I've been asked to read something at our community carol singing on Thursday night. The poem that was offered didn't appeal at all, and the one I wanted to do - Kiwi Night Before Christmas - has been snagged by someone else.

Does anyone know of a good poem or other piece of writing that has a real Kiwi Christmas feel?

Billie

A Pukeko in a Punga Tree is a kiwi version of the 12 days of Christmas. If you visit the children's section of your local library I'm sure they will be able to give you some other suggestions.

This has been a US marine, an Australian soldier and tonight it is dedicated to a NZ soldier..and to all those who defend us and keep us safe.
Not very funny though.

A Soldier's Night Before Christmas

T'was the night before Christmas, he lived all alone
In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give,
And to see just who in this home did live.
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by mantle, just boots filled with sand,
On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands.
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
A sober thought came through my mind.
For this house was different, it was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a New Zealand soldier, once I saw clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room so disorderd,
Not how I pictured a New Zealand soldier.
Was this the hero of whom I'd just read?
Curled up on a mat, the floor for a bed?
I realised the families that I saw this night,
Owed their lives to these soldiers who were willing to fight.
Soon 'round the world the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.
I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
On a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
The very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and started to cry.
The Soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,
"Santa don't cry, this life is my choice;
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more,
My life is my God, my Country, my Corps."
The Soldier rolled over and drifted to snore ,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.
I kept watch for hours, so silent and still,
And we both shivered from the cold night's chill.
I didn't want to leave on that cold, dark night,
This Soldier of Honour , so willing to fight.
Then the Soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
Whispered, "Carry on Santa, it's Christmas Day, all is secure."
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night.
Bless them and keep them safe this Christmas season.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 12/19/2006 11:26AM by Kerry.

[www.boneart.co.nz]

"growing everywhere we find the most beautiful flowering shrubs indigenous to the soil. One of the most splendid I have seen is a kind of red myrtle...each cluster of crimson petals forms a head about the size of a chrysanthemum, the trees are from ten to twenty feet high and when in full flower hanging over the banks of a river nothing can exceed their beauty." Letter from Edward Betts Hopper, settler at Port Nicholson, Christmas 1841


Heberly was an explorer who decided to climp Mt Egmont at Christmas 1839, experiencing a rare white christmas downunder

"I shot a pigeon we made a fire and boiled the billy and made some tea out of tawa bark, I roasted the pigeon and we divided it amongst the six we had three corn dumplings and we camped that night in the valley...we put the barometer out and found it standing at freezing point...it was 25th December 1839"

"But if you wonder why I'm here
I'll Have you understand
That Christmas Comes in Summertime
in this benighted land.
Now those who love old Christmas
Must join in all the fun,
And where the good old father goes
Must follow everyone"

Sir Julius von Haast


and, this from the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge from an illustrated reading book - suitable for upper classes of National Schools - submitted by an unknown contributor....

"I have not yet recovered from the shock of my first Christmas here, hay-making on Christmas day, think of that. Picnics on Christmas day. Strawberries on Christmas day. No Snow. No curtains drawn. No logs on the fire. Mince pies unbearable. Plum pudding painfully oppressive. Roast beef positively distasteful. The tinkling of cow-bells the only chimes...can you, dear English reader, half-frozen at Christmas tide, wonder how I failed to recognise the pleasures of olden-times? At first we tried to delude ourselves. We closed our curtains, lighted our candles and over an unseasonable turkey...conjured up the Christmases of former days. But it would not do. The bright sun struggled through the door along with the pudding...and we New Zealanders found it impossible to bring back Father Christmas with his frosty head and merry welcome. So... when three hundred and sixty four days were passed again...we took our Christmas sunshine and made the best of it. We gathered bright flowers and rich green leaves and festooned our little church from rafter to rafter...we gathered lilies of the purest white and formed the sacred letters of our Saviour's name and after expressing our thankfulness for the greatest gift of all rejoiced that our lot had been cast in this favoured land...Being on this side of the globe we accept now that which the New Zealand climate gives us. We are covered up in new mown hay and cover others up in their turn. We eat as much raspberry and cream as is good for us, perhaps more...We are pelted with flowers and feel as un-like Christmas-keeping Englishmen as any folks would feel.



