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BPAL Madness!
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The 2015 BPAL Yule Scents Are Live!

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bpalgeekgirldiva
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Blessed Yule, Merry Faunalia, and Happy Christmas and Hanukkah! We hope this winter season brings you joy, love, and succor in even the coldest and darkest of nights. The Yule scents will be live until 24 Feb 2016!



Shaggy fur, snow-flecked and rose-touched.


Baruch ata Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech ha'olam, Asher kid'shanu b'mitzvosav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Chanukah.

Baruch ata Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech ha'olam, She'asah nisim la'avoseinu, bayamim ha'hem baz'man hazeh.

Baruch ata Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech ha'olam, She'hecheyanu, vekiyemanu vehigi'anu laz'man hazeh.

Olive oil, beeswax, glowing amber, sweet sufganiyot, pomegranate, and fig.

Ha'Neiros halalu anachnu madlikin al hanisim ve'al hanifla'os, ve'al hat'shu'os ve'al hamilchamos, sh'asisa la'avoseinu bayamim hahem baz'man hazeh, al yedei kohaneicha hakedoshim. Vechol sh'monas yemei Chanukah, haneiros halalu kodesh hem. Ve'ein lanu reshus le'hishtamesh ba'hem, eh'la lir'osam bilvad, ke'dei le'hodos u'lehalel leshimcha hagadol al nisecha ve'al nifle'osecha ve'al yeshu'oshecha.

Ma'oz tzur yeshu'asi
Lecha na'eh leshabe'ach
Tikone bais tefilasi
Ve'sham todah nezabe'ach
Le'es Tachin Mabe'ach
Mitzar ham'nabe'ach
Az egmor beshir mizmor
Chanukas hamizbe'ach.


In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face - the face of one long dead -
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Cypress, Spanish moss, and clove bud with labdanum, Italian bergamot, and white tobacco flower.


Grandfather Frost! Accompanied by his granddaughter, Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden, he bestows gifts to virtuous and hard-working people, rewarding their decency and integrity, and punishes those who are lazy, shiftless, and unkind, killing their fields with frost, cracking the trunks of their trees, and destroying their homes.

The first incarnation of Father Frost was not at all benevolent. He was the personification of the darkest aspects of winter, winter's destruction incarnate. He kidnapped unruly children, and slew people capriciously by freezing them to death.

Light, darkness, kindness, and malice: golden amber, white amber, redwood, teak, bois du rose, sage, tree moss, and snow.


The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,
How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd,
How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o' the taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids,
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows, white and azure laced
With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design,
To note the chamber: I will write all down:
Such and such pictures; there the window; such
The adornment of her bed; the arras; figures,
Why, such and such; and the contents o' the story.
Ah, but some natural notes about her body,
Above ten thousand meaner moveables
Would testify, to enrich mine inventory.
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off:
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!
'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To the madding of her lord. On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I' the bottom of a cowslip: here's a voucher,
Stronger than ever law could make: this secret
Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en
The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?
Why should I write this down, that's riveted,
Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late
The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough:
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear;
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.
One, two, three: time, time!
- Iachimo, Cymbeline Act II, Scene 2

There are few things more disturbing than a Jack in the Box. A strangely sinister, unnerving holiday scent: redwood, bitter clove, tonka, hemp accord, and tobacco with peach blossom, black currant, and red musk.


The Day of Kings, the Celebration of the Magi. In Mexico, on January 6th, children place their shoes by their windows. If they have been good during the previous year, the Wise Men tuck gifts into their shoes during the night.

Hot cocoa with cinnamon, coffee, and brown sugar.


Held on December 5th, this is the festival of the Horned God of the Forest, one of the di indigetes of Rome, god of cattle, fertility, wild, untamed nature, and prophecy through dreams. The scent of a thick, starlit, unspoiled forest, with a burst of wild musk, opobalsamum, black bryony, mandragora, and hemlock.

PLEASE NOTE: This year's Faunalia label depicts explicit faun-sex and sports an erect Priapus, as is appropriate for this holy day.


