkien personifies nature with the winter cold is stunning as is their arrangement of the music with harmonies and melody. I copied the poem here, and the video so you can enjoy it along with me. I recommend you watch and read along the poem as it opens up the story Tolkien is revealing - the ancient tale of Christ coming being told deep in the misty world swathed in the mystery of faith. May you continue to have a blessed Christmas season and start to 2026.

NOËL

by J.R.R. Tolkien

Grim was the world and grey last night:

The moon and stars were fled,

The hall was dark without song or light,

The fires were fallen dead.

The wind in the trees was like to the sea,

And over the mountains' teeth

It whistled bitter-cold and free,

As a sword leapt from its sheath.

The lord of snows upreared his head;

His mantle long and pale

Upon the bitter blast was spread

And hung o'er hill and dale.

The world was blind, the boughs were bent,

All ways and paths were wild:

Then the veil of cloud apart was rent,

And here was born a Child.

The ancient dome of heaven sheer

Was pricked with distant light;

A star came shining white and clear

Alone above the night.

In the dale of dark in that hour of birth

One voice on a sudden sang:

Then all the bells in Heaven and Earth

Together at midnight rang.

Mary sang in this world below:

They heard her song arise

O'er mist and over mountain snow

To the walls of Paradise,

And the tongue of many bells was stirred

in Heaven's towers to ring

When the voice of mortal maid was heard,

That was mother of Heaven's King.

Glad is the world and fair this night

With stars about its head,

And the hall is filled with laughter and light,

And fires are burning red.

The bells of Paradise now ring

With bells of Christendom,

And Gloria, Gloria we will sing

That God on earth is come. 

Tolkien's Father Christmas Letters

 

I've drawn you pictures of everything that happened - Polar Bear telling a story after all the tea things had been cleared away; me finding Polar Bear in the snow, and Polar Bear sitting with his feet in hot mustard and water to stop him shivering. It didn't - and he sneezed so terribly he blew five candles out.

Still he is all right now - I know because he has been at his tricks again: quarrelling with the Snowman (my gardener) and pushing him through the roof of his snow house: and packing lumps of ice instead of presents in naughty children's parcels. That might be a good idea, only he never told me and some of them (with ice) were put in warm storerooms and melted all over good children's presents!

- Letters from Father Christmas, J.R.R. Tolkien

We all recall when we were little the magic of Christmas. We could feel it all over town, in stores, at home, in church. There was something special about the season - maybe special traditions, a tall Christmas tree, visits from Santa, a new red dress to wear, carols that sing of Jesus as a baby, etc. Whatever memories might come to your mind, did you receive letters from Father Christmas? Maybe you did not, but J.R.R. Tolkien's children did.

The book that collects these letters (all the drawings, letters, and envelopes) and compiled were really spread out over twenty years that Tolkien created these intricate and creative letters to his children. Even when the children outgrew it, they delighted in it so much they encouraged their continuation. The story from Father Christmas at the North Pole along with North Polar Bear, the snow-elves, red gnomes, cave-bears, and goblins continues year after year. To find out what happens next, the children have to wait a whole year. Could we ever wait a whole year for the next installment? Children likely have more patience than us adults, especially when it comes to a story.

Returning to these letters is delightful. It's full of shaky handwriting, P.S. notes from North Polar Bear, and drawings of the disastrous things that occur there at the North Pole. Using languages adapted from Quenya (Elvish language of Tolkien's Middle-earth) and possibly Spanish, he writes a Goblin language and an Artic language. Over the years there are storms that hit the North Pole, a visit from the Man in the Moon, the Polar Bear falls down the stairs whilst carrying all the parcels, the tall pole breaks in the middle when Polar Bear climbs it and falls through the roof resulting in damaged parcels and then he had to move house and Polar Bear's leg got broken, and more. 

There's a lot going on at the North Pole, Father Christmas and North Polar Bear are very busy, and Tolkien had the inside scoop, using his imagination. It makes me think of how much more creative I was a child, writing silly stories, cutting out decorations, building paper chains, writing cards. Can we capture some of that creative spirit as adults? Absolutely. Take a couple hours this afternoon. Draw something. Write a silly story. Write a poem. Write a letter. Make up a play. Make something out of paper. I bet you have something to share or some talent in there, some memory from childhood or an imagination to set a world alive. 

May you have a blessed Christmas Eve!

