Miriam Nash’s new, 180 line poem is fascinating in the transformation of its sources in Norse myth, its quiet yet firm challenging of racial and gender hierarchies and in its exquisite presentation by Hercules Editions, accompanied as it is by an essay from Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir and textiles imagery created by Christina Edlund-Plater (in fact, Nash’s mother).

Friðriksdóttir gives those of us not up to speed with the Norse sagas some explanation. It seems the gods were actually not primary but descended from the race of giants. Yet since gaining supremacy, the gods have excluded and denigrated the giants. Generated from a hegemonic point of view (the top people in medieval Icelandic society), these Norse myths (as do most) tend to “justify and naturalise the status quo”, as Friðriksdóttir puts it, and what is being naturalised is a particular view of history, ancestry and masculinity. The anxiety of the Norse…

Your cell phone rings
but you’re not listening
because you left it
in The Fox and Vixen
behind the cistern
in the last stall on the left
next to the condom machine
and now it’s 4 am
your wife sleeps soundly beside you,
in the corner of the room
your hangover squats
sorting a tray of instruments.

It all began with a few beers,
some Christmas Cheer
so how did it get
from there to here?

Slowly you remember or think you remember….

Did you really poke your boss in the chest
and tell him that you know better
that you know best?

Did you really down three shots of scotch
grab Mark from marketing by the shoulders
and proclaim “I love you bro”
over and over ‘till he begged you to stop
to let go?

And why, why, why
did you call that shy Dutch girl from accounting
“sad-eyed…

there comes a day — the sacred basil plant
becomes leafless as the sun turns aloof &hides
behind the rich notes of a sugar-white air.

you are winter’s errand boy — hours
spill out of your deep coat pockets, dog-
minstrels struggle for every minute
they can perform — you would rather be away

down a bazaar of oddities where they
sell woollens by weights (first-rate &down),
or in the alleys where many a breath paused,
and never set again amid a litter of chests.

you are my winter’s warning prayer
that can only rise so far above before
the fog envelops you whole. your words
taste of stale chocolate, peanut husks,
&a once-hot-tea gone cold — but your lips,

crooked dreamlike, magenta &apple-rose lit
give me loss and warmth — our wreathed
solemnity is like burning coal. it is red-hot,
to last the long mass of our heathen sighs.

the way they offer a twinkly hope
for better days, the way they cut
through the fog on winter nights,
illuminated landing strips
sparkling my walks round
the neighbourhood

an assembly of wayward, tiny stars

ages ago, you handed me a small
bundle and on the wrapping paper
you had written: those dark corners don't stand a chance`

i switch them on at night
and every time i remember how
good it felt to know

that every once in a while
someone will see all your darkness
and help you light it up.

Bio:AnnickYeremlives and works in Berlin. In her dreams, she can swim like a manatee.Annicktweets @missyeremand has, to her utmost delight, been published by Pendemic, Detritus, @publicpoetry, RiverMouthReview, #PoetRhy, Anti-Heroin-Chic, Rejection Letters Dreich and 192.

https://linktr.ee/annickyeremhttps://missyerem.wordpress.com

The sound of heaven’s holiday tinkles.
Cedar wafts on cloud cushions.
Snow plays at twelves.
Apple-cheeked fiddlers saw while
curly-haired dolls wearing holiday finery
dance with elves and bunnies.
Reindeer prance and fuss, harnessed to
burnished wood sleighs. Chased by angels,
they leap along crystal-bordered ponds —
geometric shapes and figure eights to eternity.

The great hearth in the lodge is ablaze
with seasoned oak.
A cast iron cauldron steams mulled
cider, dipped and sipped while
chilled bodies nestle and wreathe warmth.
Whetted appetites delight in plum pudding
while beaus tie gold-striped ribbons on
the wrists of coquettish virgins.
Cherished celebrations to honor a baby’s birth.
Affirmation that life carries on with hope.

Jade Li is a writer, reader, observer, thinker, feeler, poet who lives in the Big Mitten of Michigan in the United States. Does poetry as self-therapy and to connect with others. She blogs at: https://tao-talk.com/