Frau Holle, or Holda, is the personification of the changes wrought when winter seizes the land: she rides the chill winds in her chariot, shaking out her featherbeds in order to precipitate snowfall. The rolling fog is the smoke from her hearth fire, and thunder claps when she reels her flax. Holda is a goddess of matrons, who governs spinning, domestic chores, witchcraft and witches, and the Wild Hunt. She presides over the transition of souls, both to and from this world. Though she is childless, she watches over children, and the spirits of newborns spring forth from her sacred pool. Her festival falls during midwinter, when the dead roam free. She holds court in Hörselberg, from which the Wild Hunt is issued, and all the beasts in the land heed her call.

Snow-covered pines, witches herbs, bestial musk, flax, and ethereal flowers that represent both birth and death.

Sevivon, sov, sov, sov
Chanukah, hu chag tov
Chanukah, hu chag tov
Sevivon, sov, sov, sov!

Chag simcha hu la-am
Nes gadol haya sham
Nes gadol haya sham
Chag simcha hu la-am.

A bounty of chocolate coins! Dry cocoa and golden amber!

In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm --
Pink, lank and warm --
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home --
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.

A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I'd not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood --
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power --

The very string with which
I tied him -- too
When he was mean and new
That string was there --

I shrank -- "How fair you are"!
Propitiation's claw --
"Afraid," he hissed
"Of me"?
"No cordiality" --
He fathomed me --
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
Projected him.

That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.

Pink, lank, and warm: grapefruit, yuzu, tuberose, peony, violet leaf, pikaki, Indian frankincense, and tonka.


Anything BUT jolly! Draped with chains and bells, wielding both whip and rod, this rag-clad, horned, red-skinned, soot-covered leering creature is both the companion and the antithesis of rosy-cheeked and ebullient Kris Kringle. He is called by many names, and, in a myriad of cultures, he is seen with different robes and faces, but he is nevertheless always a sinister and fearsome instrument of Santa's wrath: he wields a switch on all irredeemably naughty children before tossing them into his large black sack and whisking them away.

Be good, or Krampus will toss you in a river! Sinister red musk, black leather, dusty rags, and wooden switches.


On the night of the Epiphany, a joyful, broomstick-riding hag clad in a tattered shawl drops into chimneys all over Italy, bestowing gifts to good children, and dropping coal into the stockings of naughty kiddies.

La Befana vien di notte
Con le scarpe tutte rotte
Col vestito alla Romana
Viva, Viva La Befana!

As the Three Wise Men searched for the house of the Christ child, they found themselves lost. Eventually, they stopped at a small house and knocked on the door. A small, wizened woman opened the door, holding a broom in her hand. The Astrologers asked the woman if she knew the location of the child, but, unfortunately, she did not know who these men were looking for, and could not aid them in their search. It was deep into the night, and the air was chilly, so the kindly woman offered the three men her hospitality. They spent the night in her warm, comfortable home, and shared bread and stories with one another. The Astrologers explained to the woman why they were looking for this blessed infant, and invited her to join them in their search come morning. Though she was touched by their tale, she declined, as she had a great deal of housework to do. At daybreak, the Astrologers awoke. They thanked the woman for her generosity, gathered their things, and prepared to leave. Before they departed, they, again, asked the old woman if she would like to join them on their journey. Again, she declined, and sent them on their way. After they had left, she regretted her decision, and she set off to find the Three Wise Men. After many long and frustrating hours of searching, she still could not find them. Saddened, yet still filled with hope, she stopped to give a gift to every good child she passed.

La Befana comes by night
With her shoes old and broken
She comes dressed in the Roman way
Long life to the Befana!

Candy charcoal, winter lilies, parma violet, a sprig of cypress, a poof of chimney dust, and holiday sweets.


II est amer et doux, pendant les nuits d'hiver,
D'écouter, près du feu qui palpite et qui fume,
Les souvenirs lointains lentement s'élever
Au bruit des carillons qui chantent dans la brume.

Bienheureuse la cloche au gosier vigoureux
Qui, malgré sa vieillesse, alerte et bien portante,
Jette fidèlement son cri religieux,
Ainsi qu'un vieux soldat qui veille sous la tente!

