Christmas scents

No Nordmann firs in Bethlehem.
No holly or ivy. But pomegranate,
almond, fig and olive trees to anoint
with signs of blessing and peace.
And houses don’t smell of Balsam
pine but of frankincense that can
remain potent for two thousand years.
How empires fought and traded for it.
How Sheba drove Solomon mad for it.
And only priests were allowed to burn it –
they knew the alchemy of its smoke,
per fumum. Let all churches and homes
fill with the healing scent of olibanum.

Mary Mulholland’s poems are widely published and have won/ been placed and listed in competitions in both the UK and US. Former psychotherapist and journalist, with a Newcastle/ Poetry School MA, she lives in London, founded Red Door Poets and co-edits The Alchemy Spoon.

Elegy for Saint Nicholas

Tonight I light a scented candle
to cover the smell of damp in my sad flat

and to commemorate you, of course,
who likewise lived in the midst

of a falling empire,
and experienced persecution but also

kindness, with your alleged sparing
of gold for ill-fortuned daughters.

I calendar the remains of the year
the way your bones were pinched

over the centuries−
to add a charitable dash of splendour

to what were once bleak places.
You would know

whether we bring the trees inside
in order to cast the demons out,

or if it ought to be considered miraculous
when wind-desecrated ones that were left

remain standing after the storm.
You are a testament to the nature

of children, that they don’t really like you
only what you might give them.

And that’s okay.
Possibility. Generosity.

Hope and Disappointment.
Should be what they’re learning.

Truth is disillusionment.
And what you make of that is what counts.

I watch the small yellow-white flame
raise its fin against the swallowing black

sky and draw my curtains,
ensure my shoes are covered

with an old dressing gown
because I don’t want any of your coins

in them come morning. No,
I think you do more than enough

without having to bother visiting
here to deposit your saintly judgement.

Good or bad. As an adult
the place is mine alone to decide.

Edward Heathman grew up in South Wales. He has had writing published in The Manchester Review, Perverse and Poetry Wales. He is currently working on a debut poetry collection about sleep and sleep disorders. He lives in Stockport and in his spare time runs a YouTube channel, Gagging4Lit, where he talks about books.

The Last Ritual.

The last ritual before we pack it all away.
We prepped the tree with coloured lights and ornaments,
dancing round him in a dress rehearsal for the fire.
We admired him almost, but not quite,
to the point of reverence, because we knew
what this Year King’s fate would be, foreshadowed
by the rough-cut stump of tree, and when it came,
he did not disappoint. He went up like a firework display,
and all the lights and baubles swept away with the gloom
and shadows of the passing year.

He did not herald the spring and hope,
but marked the end, and the joy that it was done,
and all reduced to ash. Clean cut, and now the cut
was clean along with the roughness and futility.
Last year we did the same, but still
the gloom and shadows came. This year I’ll take notes
and, if things go ill, send the King to the civic facility.

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. Currently he is a poet, writer and gardener. He has had poetry, articles and stories published various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. His Bluesky handle is @crossmouse.bsky.social. His website is crossmouse.wordpress.com.