Today we added a small piece to an exibition marking the second coming of Donald Trump as president of the United States. An enterprising and thoughtful local couple had gathered a whole bunch of A4 artistic responses to this new moment of uncertainty for our Western civilisation, stringing them up in lines in their gallery. We were grateful to be part of it, as it seemed like a much saner way to mark our new normal…

In a room full of good people today, I found myself feeling strangely detatched. As I reflected on this feeling (which to be honest is not an unusual state for me) I realised that in part this was because I had been here before, in 2016, at Trumps first coming. Back then, I declared myself part of the resistance and began writing protest poetry, much of which is gathered in the first part of my book After The Apocalypse.

The thing is, this book has two more parts. Firstly, the great silence of the pandemic, our national and international pause to ponder, which I still think will be seen in hindsight as a pivot point in human history, no matter how irrelevant it seems to us at the moment – even in the light of backwards movement that Trump seems determined to bring about.

Then the last part concerned itself with a determination to look for goodness, meaning and even that most fickle of human emotions, hope. This is not the same thing as blind optimism. Nor does it arise from world wearyness with all the oppositional anger, which I certainly feel. Rather it is because I feel deep in my bones a sense that we are a civilisation whose time has come. Trump is a symptom not a cause. A symptom of a bitter process of coming apart driven by the logic of unsustainable consumption and rampant inequality.

The thing is, whatever we emerge into will require us to ask the same questions about what truth and beauty we want to carry forward. It will require enough of us to still value love and friendship above hate and vengence. It will need those who love the earth and want to plant trees.

It is not 2016 after all, it is 2025. Trump does not seem to be able to learn, but we can, surely?

This was the picture that Michaela made, using one of my poems for the exhibition.

Even this does not quite capture what I am trying to describe above. Yes, we need to unite and make conspiracies of kindness towards others and the world – more than ever we need this, but we also need to develop a different narrative for 2025, one that allows us to move beyond division and opposition and to seek instead those places where, despite all that we know and all that we fear, we choose to love.

I met Brian and his wife through our seatree buisiness and immediately liked him. I also sensed a deep resonance with much of his work and the concerns and direction of much of my own writing. I tend to use spiritual language, whereas he uses economic language and concepts, but there is not a lot of difference between the two. Both deal with complex uncertainties, at best steered towards goodness by love.

Brian is a director of The centre for thriving places, and the Wellbeing alliance for Scotland. His book of economic poetry is available from Amazon here.

Brian kindly offered us some work for our advent proost project, but we seem to have had an upload failure. When I finally got to listen to them, they seemed to relavant that I wanted to share them anyway…

Here they are.

Happy Christmas everyone. My year has been full of this little boy, my grandson. To watch the wide world through his eyes has been nothing less than joy.

Thankyou to so many people, near and far, for your friendship and companionship this year. For Rob, by co-conspirator in the Proost thing, for those friends who come to small islands with me, to the Iona Community folk, to Andy, Karl and Steve, all just out of hospital after operations/illness, to my lovely family and everyone who – even by accident – has dipped into this blog.

To old friends and new ones.

May you find meaning and moments of simple joy as this Christmas unfolds.

Every year I try to write a poem that takes me into a new Christmas. This year has been harder than most. What can be said about here, now?

This is all I have for you;

Bone

There are clouds in the eastern sky

Made from pulverised houses

And powdered bone

Humans are expended, yet

Feasting is not suspended

For we must love

Love, love

We must love

So here we are. On the eve of another Christmas.

Christ-mass.

When we who seek to honour the call towards a different kind of kingdom-making. We invite you to join us around the table groaning with good things.

There will be a time for protest, for cries of justice, for silence, for lament – but tomorrow, we feast together.

So tonight, our waiting is almost over.

How will you mark your Christmas eve? For many, it is the gathering in of family, the return home, the pumping up of air beds. Some will take themselves to church or chapel later, but many will not.

Some will be alone. I wish it were not so, but communality is not a gift for everyone.

Gathered or not, I offer you, this Christ-mass, this simple reminder.

We participate in the practive of Immanuel.

As our last offer of this advent season, we offer you another poetry podcast – particularly for those of you who have space today that you need to deepen.

This is a recording Chris did a couple of days ago with two poets – Ali Matthew and Mark Berry. It was an exploration of Christmas through poetry and the discussion went places that you might not immediately expect.

Today we go over the Atlantic and join ‘The Many’ on their longest night vigil. It is a longer piece, but perhaps you need this right now- a longer pause of lament and longing.

The Many is a collective of diverse creatives whose work ‘The Opening’ was published by Proost back in 2016.

If you are in that place where you feel the tenderness of this season keenly, you are not alone. We stand together, seeking together the place of justice and peace, where we all find our belonging.

Your woundedness is a blessing on the place where you are.

We are now firmly at that point, close enough to Christmas, when we can immerse ourselves in the nativity, and Steve Page does this brilliantly. In this poem he grapples with the real Christmas…

As the days approach Christmas, it seems to get busier for many of us. a rush of preparations and obligations, all aimed towards an uncertain climax. Today we have a lovely jewel of a poem from Hannah Caroe, written during a very different Christmas…