Moi, mon âme est fêlée, et lorsqu'en ses ennuis
Elle veut de ses chants peupler l'air froid des nuits,
II arrive souvent que sa voix affaiblie

Semble le râle épais d'un blessé qu'on oublie
Au bord d'un lac de sang, sous un grand tas de morts
Et qui meurt, sans bouger, dans d'immenses efforts.

- - -

Bitter and sweet it is on these long winter nights
To sit before the fire and watch the smoking log
Beat like a heart; and hear our lost, our mute delights
Call with the carillons that ring out in the fog.

What certitude, what health, sounds from that brazen throat,
In spite of age and rust, alert! O happy bell,
Sending into the dark your clear religious note,
Like an old soldier crying through the night, "All's well!"

I am not thus; my soul is cracked across by care;
Its voice, that once could clang upon this icy air,
Has lost the power, it seems, - comes faintly forth, instead,

As from the rattling throat of a hurt man who lies
Beside a lake of blood, under a heap of dead,
And cannot stir, and in prodigious struggling dies.

- Charles Baudelaire, translation by Edna St. Vincent Millay

A new interpretation, inspired by Millay's translation-
A soul, cracked across by care: blood and ruin, smoke and sorrow, incense and ice.


On Christmas Eve, French children leave shoes filled with carrots by their fireplaces as a treat for Gui, Père Noël's donkey. If the child has been good, Père Noël takes Gui's offering and fills the child's shoes with sweet fruits, candies, and small toys.

Bright Sicilian oranges and sweet tangerines with a clink of lavender candy and a drop of anise.


I will wash my hands among the innocent; and will compass thy altar, O Lord: That I may hear the voice of thy praise: and tell of all thy wondrous works. I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of thy house; and the place where thy glory dwelleth. Take not away my soul, O God, with the wicked: nor my life with bloody men: In whose hands are iniquities: their right hand is filled with gifts.

But as for me, I have walked in my innocence: redeem me, and have mercy on me. My foot hath stood in the direct way: in the churches I will bless thee, O Lord.

In Roman Catholic tradition, the Christmas season begins liturgically on Christmas Eve, though it is forbidden to celebrate the Christmas Mass before midnight. The most devout attend Midnight Mass, celebrating both the Eucharist and the drama of the Nativity.

This perfume is a traditional Roman Catholic sacramental incense, most often used during a Solemn Mass. Traditionally, five tears of this incense, each encased individually in wax that has been fashioned into the shape of a nail, are inserted into the paschal candle. This is, of course, represents the Five Wounds of Our Risen Savior. Symbolically, the burning of the incense signifies spiritual fervor, the fragrance itself inspires virtue, and the rising smoke carries our prayers to God.

Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium.

Et in unum Dominum Iesum Christum, Filium Dei unigenitum, et ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula. Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero, genitum non factum, consubstantialem Patri; per quem omnia facta sunt. Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de caelis. Et incarnatus est de Spiritu Sancto ex Maria Virgine, et homo factus est. Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est, et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas, et ascendit in caelum, sedet ad dexteram Patris. Et iterum venturus est cum gloria, iudicare vivos et mortuos, cuius regni non erit finis.

Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur: qui locutus est per prophetas. Et unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum, et vitam venturi saeculi. Amen.


Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.

Shorten those tedious nights with a surge of body heat: vanilla-infused red musk, champaca, petitgrain, ylang ylang, patchouli, nutmeg, honey, galbanum, and traces of caramel.


Annihilation. The ice, desolation and barrenness of nuclear devastation shot through by a beam of radioactive mints.


Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues,
Coucher auprès du ciel, comme les astrologues,
Et, voisin des clochers écouter en rêvant
Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.
Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,
Je verrai l'atelier qui chante et qui bavarde;
Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mâts de la cité,
Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d'éternité.

II est doux, à travers les brumes, de voir naître
L'étoile dans l'azur, la lampe à la fenêtre
Les fleuves de charbon monter au firmament
Et la lune verser son pâle enchantement.
Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes;
Et quand viendra l'hiver aux neiges monotones,
Je fermerai partout portières et volets
Pour bâtir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.
Alors je rêverai des horizons bleuâtres,
Des jardins, des jets d'eau pleurant dans les albâtres,
Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,
Et tout ce que l'Idylle a de plus enfantin.
L'Emeute, tempêtant vainement à ma vitre,
Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre;
Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté
D'évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté,
De tirer un soleil de mon coeur, et de faire
De mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère.

