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Mary and Joseph<\/strong><\/p>\n I saw them in two bottles of cleaning product, I saw them in a swirling cloud formation, I saw them in the frozen patterns of leaves, Mary and Joseph together, not quite touching, They are about as far away as a reluctant carol They are as distant as the Pound Shop presents They are as out of reach as peace on Earth, But I know I saw them. She was too young <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Pat Edwards<\/strong> is a writer, teacher and performer from Mid Wales. Her work has appeared in Prole, Magma, Atrium and others. She hosts Verbatim poetry open mic nights and curates Welshpool Poetry Festival.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Midnight, mid-December, in a fake railway carriage diner at JFK<\/strong><\/p>\n Zoltan Leonardo tells me his spectacular, Gaunt and brown, face like an old satchel, He turns to the bar to order a bourbon She says the top bar is closed We\u2019re not the only ones in the place. So you ain’t gonna believe me, And the\u00a0big red\u00a0cherry in her Christmas\u00a0cocktail? So I\u2019m thinking maybe she’s an angel At this point I\u2019m expecting a request for help, I mean a house and half a million bucks. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Marc Woodward<\/strong> is a poet and musician living in Devon, England. He has been widely published and his recent collections include A Fright Of Jays (Maquette Press 2015) and Hide Songs (Green Bottle Press 2018).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Opening<\/strong><\/p>\n Every Christmas I wonder what my aunt is thinking Perhaps the allure of the burly postman, Perhaps the extra reaching down, picking up, Perhaps we will fight over whose card what they are doing, these separate-card senders, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Alison Binney<\/strong> is an English teacher from Cambridge who has recently created more space in her life for writing poetry. She has been published in ‘Magma’, ‘The North’, ‘The Fenland Reed’ and ‘Under the Radar’.\u00a0 This poem was mentioned in the recent Seren Christmas card competition write-up.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Mary and Joseph I saw them in two bottles of cleaning product, with a stripy cloth thrown over their heads. I saw them in a swirling cloud formation, streaks of white and grey becoming figures. I saw them in the frozen patterns of leaves, glinting at me in December\u2019s fallen debris. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[97],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18042","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-twelve-days-of-christmas-2018"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18042","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18042"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18042\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18139,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18042\/revisions\/18139"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18042"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18042"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18042"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nwith a stripy cloth thrown over their heads.<\/p>\n
\nstreaks of white and grey becoming figures.<\/p>\n
\nglinting at me in December\u2019s fallen debris.<\/p>\n
\nred and brown sauce standing on the table.<\/p>\n
\nsung by tots and teens, by seniors and carers.<\/p>\n
\nstuffed into charity show boxes for the poor.<\/p>\n
\nas unlikely as goodwill beyond the festive fun.<\/p>\n
\nand he overwhelmed by his responsibilities.<\/p>\n
\nimprobable name. Says Call me Zolly!.
\nHe\u2019s a painter, a drummer, and Yes, I’m an alcoholic…
\nLike it’s obvious\u00a0and beyond his control.<\/p>\n
\ndark hair lashing his forehead. Shirt unbuttoned.
\nSays he’s owned his scarlet leather trousers
\nfor twelve years, never washed them.<\/p>\n
\nbut the waitress bluntly refuses.
\nShe\u2019s already weary of December drunks
\nand it\u2019s still a long run of night shifts to go.<\/p>\n
\nbut he can have a beer from the bottom.
\nHe stands four bottles of Michelob
\non the table like a row of toy soldiers.<\/p>\n
\nThere\u2019s a backpacking couple in the corner booth
\ntheir heads down on the unwiped table;
\ntwo suited guys at the bar swiping phones.<\/p>\n
\nthis old girlfriend calls up after thirty years,
\nsays she\u2019s been\u00a0holdin\u2019 a candle,
\nwants to see me. Thirty years though..? I mean….<\/p>\n
\nShe’s inherited half a million and a house in LA.
\nCan you believe that? It’s insane man –
\na fuckin\u2019\u00a0pad in the city of angels!<\/p>\n
\n– but where\u2019s she been all these years, hey?
\nWhatever…\u00a0\u00a0I’m flying to LA in the morning.
\nI ain’t got a ticket yet but I’m going, you know?<\/p>\n
\na contribution to the fare – a ‘loan’ of course.
\nI\u2019m preparing my rejection but it doesn\u2019t come.
\nInstead he reaches forward, unscrews two beers.<\/p>\n
\nDid I tell you I’m a painter? Palm trees no problem.
\nSo…hey – what\u2019s your name?\u00a0Let’s drink\u00a0a toast:
\nTo old\u00a0angels\u00a0and monied lovers!<\/p>\n
\nsending us separate cards, in separate envelopes,
\nwith separate stamps, to the same address.<\/p>\n
\nsweating under the double weight of mail,
\nwill turn my gaze, at last, from your smile.<\/p>\n
\nopening, reading, means today
\nI will leave for work without a kiss.<\/p>\n
\ntakes pride of place, fall out, fall silent,
\nfall into separate beds, separate. Yes, they know<\/p>\n
\nand therefore so must we, sharing cards, homes,
\nwounds, opening ourselves out.<\/p>\n