The Snow Queen's Gifts: A Poem in Seven Stanzas, By Kelly Jarvis

I 

You do not have a Godmother 

To plait your hair with hues of dappled sunshine, 

Or sew a dress of scented roses 

That sings of summer each time you spin  

At the Prince’s Solstice Ball.  

 

II 

No kindly crone will comfort you  

In the creases of the forest 

While you wait for walnuts to fall like tears upon your mother’s grave. 

Their wrinkled shells won’t spill forth gowns threaded thick with autumn’s dying light. 

No wish will soothe your weathered wounds of grief. 

 

III 

An orphan of the Northern Realm,  

You must hitch your sled to ravens’ wings, 

And pay with heated copper pennies for your passage through the sky. 

You must journey, barefoot, through storms of ice, 

Clad in the skin of a beast you have slain, 

Its bloodied fur forcing you forward, 

Its death a sacrifice. 

You may encounter winter witches,  

You may cling to the backs of bears, 

You may let reindeer lick your salty tears  

and kiss you with their soft, pink tongues, 

But, in that barren landscape you will find yourself, alone, 

With nothing but the Northern Lights to guide your wandering way. 

 

IV 

Let your breath become a crystal prayer 

That echoes through the night 

Drawing down the silver light  

of December’s waning moon. 

Follow swarms of milk white bees. 

Find the Queen in frosted blooms, 

Beautiful, terrible, exquisite, cold.  

A glimmer of hope in winter’s white gloom.  

 

V 

If you solve her puzzles, she will gift you a glorious gown 

Stitched from ten-pointed stars and the black velvet of night. 

Shards of frost, clear as glass, become a crown for your hair, 

And snowflakes become slippers that slide over ice. 

Her sleigh, pulled by white chickens, will whisk you away 

Through dark billowing clouds that breathe windstorms of fright, 

Until you arrive where you started, in the Realm of the North, 

At the Ball that rejoices in the return of the light.  

 

VI 

Your beauty will shatter into thousands of pieces 

As you glide past gilded mirrors lining the walls. 

Shards, hard as diamonds, will lodge in the eyes  

Of the Prince, seeking his soulmate at the Solstice Ball. 

In you he will see the spheres of the heavens, 

Hear the songs of creation, 

Feel the romance of death. 

He will wish to possess your enchanted beauty far more 

Than you wish for a Prince or a safe place to rest.  

 

VII 

Strong from your trials, you will leave long before midnight,  

Your slippers of snowflakes still firm on your feet. 

You will laugh as the wind whisks the stars from your dress, 

And your slippers of snowflakes melt back into sleet. 

An orphan of the Northern Realm,  

You will hitch your rags to eastern skies, 

Let the dappled sunrise warm the seeds 

That barely breathe beneath the blackened soil, 

Knowing that soon, 

Snow-quenched roses will bloom, 

Each petal  

A gift from  

The Snow Queen.  

Yule, By Lissa Sloan

 

I am the time that was.

Famine, feast, birth, death.

I am the truth of it.

Endings, beginnings, and passing through

All written in my rings.

I am the time that is.

I burn away

The fever, the failure

Sobs and songs

Warm skin, every blink and breath

Words and deeds

Heartbeats and heartbreaks

Sear blue to white to gold and crimson

Black and white and gray

Mingle in the hearth,

Bitter and sweet

All crumbled into ash.

I am the time that will be.

Seeds sleeping under earth

Waiting for the sun and the dark

The wind and the rain and the ax.

 I will return.

Faery Feast, By Deborah Sage

 

The faery-folk come to sing and sup

Of mulled cider in an acorn cup.

 

Round laden table of birch and pine

They come at dusk to dance and dine

 

On wood-ear stem and chanterelle cap.

Toffee pudding and maple sap,

 

Roasted squash and toasted seed.

Golden pumpkin and honeyed mead.

 

Walnut cake and ginger bread,

Mincemeat scone with hawthorn spread.

 

Savories of rosemary and silver sage;

Succulent sweets from an ancient page.

 

Vanilla, clove and cinnamon bark

Tempt to taste as descends the dark.

 

From mossy branches in pale moonlight,

Spruce and cedar scent the night.

 

For the faery feast on midwinter’s eve,

In a woodland realm by Titania’s leave.

"Candle": Daughter of Snow and Honey, By Sara Cleto

When the bees fell in

Love with the 

Queen of Winter, I was

Born from

Honey, pine, snow, wax,

The sound of bells on a

Cold, clear night

Pierced with stars and wishes

And when I caught fire,

I was her mirror,

Redolent of

Lemon when her 

Fingers tapped,

Peppermint for her mornings,

Salt when tears

Froze on her cheeks,

Roses for her

Dreams of the hive.

We burn, ice and flame,

Through winter, and

In the spring, our

Dreams wake in the 

Honey on your tongue.