- - -

More chasteness to my eclogues it would give,
Sky-high, like old astrologers to live,
A neighbour of the belfries: and to hear
Their solemn hymns along the winds career.
High in my attic, chin in hand, I'd swing
And watch the workshops as they roar and sing,
The city's masts - each steeple, tower, and flue -
And skies that bring eternity to view.

Sweet, through the mist, to see illumed again
Stars through the azure, lamps behind the pane,
Rivers of carbon irrigate the sky,
And the pale moon pour magic from on high.
I'd watch three seasons passing by, and then
When winter came with dreary snows, I'd pen
Myself between closed shutters, bolts, and doors,
And build my fairy palaces indoors.

A dream of blue horizons I would garble
With thoughts of fountains weeping on to marble,
Of gardens, kisses, birds that ceaseless sing,
And all the Idyll holds of childhood's spring.
The riots, brawling past my window-pane,
From off my desk would not divert my brain.
Because I would be plunged in pleasure still,
Conjuring up the Springtime with my will,
And forcing sunshine from my heart to form,
Of burning thoughts, an atmosphere that's warm.
- Charles Baudelaire, translation by Roy Campbell

The pale moon pouring magic: Tunisian opium and mugwort with blackened bourbon vanilla, tuberose, glittering white musk, datura accord, wild plum, and tobacco absolute.


In dramatic contrast to the soft innocence of Snow White and the dew-kissed freshness of her sister, Rose Red, this is a blood red, voluptuous rose, velvet-petaled, at the height of bloom. Haughty and imperious, vain, yet incomparably lovely to the eye, but thick with thorns of jealousy, pride and hatred.


cold first winter rain
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven straw cape

Compassion: pink lotus root and fig milk with ylang ylang, bourbon vanilla, soft myrrh, fir, khus, and sandalwood incense.


The perfected winter rose, dew covered and freshly cut.


In Latvia, the Ziemassvetki, or Winter Party, is a celebration of the birth of Dievs, the Sky God and Supreme Ruler of the Latvian pantheon. The two weeks prior to the Ziemassvetki is Ve?u laiks: the Season of Ghosts. Candles are lit to honor the gods and a fire is kept burning throughout the Season, burning away the unhappiness of the previous year so men's spirits can be renewed. At the feast of the Ziemassvetki, places are left as a courtesy to the ghosts, who arrive by sleigh.

A scent created to burn away sorrow: bergamot, frankincense, rose geranium, ginger, lemongrass, and blood orange.


Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,
On the lake below, thy gentle eyes;
The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,
And dark and silent the water lies;
And out of that frozen mist the snow
In wavering flakes begins to flow;
Flake after flake
They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come
From the chambers beyond that misty veil;
Some hover awhile in air, and some
Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.
All, dropping swiftly or settling slow,
Meet, and are still in the depths below;
Flake after flake
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
Come floating downward in airy play,
Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd
That whiten by night the milky way;
There broader and burlier masses fall;
The sullen water buries them all-
Flake after flake-
All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray,
Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,
Come clinging along their unsteady way;
As friend with friend, or husband with wife,
Makes hand in hand the passage of life;
Each mated flake
Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste
Stream down the snows, till the air is white,
As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
They fling themselves from their shadowy height.
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,
What speed they make, with their grave so nigh;
Flake after flake,
To lie in the dark and silent lake!

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;
They turn to me in sorrowful thought;
Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear,
Who were for a time, and now are not;
Like these fair children of cloud and frost,
That glisten a moment and then are lost,
Flake after flake-
All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide;
A gleam of blue on the water lies;
And far away, on the mountain-side,
A sunbeam falls from the opening skies,
But the hurrying host that flew between
The cloud and the water, no more is seen;
Flake after flake,
At rest in the dark and silent lake.
  • William Cullen Bryant

Flake after flake - All lost in the dark and silent lake: a snowflake dissolving into an indigo pool of blue jasmine incense and violet leaf.


