The Persistence of Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all across campus,

Not a work of art was stirring, not even a canvas.

The paintings were hung in Beckman with care,

In hopes that more visitors soon would be there.

The Adkins was settled, hung safe on his wall,

With Rauschenberg’s Cardbird just across the hall.

Two Wayne Whites in Beckman, and one in Moulton too,

And even a Soft Toilet, no wait, make that two.

When out in the Piazza there arose such a clatter,

The Ambassadors scrambled to see what was the matter.

Away to the window they flew in a flash,

And got there in time for another loud crash.

The lights of the fountain were turned down real low,

Giving the Piazza a Holiday glow.

When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and jolly,

I knew in a moment it must be Salvador Dali.

More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

“Now DeLap! Now Dürer!

Now, Tunberg and Turner!

On, Bradford! On, Bauman!

On, Wayne White and Walker!

To the top of the porch!

To the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away!

Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky

so up to Beckman the coursers they flew,

with the sleigh full of artwork, and Dali too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

down the chimney Dali came with a bound.

He wore a black suit, from his head to his foot,

and his shoes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of paintings he had flung on his back,

and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes–how they twinkled! His eyebrows, how daring!

His cheeks were severe, his look was quite scary!

His thin little mouth was sly like a mink,

and the moustache he had was as black as pen ink.

The stump of a cigarette he held tight in his teeth,

and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a narrow face and slicked back hair,

that was stuck in place, like a helmet I swear.

He was thin and lanky, a typical surrealist,

and I laughed when I saw him, now here was an artist.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

soon gave me assurance I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

“Bon Nadal to all, and to all a good night!”

Artwork and Photoshop elf: Alex Allen

Artwork and Photoshop elf: Alex Allen

Artwork and Photoshop elf: Alex Allen