Today’s Poem: The House of Christmas
The place where God was homeless / And all men are at home
The House of Christmas
by G.K. Chesterton
There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome. For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay on their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honour and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun. A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam; Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost — how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky’s dome. This world is wild as an old wives’ tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star. To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home. ═════════════════════════
It’s tempting to say that G.K. Chesterton (1874–1936) lived for Christmas, but he seemed to live for everything he did: always a roaring enthusiasm in his writing for whatever caught his eye.
Still, there’s something especially eye-catching about Christmas: red and green, with pictures of a star and shepherds and kings, and the Christ child in a manger. And there’s something especially roaring in the season: a raging fire, a towering blaze, to warm us in midwinter. And so Chesterton embraced Christmas in a way surpassed only by Dickens in English literature.
And why not? It is a place where our festival practices — partly pagan, often commercialized, frequently absurd, always extravagant — weaken the wall between the natural and the supernatural, allowing, if we only raise our eyes, a sight of something beyond us. “The great majority of people will go on observing forms that cannot be explained,” he observed. “They will keep Christmas Day with Christmas gifts and Christmas benedictions; they will continue to do it; and some day suddenly wake up and discover why.”
Here at Poems Ancient and Modern, we’ve offered Chesterton poems twice before: the parodies of “Variations of an Air” and the comedy of “A Ballade of Suicide.” “The House of Christmas,” Today’s Poem here on Boxing Day, is perhaps more typical of Chesterton. Or at least of his love of paradoxical phrasings readers often note. “Christmas is built,” he once wrote, “upon a beautiful and intentional paradox, that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home.” As the poem develops the thought: We shall all come at Christmas to the stable: “To the place where God was homeless / And all men are at home.”
The meter of “The House of Christmas” is unexpected, in five eight-line stanzas rhymed abcbddda. Ballad meter feels familiar and natural to English readers — a four-foot line followed by a three-foot line, rhymed on the three-foot line — and each stanza opens with four lines of that form. But Chesterton’s stanzas follow those lines with three rhymed lines of tetrameter, defeating the expectation, and then close with a return to trimeter, and sometimes a difficult trimeter at that. I read the last line of the first stanza as “Than the squáre stónes of Róme,” for example. But through it all we get the Christmas story in distinctly Chestertonian garb: “This world is wild as an old wives’ tale, / And strange the plain things are.”
I haven't read a lot of Chesterton's poetry -- his one about the donkey at Easter will always be my favorite, I think -- but I've enjoyed what you have presented here. This is a lovely Christmas poem, the reminder that this earth is not God's home, but His coming gave us a home. I love this new-to-me rhyme scheme which creates a fascinating stanza that emphasizes each final line even more than usual, and brings such a satisfying and comforting ending to the poem.
Wonderful poem! There is much power in paradox!
The meter is actually varied: only in stanzas 2 & 4 are the first four lines in 4/3/4/3 ballad meter.
So line 3 of the opening stanza has 3 beats (for a 4/3/3/3 pattern); and lines 3 & 4 together, cleverly, are a near match for the final two lines of the poem (that penultimate line of the poem is also the only trimeter in any of the lines 5-7 in each stanza).
Stanza 3 I hear as 3/3/3/3 on the opening four lines, and stanza 5 as 3/2/3/3; it's a progressive narrowing on the odd stanzas, culminating in that final trimeter pair - that final line 7 being the only short line 7 and the only non-rhyming line 7, the final word of which is itself truncated from "homeless" to "home" in the final line.
I don't actually find the last line of the opening stanza metrically difficult? The first four syllables of “Than the squáre stónes of Róme" form a standard iambic variation I call a "pump": a beat is pumped forward, creating a "di-di-DUM-DUM" pattern. Most often, as here, the two beats are a monosyllabic adjective and noun (and, indeed, it's this recurring "di-DUM-DUM" pattern whenever there's a small connecting word + monosyllabic adjective + noun that historically necessitated the development of this metrical variation!). In this instance, it's also wonderfully expressive: the solid compactness of the pump befits the "square stones", enhanced by the following tight iamb closing on the assonating "Rome".