Four legs good, two legs bad. George Orwell

A New Zealand Christmas

Oh, the grace was on it that He chose that country –
We have kind oxen and our straw is sweet,
We have shepherds too now, and stables and a manger,
Had we but one footprint of His little feet!

Oh, my heart goes crying through these days of summer,
Through the sleepy summer, slow with streams and bees,
Had my land been old then, here he might have lighted,
Here had been his first moon in the ngaio trees.

Oh, my heart goes crying through these days of waiting
While our lilies open and our tuis sing,
Had my Lord been born here angels might have ringed us,
Standing round our islands wing wide to wing.

Had my Lord been born here in the time of rata,
Three dark eyed chieftains would have knelt to Him,
With greenstone and mats and proud huia feather,
And the eyes of Mary, seeing, would grow dim.

Oh, my heart goes crying through these days of waiting,
We too have oxen and our straw is sweet,
We too have shepherds and stables and a manger,
Oh for one clear footprint of His little feet!
Eileen Duggan (1894-1972)





Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 12/20/2006 03:29AM by Dawn.

Dawn, I spent about half an hour on the internet last night trying to find the words to this poem for Billie, but couldn't find it. I have a book of Eileen Duggan's poems, including this one which is my favourite, but it's packed up in a box somewhere and I couldn't get at it. I don't know if it's what Billie will want, but many thanks from me, anyway. It's a lovely piece of work. You've made my day!
Momma

Wow, thankyou ladies; this is amazing reading...

Merry Christmas!

Here's another..

Nativity

They were set for home when the horse went lame
And the rain came pelting out of the sky
Joe saw the hut and he went to look
And he said, ‘She’s old, but she’ll keep you dry”.

So her kid was born in that roadman’s shack
By the light of a lamp that’d hardly burn
She wrapped him up in her hubby’s coat
And put him down on a bed of fern.

Then they came riding out of the night
(And this is the thing that she’ll always swear)
As they took off their hats and came into the light
They knew they were going to find her there.

Three old jokers in oilskin coats
Stood by the bunk in that leaking shack
One had a beard like a billygoat’s
And one was frail and one was black.

She sat at the foot of the fernstalk bed
And she watched, but she didn’t understand
While they put these bundles at the baby’s head
And this river nugget into his hand.

Gold is the power of a man with a man
And incense the power of man with God
But myrrh is the bitter taste of death
And sour-sweet smell of the upturned sod.

Then they went, while she watched through the open door
Weary as men who have ridden too far
And the rain eased off and the low cloud broke
And through a gap shone a single star.
The Revd. Peter Cape (1926-1979)

Wow, thank you Kerry, that's fantastic.

momma, I have googled for Eileen Duggans poem 'A New Zealand Christmas' but have never found it. This poem we learned at school 50plus years ago and I still remember bits and pieces but would like the full version.
If anyone out there has the words, I would be most grateful.
Cheers
Nellie

Nellie,
How many more verses do you think there may have been other than what Dawn submitted? I googled and gooogled and can't find any more.

Hi momma, I can't have read all the posts before mine.
Gosh, there is not much of that poem of Eileen Duggans that I remember. The 'hui feather' and 'the eyes of Mary, watching, grow dim' stick in the mind, but that is definitely the poem. Thankyou Dawn, did you too learn this at school?
I really like 'Nativity' and will print off both of these.
My little 5yr old's class sang 'Kiwi Holiday' at their school breakup which goes to the tune of Jingle Bells which I would like the words of too.
Happy Christmas to everyone and thanks to you all for any enjoyable year on this forum, and now, I'm off to do my baking!

Here's to you
And here's to me
And if we should disagree...
Well, here's to me!!!

Cheers
Nellie

Thanks so much folks - there's some real treasures here. I love Peter Cape's one, and the first Christmas of an early English settler.

Now, let's hope the rain holds off this evening!!!!!

Hello Nellie,
No it's not one I learned at school, I found it on the internet and love it. I too have enjoyed all the contributions on this thread.
Merry Christmas,
regards,
Dawn.