Advent - An Icelandic Tale

 

And as if born of all this whiteness, with the craters' black rings and solitary troll-like lava pillars rising here and there, an air of solemnity marked this Sunday in this settlement near the mountains, something that tugged at the heart. An immeasurable, pure holiness surrounded the placid Sabbath smoke that rose undisturbed from the scattered, low farmhouses that nearly disappeared beneath the snow, an incomprehensible and unimaginably promising stillness. Advent. Advent!
Yes...Benedikt mouthed the word gingerly, that big, quiet, wonderfully alien yet at the same time homely word, perhaps for Benedikt the most deeply homely word of all. Admittedly, he didn't know exactly what it meant, yet there was expectation in it, anticipation, preparation - that much he understood. As the years went by, that one word had come to encompass practically his entire life. For what was his life, what was man's life on earth, if not an imperfect service, sustained by expectation, anticipation, preparation?

- Advent, by Gunnar Gunnarsson

This book. It caught my eye as a new release, as it was just published in a new English translation. First published in 1936 by the Icelandic writer, Gunnar Gunnarsson, it is a short novella, with a warm and cosy tone from the very first page. You could read it as a quiet adventure story, and you can also feel nourished by the deeper links to the season of Advent and its meaning. There are so many parallels and hints to Christ. The trio of selfless travelers, the 7 day adventure, the good shepherd, Christmas, the period of waiting, saving lost sheep in the deep cold, sacrifice of the shepherd to search for the one sheep, journey through storms, relying on God. I could go on, but it's full of such gestures. It is so beautifully written, it drew me in right away. It's easy to read but rich with atmosphere in the midst of the Icelandic landscape of cold and snow.

When I read the first two pages of the book, I immediately went online to order more copies as gifts. It's too lovely not to share. It is so slim, you could read it in one sitting. And it really could be enjoyed by anyone. It's the kind of book you'd want to read every year, as part of the Advent season, and it will reach into you differently with each read.

The story is simple - a man (Benedikt) has a tradition in Advent of venturing out into the deep winter cold with his trusty dog and sheep as companions to find lost sheep out in the wilderness and bring them home so they don't freeze to death. He feels responsible for these sheep. It's at his own peril and sacrifice, as he comes to many challenges along the way.

It's an adventure at the surface yet it reaches into the foundations of trust we can place in God. It's subtle, not forcing these reminders but showing them along the way. It's simply part of Benedikt and his beliefs. It offers so much if you want to venture deeper and notice all the references to Christ in such a beautiful story. 

The Gift of Advent

 

The story of the Incarnation is the story of a descent and resurrection. (C.S. Lewis)

Welcome to Advent. We are in the the first week of this season of waiting and seeking light. I burn my advent candle for each day as it passes, as we inch closer to the day of the Incarnation, the gift of Advent and the missing chapter of the book that was not revealed until Jesus came down.

In an essay called "The Grand Miracle", C.S. Lewis begins by laying out the idea how the miracles that have occurred in nature reveal the character of the Incarnation. Just like the natural world and the things that occur in nature showcase the character of the universe, so do the miracles reveal what the Incarnation is, though held to a different standard as the goings on of nature are continuous, as seasons change, but the Incarnation was a one time event that occurred in history, a time and place.

Nature imitates what we see reveals in Jesus's coming. Seeds are buried deep down so they can rise into a plant. Jesus enters by coming down, not only into humanity, but down deeper into death, into a corpse. This pattern in nature of dying, descending, coming to life, is there because it has been there with God. Lewis calls to mind the nature religions of the pagans, and how they believed in a nature beyond nature, which is where God fits - holding that characteristic of dying and rising, and yet "remaining quite outside and above the nature religions."

Then, to look at humans in the story, how in the search for God amongst nations and peoples, the story narrows and narrows until it lands at one point - "small as the point of a spear - a Jewish girl at her prayers. That is what the whole of human nature has narrowed down to before the Incarnation takes place." The Jewish people are selected to carry this thing that will save the world. To their burden, suffering, and honor, all in one. And yet through that suffering, they are promulgating the healing of others. Lewis introduces this as the Christian centre - how by the suffering of one many are healed. 

This, the Incarnation, Lewis says, is the missing chapter of the manuscript and the answer that fits into the problem of the whole story. It adds depth to the patterns in nature of death and rebirth, and it illuminates the rest of the story. It changes the way we think about and approach death. We can no longer say that death doesn't matter. It matters. "Christianity does not simply affirm or simply deny the horror of death; it tells me something quite new about it." We are to be humbled when we appreciate the enormous sacrifice that other people make for us, and reminded to make sacrifices for others. 

Here we are, approaching the grand miracle in just a few weeks. Take some quite moments to reflect on this season and its meaning. It comes to us each year and we can approach it with new eyes and a fresh spirit in a humble stance. May your Advent be blessed.