A chilly, bright perfume: flurries of virgin snow, crisp winter wind and the faintest breath of night-blooming flowers.







++ THE YULE LADS
Grýla and Leppalúði's malicious brood: once fearsome winter murder-bogies who skulked in the mountains until they were set loose on naughty Icelandic children at Yuletide; now transformed by the modern era into gnome-like mini-Santas with rosy cheeks and a wicked streak.

Segja vil ég sögu
af sveinunum þeim,
sem brugðu sér hér forðum
á bæina heim.

Þeir uppi á fjöllum sáust,
- eins og margur veit, -
í langri halarófu
á leið niður í sveit.

Grýla var þeirra móðir
og gaf þeim tröllamjólk,
en pabbinn Leppalúði,
- það var leiðindafólk.

Þeir jólasveinar nefndust,
- um jólin birtust þeir.
Og einn og einn þeir komu,
en aldrei tveir og tveir.

Þeir voru þrettán
þessir heiðursmenn,
sem ekki vildu ónáða
allir í senn.

Að dyrunum þeir læddust
og drógu lokuna úr.
Og einna helzt þeir leituðu
í eldhús og búr.

Lævísir á svipinn
þeir leyndust hér og þar,
til óknyttanna vísir,
ef enginn nærri var.

Og eins, þó einhver sæi,
var ekki hikað við
að hrekkja fólk - og trufla
þess heimilisfrið.

Stekkjastaur kom fyrstur,
stinnur eins og tré.
Hann laumaðist í fjárhúsin
og lék á bóndans fé.

Hann vildi sjúga ærnar,
- þá var þeim ekki um sel,
því greyið hafði staurfætur,
- það gekk nú ekki vel.

Giljagaur var annar,
með gráa hausinn sinn.
- Hann skreið ofan úr gili
og skauzt í fjósið inn.

Hann faldi sig í básunum
og froðunni stal,
meðan fjósakonan átti
við fjósamanninn tal.

Stúfur hét sá þriðji
stubburinn sá.
Hann krækti sér í pönnu,
þegar kostur var á.

Hann hljóp með hana í burtu
og hirti agnirnar,
sem brunnu stundum fastar
við barminn hér og þar.

Sá fjórði, Þvörusleikir,
var fjarskalega mjór.
Og ósköp varð hann glaður,
þegar eldabuskan fór.

Þá þaut hann eins og elding
og þvöruna greip,
og hélt með báðum höndum,
því hún var stundum sleip.

Sá fimmti, Pottaskefill,
var skrítið kuldastrá.
- Þegar börnin fengu skófir
hann barði dyrnar á.

Þau ruku' upp, til að gá að
hvort gestur væri á ferð.
Þá flýtti' ann sér að pottinum
og fékk sér góðan verð.

Sá sjötti, Askasleikir,
var alveg dæmalaus. -
Hann fram undan rúmunum
rak sinn ljóta haus.

Þegar fólkið setti askana
fyrir kött og hund,
hann slunginn var að ná þeim
og sleikja á ýmsa lund.

Sjöundi var Hurðaskellir,
- sá var nokkuð klúr,
ef fólkið vildi í rökkrinu
fá sér vænan dúr.

Hann var ekki sérlega
hnugginn yfir því,
þó harkalega marraði
hjörunum í.

Skyrjarmur, sá áttundi,
var skelfilegt naut.
Hann hlemminn o´n af sánum
með hnefanum braut.

Svo hámaði hann í sig
og yfir matnum gein,
unz stóð hann á blístri
og stundi og hrein.

Níundi var Bjúgnakrækir,
brögðóttur og snar.
Hann hentist upp í rjáfrin
og hnuplaði þar.

Á eldhúsbita sat hann
í sóti og reyk
og át þar hangið bjúga,
sem engan sveik.

Tíundi var Gluggagægir,
grályndur mann,
sem laumaðist á skjáinn
og leit inn um hann.

Ef eitthvað var þar inni
álitlegt að sjá,
hann oftast nær seinna
í það reyndi að ná.

