The Mountain Laurel Presents:
The Mountain Mistletoe December 2021
The Mountain Mistletoe is a themed Christmas edition of The Mountain Laurel. The Mountain Laurel is North Greenville University’s art and literary journal; its purpose is to produce a collection of poetry, prose, and visual art that is both technically sound in craftsmanship and creative in content. If something done twice can be considered a tradition, The Mountain Mistletoe is a favorite holiday tradition at The Mountain Laurel. For a second year, we are pleased to present a collection of holiday-themed art and literature. We hope these works will enhance your experience of this blessed season in all its whimsy, nostalgia, and beauty. Merry Christmas from The Mountain Laurel! Staff Credits Editorial Staff Taylor Rose Elliott, Managing Editor Karson Harsey Caemon Ashworth Staff Kasey Abigail Hansen Kyle Jackson Aubrianna Nelson Zachary Senter Micah Stevens Claire Stratton Advisers Hayley De Gonzalez, Art Rachel Roberts, English
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Table of Contents Art Village of Candlelight, Leslie Meyers Aquatic Peace, Leah Buffalino Winter Boughs, Leslie Meyers Merry & Bright, Leslie Meyers
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Love Amongst Red and Green Cellophane, Davis Lisk The Christmas Goblins: A Warning and a Villanelle, Albwin Robinello Subito: Bethlehem, Davis Lisk Holy Elements, Davis Lisk Cliche Christmas Heartache Poem, Taylor Rose Elliott Red. Green. White., Micah Stevens The Carollers’ Canzone, Albwin Robinello This is Just to Say (Merry Christmas!), Koimbarren Kitchen The Ghost of Christmas Past, Karson Harsey
10 11 12 12 14-15 17 18 19 21
Poetry
Prose Stuffed Animals’ Christmas, Koimbarren Kitchen
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Stuffed Animals’ Christmas Koimbarren Kitchen
‘I think we are made real by living as though we were real, by imitating the Platonic ideals from which we are twice removed, by being already what we wish to be, by playacting becoming our character, and therein is this profound truth: imitation leads to identity. We are, in essence, the makers of our essences.’ Pondo scoffed silently and put his lips back on his ‘pipe,’ a long candy cane he’d been nibbling on since that morning when the first of the brightly coloured packages began to appear beneath the fir tree in the living room. ‘And see how far you’ve gotten licking between your legs and unravelling Mother’s yarn,’ he said with his typical air of cynicism. The first speaker, a yellowy, quiltlike creature with a very round face encircled by a ring of orange strands of frayed yarn by the name of Potters, had been pacing to and fro along the edge of the couch in an overdone skulk, his back low and legs moving with a sort of sloth-like precision. Now he gave it up and, hopping down from the couch, humphed: ‘What would a dog know about Plato.’ ‘Stuffed dog, you mean,’ replied Pondo, ‘and that’s the whole point. We’re no closer to being real than we were when Father Smitham read Little Ben The Velveteen Rabbit three Christmases ago, and no amount of “playacting,” however platonic you make it out to be, is going to change any of that.’