Leafy Showers

 

Leafy Showers

Boston Public Garden

The leaves fall like showers,
Not rain, but variety leaves -
Shapes and colours distinct
To their species of tree.
Raining leaves in a glorious gust
As a breeze carries them tumbling,
Dancing, spinning, flying through the air - 
Landing on the heads of people bustling,
On the page that I am writing on,
Or on the benches, for children to pick up.
Oh, how I used to collect leaves
On our family leaf looking adventures -
Treasures held in my small hand,
Delicate and vibrant all in one leaf -
It was a work of art to me,
And it belonged in my collection.
I feel the same now, only I write
The memories and take photos of my leaves
Leaving (leafing) them to blanket the land.

Brick Chimneys from my Window

 

The College Club of Boston - Commonwealth Avenue

Brick chimneys from my window
On Commonwealth Avenue
Sits betwixt colourful leaves
On tall, elegant trees
Shades of russet, caramel, gold
Early morning casts gentle light
In a city of rising buildings stamped
With historical detail and nuance.
Commonwealth is a park itself, between
The lane - tree-lined and path-laden - 
Autumn whispers through the branches
And the leaves take their cue - 
Onward into Autumn, friends, 
Let's display our ultimate hue.

A Day in the Library - Boston

 

A day in the library - the Boston Athenaeum. 

Photos are in reverse, so let's start with breakfast! I began my day with some green tea and a snack at my B&B early in the morning. Then, I made my way a couple blocks to Tatte Bakery, a very popular Boston local spot (there are Tatte Bakeries are all over Boston - it's a staple!). Very good cafe with lots of options for breakfast, lunch, etc. Good coffee. Designed with penny tiles and white subway tile walls, bistro chairs, little round tables. This was my first breakfast there and I might have gone back each day after that, this was perfect for me to have a substantial meal to get me through the whole day of studying in the library.

I then took a walk across the Public Garden and the Boston Common immersed in all its Autumnal splendor. It was a lovely morning for a walk - chilly for sure, but okay if you are walking. I obviously stopped a lot to gawk at the trees and take some photos. The leaves were just bursting with tones of garnet, rust, and gold, set against the backdrop of a perfectly blue sky and the Boston skyline. 

Passing the Massachusetts State House with its shiny golden dome, I shortly come to the destination for the day (at 10 1/2 Beacon Street, love the quirky address), the Boston Athenaeum. Founded in 1807, it is one of the country's oldest independent libraries which houses over 500,000 books (including rare books and manuscripts) as well as a robust art collection. The word "athenaeum" is another word for a library, taken from the idea around since ancient times as a place of learning and knowledge for the betterment of everyone. This is a private library, so you have to be a member, however they offer a day pass - you can pay to be a member for the day, which I gladly signed up for, and which meant I had free wandering abilities through the library and full access to all the books for the day. It was a pretty dreamy day to say the least.

The ground floor houses much of the art collection. I took a quick turn there and captured a view out the windows of the Granary Burial Ground, a very old site along the Freedom Trail where Paul Revere and Samuel Adams are buried. I then headed upstairs (there are 5 floors of libraries to choose from and basement levels I didn't even get to). I did a bit of wandering around the gorgeous reading rooms - getting my bearings a bit, trying to see what books were on the shelves, then sat down to collect my listing of books to go find. 

On this trip, I wanted to research a bit more on the Boston authors, to learn more while I was in the place they lived. Before leaving for Boston, I made a list of books from the collection that I wanted to find, and wrote down the call numbers. The system was a little confusing, and I got distracted with many books along the way that I could have easily sat and read, but I had a mission, so I went on the treasure hunt.

I went up to the next floor and found the journals of Louisa May Alcott, so I sat with that for a little bit focusing on her Boston life and notes from her young teenage years. When I went on the hunt again, I found myself in the unique storage system called the drum, which is a tightly packed metal and glass shelving area that spans the whole height and depth of the building, entered through a door at the end of each floor library level. This is where I had good success in finding three more of my books (on Poe and Hawthorne). That was fun. As I passed into the drum, a man on staff asked if I needed help finding something, or did I want to enjoy the hunt? Haha, he understood me. I said I was rather fond of the hunt.

With my prizes tucked into my arms, I headed up to the fifth floor library and settled at a lovely table where I spent the rest of the day reading these books and taking notes as my learning and studying of the Boston authors continued. It was so nice to be in the quiet library - students filled the tables as well as older people and I wondered if they were authors or professors or something else altogether? Boston is a busy city and sometimes the busy streets and crowds are a bit much, so the day spent there in the library doing research and kind of being a local was deeply loved by me. 

I spent the whole afternoon there until I got too hungry and reluctantly taking my leave of the library, I took a quick jaunt across the street to Taco Azul, which is a modern, sleek restaurant serving up tacos of course. It was probably my most loved meal of the trip, the guacamole, carnitas taco, beans and rice, with a Mexican Coke was absolutely delicious and welcomed after all the studying in the library. It set me up for a nice walk home back through the Boston Common and the Public Garden, catching the light with different angles and shades from the morning, and walking alongside commuters who trek across the parks for work. It was such a purposeful, studious, and lovely day in Boston. I'd gladly do it again. 

