A Poem by Mitchell Irby
A few thoughts on gifts;
some given as courtesy, others for sport,
for a memorable day, a celebration of sort,
commemoration of faith, a union, or birth.
The preceding weeks in a cheerful stress
To check off a wishlist, to quench
an appetite of that acceptable greed, implicitly agreed
“They know what they want”, thus they know what they’ll get.
That standard’s been set
by letters to Santa and registered guests.
Expectations are chiselled deep in one’s mind,
reactions rehearsed, a burst of expression–well timed
to make an impression of sincere gratitude.
Almost like praying, mouth full of food.
No, receiving ain’t easy; especially stuff
you may already have, which was already enough.
So some stuff gets repurposed, doubling its use
Given again, once again part of a pile, in style it sits
Shiny and wrapped, it hints at invoking a smile.
But that forced surprise could be shifted
When the thing twice gifted leaves spirits unlifted
Silly of course this routine we expect
time after time and worse still it gets.
But not all gifts are so.
Oh, that simple surprise, so perfectly timed
splendidly usurping expectations, with a gesture so kind.
A rebellion of the menial, reciprocal obligation that plagues humankind.
Oh such a gift of love of a sort one would never have chosen.
And how much more potent, a feeling unmatched
If the relationship in view had become once detached,
that this gift had the power to win a heart back.
The proper art of giving, so it seems, must be from Love
of a person, with a personal touch
that can’t be detected from outside the exchange.
But will have a subtle trick, and continue it’s own little way
to give and still give and to remind all who see
That as low as life gets, it’s better to be.