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Pondo, a rather sorry looking thing of some fleece-like fabric that had been worn down to a silky consistency with a coat of a strongly vanilla hue like the pages of an old book with a dark chocolatey spot around his left eye, had originally belonged to Della Smitham back when she was a child and was Della Rosemund, whom he had always called ‘Mother.’ He was the one of only two such creatures at the Smitham house and the only one who still possessed enough mental stability to attend house meetings. (Alas, poor Yorick, we knew him well!) He disliked most all of Peter Smitham’s playthings: the Bear, the Lamb, the Tiger, the Beaver, and the Lion Potters, the latter of whom, however, was his fastest friend, although they were always prone to violent bickerings. Little Ben’s friends he liked better, mostly dogs and some cats, except for the Alpaca Todrick (but nobody liked Tondrick very much). ‘I think all of this is a bunch of nonsense anyway,’ said Tondrick, ‘We’ve got to face the facts: nothing is real, not really. Everything’s an abstraction that exists only to contrast other abstractions, and it’s a jolly dandy thing all of us are out here fopping about becoming real.’ He snorted with an air of contempt, and that is the kind of thing he was always saying and doing, which is why nobody liked him very much. He was very high quality and made with real alpaca fur, which made him feel very superior, since in a way he already was ‘real,’ more real than most of the others, except maybe the lamb, who claimed to be made of real wool, although from everything Tondrick said he could not care less about what was ‘real’ or not, which made everyone dislike him even more. ‘I think we become real after we wear away,’ said one of Little Ben’s dogs named Harry,’ and have shuffled off this mortal coil. Luminous being are we, not this crude matter. After our weary threads have worn and the temple of our ghost is spent, we shall separate from this plush exterior and be born anew. Outwardly, we are wasting away, but inwardly we are renewed day by day.’ He stopped there, a wistful look in his eyes. Harry read the Romantics, and with that nothing more need be said. ‘Moonshine, Harry, moonshine!’ said a rather bulbous looking beaver with buttons for eyes. His name was Flitt, and he was the Beaver that Pondo disliked. ‘You’re either born real or you’re born stuffed, and there’s nothing anyone can do to change that, neither in this life or in the next.’
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‘Oh bother,’ said Harry, looking crestfallen. ‘Never mind him,’ said Pondo, ‘He’ll never become real being such a jolly bugger, and if Potters is right (by some miraculous chance) he’ll probably end up as lint or pure fluff.’ ‘Well,’ said the Beaver, ‘why don’t you give us your opinion, instead of trashing all the others. It’s going to be Christmas here before we know it, and I don’t want anymore disappointed stuff’uns going blue in the face trying to be real when they’re never going to be any of the sort, but if you’re so keen on it, why don’t you tell us how it’s supposed to be done.’ ‘I will then’ said Pondo, clearing his throat, ‘I think that’s there’s some magic in it, the kind you can’t all do yourself, like undoing some enchantment. I don’t know how (Potters can vouch for me I never claimed to), but I think it’s more about finding the right who than the right how. I imagine the who will take care of the how when it comes to it.’ The house meeting was silent for a while, considering Pondo’s words. ‘Maybe Pondo’s right,’ said the mouse with the pink sateen in his ears, ‘maybe that rabbit from the book will come in and make it all right.’ ‘Perhaps,’ said another one of Little Ben’s dogs, ‘or maybe we won’t look real when we are real, accident versus substance or something, as Potters called them the other day.’ ‘Or maybe the real will be in the stuffed,’ said the Tiger excitedly, ‘Fancy that!’ And for the rest of the meeting everyone was chipping in like this, and it came to the point where no one could make out what anyone else was saying. Stuffed animals these days, thought Pondo, and he went back to nibbling on his ‘pipe.’
Village of Candlelight Leslie Meyers 8
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Love Amongst Red and Green Cellophane by Davis Lisk The crinkle of Christmas packaging From thy white fingers mingling With lissome hands the wrapping Paper – I fall into thy smile And eyes of Bluest Nile. My breath is left from mile unto mile. The snow on the window is melting, And like it mine is all the while Fading into melody, And I’d like to sing you a song, But I don’t want to speak. Silence is a better harmony, And to its tune I’ll sing along. Thou art my Mary, mild and meek.
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The Christmas Goblins: A Warning and Villanelle by Albwin Robinello Tall, crimson, green-cat-eyed, As winter settles they arrive, Long-haired, long-eared, deceit inside!
They gallop through the countryside And city streets (how few survive!), Tall, crimson, green-cat-eyed!
On Christmas Eve they saddle and ride From out their snowbound grotto-hive, Tall, crimson, green-cat-eyed
Do not go out, for if espied There’s no escape you could contrive. Long-haired, long-eared, deceit inside,
And full of far-off faerie pride (Though marred and mingled still alive), Long-haired, long-eared, deceit inside.
Invisible at first they stride To those who unshriven strive: Tall, crimson, green-cat-eyed, Long-haired, long-eared, deceit inside!
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Subito: Bethlehem by Davis Lisk Silence: The night weighs thick Upon the roof of thatch Where lambs are gathered in a mass Of wool Around the feeding trough; they form A faerie ring; the spell Subito rounds A child.