Bookish Boston

 

Boston's Bookish Scene

Within walking distance from where I stayed, I could go to 4-5 bookshops. Plus two libraries. You can imagine (if you know me) how long I could spend in just these aforementioned places. Each day was a new adventure. 

I'd been to Brattle Bookshop before. Many years ago on my last visit to Boston. It boasts a large outdoor space next to the actual shop. Carts are rolled out each day, with $3 and $5 books, plus the walls are built-in shelves. One could spend a good hour or more just browsing those. I found a book on Boston + Cambridge (the first book I picked up). I love finding some local history book for the place I am in, to read while I am there. When I went inside I found two more books I couldn't leave behind - a Nathaniel Hawthorne short story collection (he was a Boston resident over on Beacon Hill), and a G.K. Chesterton essay collection I didn't have (you never know where Chesterton will pop up!).

I took my Brattle books and walked over to the Public Garden and sat there for a good hour or more, wrote several pages in my travel journal and people-watched. This was the busiest day (a Saturday) so people were everywhere, and the leaves were falling with each breeze.  Plenty to look at. Lovely day with sun. Everyone was out.

A little later I went over to visit with Edgar Allan Poe. His sculpture that is. Set along the sidewalk just across the street from the Public Garde and Boston Common is this spectacular sculpture of Poe striding back into Boston after his absence. Poe actually had a tumultuous relationship with Boston, he didn't like it mostly due to his foster father relationship, but Boston embraces him now. Poe was a critic for some of his career, and he was critical of many of the Boston authors, including the well-loved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Nevertheless, Poe was a genius writer, poet, storyteller, and critic. He admired the English writers (Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Byron) and critiqued with the perspective that American writers were not nearly up to par with the English ones - he wanted them to be better writers. I love how this blueish hued bronze sculpture sweeps you into his dramatic coat flowing in the chilly Boston breeze, as he is walking confidently and full of ideas toward his foster parents home with his briefcase overflowing with his imagination - out of which you catch the raven and the tell-tale heart, for two of his most well-known tales.

Another morning I stopped in at Trident Booksellers, along the main shopping street, Newbury St. After browsing and heading up the creative book-spine stairs, I sat at the "bar" for some breakfast in their cafe, and read the Boston book I had gotten at Brattle.

Later, I went to the Boston Public Library. I had been here before, too, but only as a brief visit. I wanted to sit and write for a while this time. It was jam packed with students and tourists. But what a gorgeous library - marble and artwork everywhere. This is a true testament to a time when reading and literature was valued highly for the public to access and enjoy. This is the golden age of American libraries - they don't make them like this anymore. While the grand reading room was packed, I managed to find a seat when I reached the center of the room, gleefully sitting down at the table full of students, got out my travel journal and wrote for quite a while. Enjoying the ambience of quiet, the names of the great authors etched in gold near the ceiling circling the whole room, and the famous green shaded lamps, tourists walking by every minute or two. I was just blending in (pretending) like I belonged there.

The next library I spent time in was a private library called the Boston Athenaeum. Holding more than 500,000 books over 5 floors and an amazing tightly packed "drum" of metal shelves that spanned between the floors, this historic and beautiful library is a members-only library. However, if you want to buy a day pass, you can be a member for the day, which is what I did. Naturally I wanted to be able to search all the books and spend a whole day there researching, specifically the Boston authors. I had made a list of books to look for whilst I was there, and I enjoyed the hunt. One employee even asked if I needed help finding some books, or if I was enjoying the hunt. He understood. Maybe he saw me ogling over a Dante book from the 1800s. I tend to get distracted in libraries like this, finding way more than I can possible read in the day. I had to keep myself to the mission at hand - researching Boston authors. I sat in several locations and hunted for books, finding 5 over the course of my day. I got to search in the drum (which felt a lot like the Gladstone Link in the Bodleian) finding 3 of my books amongst those shelves. It was just lovely spending a day there. It is a well-used library. It was very busy I was afraid I would not get a seat when I went up to the 5th floor. 

Then, off to visit the charming area of Beacon Hill, where many of these Boston authors lived. Beacon Hill Books and Cafe is a newer spot (maybe 2-3 years old) in a fully restored 3 floor building. It is gorgeous inside, no detail is missed in the interior design and displays. I browsed and got many ideas, but decided on a Barbara Pym book that looked very Autumnal, and walked a block or two to Blank Street Coffee and sat to start reading the book over an iced matcha. I finished reading that book on the plane back home.

This was all walking distance - what a joy! And the perfect time of year - Autumn tones and chilly air. Perfect for bookish adventures.