Solstice Sleights, By Heather Talty

It must be the festive atmosphere, the excitement of greeting new guests, the array of food and drink on the table, the coats to remove, the carols to sing, the gifts to exchange, unwrap, marvel over, the long year’s worth of events to catch up on, the biting cold to recover from, or any number of things, but no one has noticed. 

I sit at the very center of the table, surrounded on all sides by decadence: pies brimming with fruit and meat, golden potatoes piled high, glasses on glasses of creamy eggnog, spicy wassail, crisp winter wines. The glasses are moving fast among the guests, always replaced by another, and the pies require much attention, the potatoes much arranging, enough that I sit at the center of the table, and yet, no one has noticed. 

Soon, it will be time. Pleasantries exchanged, coats collected, glasses clinked, all the guests will join us at the table to feast. At such time, I too will join. It was easy enough for me to stand close to the oven to collect a layer of dark ash on my feathers, easy enough to sit still and stare straight ahead, easy enough to fool everyone into believing me a roasted goose. Soon though, I will stand, stretch my legs and wings wide, and join the party. Perhaps then, when it is too late to shoo me away, force me into the oven, or rescind my tacit invitation, then someone will notice.

Mistletoe Sprig, By Kim Malinowski

Hanging as if still on my Elm branch, tied with red ribbons and brass bell, I held vigil over giggling lovers meeting as if on accident and falling back in love for another year under my spell. I waited for two prone figures on either side of the hall. The man, broad shouldered, strong, stared at the shrinking woman. When her eyes raised and met his, both darted their chins down pretending the floor was more interesting than each other’s dimples. I was compelled by their awkwardness, their timidness, to gift them my magic. With a gust of wind from the door, I flung myself between them. The man instinctively jumped up to grab me and the woman leaned quickly to do the same. I felt both sets of fingers tugging at my leaves. My magic was already caressing them. The woman let go, sagging, thinking her chance to find love was gone. I watched the man deliberate as he held me in his palm, then finding the courage he needed in my leaves, he slid me gently into her hair, tucking me behind her ear. She blinked wide-eyed, overcome by my soft magic. Her chestnut hair and my green leaves and white berries reflected in his eyes. Entranced, he bent down, no longer towering over her, but leaning in closer. Eyes to eyes. Lips bumping lips. He clasped her, and I saw his shoulders gradually relax. They must have tasted honey in my magic because they never parted. Exchanging me back and forth between them, I found myself tucked in high and then lower crushed to his chest. Their lips brushed even as they danced—after all, it is bad luck for a woman not to kiss under the mistletoe and for the man not to ask her.

The Silver Fir of Nativity, By Carolyn Mack

 

The Eternal Mother of the evergreen bough, Druantia, Gaelic Fir Goddess, makes no reference to her own tree, making her the “Queen of the Druids,” and therefore mother of the tree calendar, contained in the “Cad Goddeu.” In this ancient poem, the silver fir has its station on the first day of the year, the extra day after winter solstice, commemorating the birth of the Divine Child. 

In Northern Europe and Anglia, her birth symbol, boughs of fir, were used in ritual cleansing, to sain with burning boughs the newborn. Palm fronds of Mediterranean ritual became fir boughs. In ancient Irish “ailm” stood for the palm, first tree of the sacred calendar, one of five vowels, “A” for “ailm.” Its significance is in contrast to the yew, sister tree at midwinter eve. They were yew, Saturn and lead; and  fir, Moon and silver. In ritual these represented the death of the sun god, birth of the Divine Child, secret symbols of the tree alphabet.

Pagan ritual practice represented the survival of nature in the lopped evergreens, and the lopping off of branches or fronds later became just horticultural practice. In medieval England, revelers played a midwinter game derived from the Gawain calendar poem, in which the poet of Gawain was descriptive of his battle with weather dragons as expressed in an allegory of war in a winter solstice game of ritual death of the old year: the Green Knight, his holly club, and momentarily severed head.

The ritual of cutting fir boughs, as well as trees, and bringing them indoors, also fell out of favor with the Church. Yet, the silver fir with interior decorations was to be widely popularized by Queen Victoria, when she and Prince Albert brought a gigantic tree into Buckingham Palace and made it public in published photographs, thus spreading the idea of the Christmas tree, still known and beloved to this day.

The Holly Leaf, By Marcia Sherman

The wreath on the table was square. At this late date there were no round wreaths to be found. It was rather dusty and sad. But. Somehow it was calling to everyone at the solstice celebration. When purchased for the event it was found pushed aside in a corner, marked down twice. It was all Holly could afford. The little old woman behind the counter assured Holly it was “just the thing” for a party. That was really strange, how did she know it was for a party?

Back at the party, Holly set the square wreath and some candles and a few other baubles in the middle of the main dining table.

It was then the magick happened. The wreath somehow revived – leaves lush and dark green, berries full and crimson. Every time someone commented on the square holly wreath, the leaves and berries became more colorful and lush.

By the time everyone was ready to go home, the wreath had grown and leaves were falling over the side of the table. Everyone took a cutting, and the solstice event lived on for years.