Holy Elements by Davis Lisk As Christmas bells are ringing And birds aloft and singing Inside my heart I’m bringing My ponderings together Flung over my shoulder in a bag of red leather As on I go amid the snow, Consider all the time doth show Among the birdsong soft and low. The season shall remember Christ by the sparrows and the winds of December.
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Aquatic Peace Leah Buffalino 13
Cliche Christmas Heartache Poem by Taylor Rose Elliott 11/01/2020 The Christmas lights downtown Twinkle like dead stars through the fog In the clear, dry November night Smoke in the air hangs delicately I don’t worry anymore about being delicate Without you now Now I can see a hazy image of myself From where you stood, in your grey shoes I see the girl you dreamed of, fighting against The scarred coldness and shaky hands. Then you realized you’d dreamed it all wrong But still I was mending and worthy of love With and without you now The people in the parking lots and the markets Blasting Christmas too loud inside and out For show or distraction, I don’t know In the fluorescent isles buying wine and eggnog. I drink in the cold air, I work on eating all my words It’s all pooling in my lungs like melted snow I drink it all in, deep, without you now
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Building homes up with gingerbread On your mother’s kitchen table Hippie vans and spaceships were all we needed. A locket with an imaginary picture Stockings and hearts with our names I miss our coffee shop, the one with espresso and CBD shots But I will never miss your Christmas Texas heat I get to wear his big sweaters and I shake only from the cold Without you now I know I have vices-- based on need, Or self hurt, I don’t know But I see the girl you thought you thought You could save me from becoming The angry postmodernist and the loud darkness When we were drunk on the idea Of losing saved by loving I’m still writing out our months, line by line Trying to hold Time on a fishing line Taking shots at you, salt without the lime For a while I told myself you never cared For a while I couldn’t drown the thought That you still might, you still might But in the falsity of this Holiday night I have realized The necessity of putting up a fight Of losing yourself just to put it all right Of choking on what you thought you knew Of the necessity of loneliness
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Red. Green. White. by Micah Stevens Red. The drip of fake blood. The crisp leaves of the trees. The twirling stripes of a candy cane. Green. The daubing of body paint. The stem of a round pumpkin. The sprigs of mistletoe and holly. White. The gleam of plastic fangs. The best turkey meat. The fresh blanket of snow.
Winter Boughs Leslie Meyers
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The Carollers’ Canzone by Albwin Robinello Within the darkness of a yuletide Evening, there walks (nay, floats) a silver candle, Suspended, ghostlike, flickering which doth glide Lightly onward, which velvet glove doth handle, Illuminating rosy Cheeked and delighted faces, All chilled by frost and cosy In shawls and heavy greatcoats, And, with leather shoes, paces Are marked in snow with hymn notes Falling behind them, fair, spiritlike faces Within the darkness of the evening, glowing Upon those colde, desolate country places, Where time as evening grows is slowing. Within them all those spirits Will consubstantiate (As like in horse-drawn charets All fringed with little silver Bells) and, bodied, congregate; The dead aren’t dead forever.
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This is Just to Say (Merry Christmas!) by Koimbarran Kitchen I have taken the dubloons that were in the lockbox and which you were probably saving for Christmas Forgive me I opened a casino so fun and so dope
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“The Ghost of Christmas Past” by Karson Harsey Father Time decided to make a bridge Long ago, starting from the days of yore A bridge that builds itself with years That pass by, Decades, centuries, millenniums The man once in flesh Now a jolly spirit Travels the bridge keeping Christmas Timeless, eternal Bringing with him gifts Of cinnamon, peppermint Even a little magic snow The bridge holds strong After so long And the ghost continues His yearly pilgrimage Bonding the past with the present
Merry & Bright Leslie Meyers
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Index Buffalino, Leah 13 Elliot, Taylor Rose 14-15 Kitchen, Koimbarren 6-8, 19 Lisk, Davis 10, 12 Meyers, Leslie 9, 16, 20 Robinello, Albwin 11, 18 Stevens, Micah 17
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