Ellefti var Gáttaþefur,
- aldrei fékk sá kvef,
og hafði þó svo hlálegt
og heljarstórt nef.

Hann ilm af laufabrauði
upp á heiðar fann,
og léttur, eins og reykur,
á lyktina rann.

Ketkrókur, sá tólfti,
kunni á ýmsu lag. -
Hann þrammaði í sveitina
á Þorláksmessudag.

Hann krækti sér í tutlu,
þegar kostur var á.
En stundum reyndist stuttur
stauturinn hans þá.

Þrettándi var Kertasníkir,
- þá var tíðin köld,
ef ekki kom hann síðastur
á aðfangadagskvöld.

Hann elti litlu börnin
sem brostu, glöð og fín,
og trítluðu um bæinn
með tólgarkertin sín.

Á sjálfa jólanóttina,
- sagan hermir frá, -
á strák sínum þeir sátu
og störðu ljósin á.

Svo tíndust þeir í burtu,
- það tók þá frost og snjór.
Á þrettándanum síðasti
sveinstaulinn fór.

Fyrir löngu á fjöllunum
er fennt í þeirra slóð.
- En minningarnar breytast
í myndir og ljóð.
  • Jóhannes úr Kötlum

Indulge in your most mischievous, gluttonous urges! Whether you favor the bloodthirsty Yule Lads of old or their merry contemporary counterparts, you'll find just the right scent to inspire chaos and strife this winter season!

Favorite pastime: skulking under dining tables, waiting to abscond with unsupervised food bowls. Don't blame the dog!

Dregs of cinnamon and cocoa.


Favorite pastime: hiding in the rafters, ogling your smoked sausage. Eyes up here, mister!

Sweaty pear and honey with leather, coconut meat, tonka bean, and castoreum accord.


Favorite pastime: sniffing doorways. Everyone needs a hobby!

Baked bread, apricot, mandarin amber, and CO2 of butter.


Favorite pastime: creeping around gullies until the opportunity to steal milk appears. You do you, buddy.

Coconut cream, sheep's milk accord, and a drop of Ceylon cinnamon.


Favorite pastime: peeping in yer windows. What a creeper!

Spiced rum leather, frankincense, black cedar, sweet tobacco, and honey-gold sandalwood.


Favorite pastime: slamming doors. What a drama queen!

Booming carnation, iced mint, white fir, and itchy patchouli loudly disrupting a dreamy bed of lavender.


Favorite pastime: stealing candles from children. Such a scamp!

Beeswax, strawberries, and bits of hard candy.


Favorite pastime: collecting meat hooks, sharpening meat hooks, polishing meat hooks. Sleep with one eye open?

Labdanum, patchouli, dragon's blood resin, and clove.


Favorite pastime: indulging his yogurt fetish. Whatever floats your boat!

Berries, skyr, and oats.


Favorite pastime: harassing sheep. Nobody's perfect.

Wooly sugared marshmallow root.


Favorite pastime: stealing crusty bits from used frying pans. It takes all kinds.

Chunks of sweet carrots and dates mushed with nuts, topped with crumbles from a pie-like spelt and barley crust.


Favorite pastime: licking spoons and ladles. There's no accounting for taste.

The scent of well-worn wooden utensils, lightly fondled, and a wisp of kitchen herbs.


Favorite pastime: eating the scrapings from unwashed pots. Waste not, want not?

Salt licorice, birch tar, black pepper, and leather.



++ YULE SINGLE NOTES
Ah, the scents of the season! Mix and match to create the perfect perfume to accompany any awkward family gatherings!


++ SNOW FALLING FAINTLY
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and dead.

Snow afire with the morning's first rays of orange blossom, neroli, and rose gardenia.

Blinding white in the noonday sun: white mint, eucalyptus, glittering elemi, white tea, silver fir, and camphor.

Swirled grey and purple in the gloaming: snowdrifts shadowed with opium tar, wild plum, Siamese benzoin, champaca resinoid, muguet, and carnation.

Silence: frozen blackcurrant bud, myrrh, ciste absolute, frankincense, and oudh.

Please keep your eyes peeled for Black Phoenix Trading Post's Yule offerings!

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