??Here's a piece I wrote about my favorite old holiday!
???Imbolc???
On February first
I step through the back door
into the breath of winter
and tie my favorite scarf
around the old oak
keeper of memory
witness to return
I leave it there
as an offering
My spirit is bright and light
gratitude falling behind me
like sun-glint
on snow and ice
I go back inside
to hearth and rhythm
evening
routine
baby
family
full
The magic is not waiting
It is already here
flickering in the in-between
in moments that pass too quickly
to name
At dawn
I return for the scarf
Hope shines in my eyes
The old ways murmur
the ewes are stirring
the dark is loosening its grip
Brigid walks the land again
laying her fire
beneath the frost
Hold fast
The light is lengthening
Rest, rest, rest
while the ground still sleeps
Blessed be this turning of the year
may fire and water
heart and hearth
guide me gently
into the rising light
Brigid
You creep onto the land with consent
with tales of how the winters torment
Leaving you empty and cold and so unsure.
You begin to spread the seeds of joy so pure daffodils push up through the soil to show,
their green stems and hopes of spring.
all the new Buds out to grow.
You swirl and fill the land with light and, once again your love will bring.
At your festival we will dance and sing
Words bring pictures and memories,
as hope is strong and love is pure.
So buckle up, the ride of life began once more.
We hail the elements as we pray,
We use the awen to convey
Yes our light has begun to rise again.
Between the trinity and the Divine of zen
Let the wind of your new seeds grow
What's ours is what we always sow
Blessings of the Imbolc light
Four children had to tell mama and papa goodbye.
It was World War I. Would they ever see them again?
No one spoke of this, not wanting to alarm the little ones.
Janice was told to take care of her siblings if possible.
It was impossible. They were separated along the way
Brigid age three was chosen at their first stop.
The rest of the family stared at scenery rapidly passing by.
Wondering if the bombs in London had killed their parents.
Layla's face is a map of Ireland grandma McCormick says
or Scotland Shawn McDougall adds hopefully
Look at those freckles, they are irish insists Brigid
You can tell the difference between irish and Scottish freckles?
Layla’s groom does not care about her heritage
Or her genes or teeth or her parents or anything else
He is looking at her the way most of us look at a chocolate cake
She is a gorgeous Celtic bride, and he is mesmerized.
Seeing her all over again for the first time on their wedding day.
Not caring whether she hails from Scotland or Timbuktu.
They make a most handsome couple.
Their bairns will be lovely
Also most probably have a hint of fey.
Brigid’s family has lost their house
she is six and does not understand
it is right there, where it always was
how could they have lost it?
they do not get to take anything
they are locked out
her toys and stuffed animals are inside
She is confused and sad
She is told not to tell any family business
This will be easy
She does not know what family business is
She tells everyone about her dolls
And being locked out
Brigid knows her mother takes medicine
and that her brother died before she was born
she knows that her father never wanted her
and her mother tried to abort her
Brigid is having difficulty making friends at her new school
her grandmother blames her for it
she says “you should not have told so much family business”
Brigid still does not know what it is
but grandma is so angry, she is afraid to ask
I found you on St Brigid's Day,
Your brave little heads had pushed through
To feel the cold crisp February air.
Standing tall and strong, determined.
White blossoms dancing,
Celebrating that Spring was here,
Your perfect petals dancing in the wind,
Bringing hope to my day.
Like Brigid, you took away all my despair.
Brigid made a promise
One February day
Spring's coming soon,
I heard her say
Her lush scent,
Longed for, remembered
Came wafting through
First time since September
Salt air, wet dirt
Oh with spring
Did winter flirt!
Still hallowed is the well, and so they pray,
offer: prayer cards, candles, and bitty photos
of children to come and those now unmade,
each woman rife with grief in longing’s throes.
The sound of stream shakes beneath their feet
in the grotto chiseled from native stone.
Niches, shelves and ledges teem, replete,
with mementos of maid, mother and crone.
Pain crusts on: salted wounds, walls and gelid moss
where teddies and barrettes dangle on bows.
Those lost appeal to Brigid, through her cross
in summer, fall, and through the winter’s snows.
A woman’s grief seeks relief at sacred stream
here all who mother come to pray and dream.
First Published in Eunoia August 19, 2015
When Mother Earth, Anu was young
the gods gifted her sisters;
Fair Brigid with the fiery hair,
blonde Boann of the waters.
Their bodies lay upon the globe
intertwined in rainbows
Brown skinned mountains, fiery skies,
and blonde washed dawns to rouse.
Adore the feminine in all her forms,
or mountains rise and snowslides are born.
Adore the feminine in all her forms.
Most favored by the Northern gods
was Brigid's aurora
How the endless night was blessed
so they all adored her.
The jealous day of blonde Boann
shook, from pale limb to limb,
and water rose to wake Anu
who writhed in earthen skin.
Adore the feminine in all her forms,
or mountains rise and snowslides are born.
Adore the feminine in all her forms.
The Northern lands of ice and snow
so brightened by Brigid
saw brittle glaciers break and fall
avalanches begin.
So to this day all North men pray
to the goddesses three
Earthen Anu, fiery Brigid
and Boann's watery lea.
Adore the feminine in all her forms,
or mountains rise and snowslides are born.
Adore the feminine in all her forms.
Mystical harp's music
Glides passionately
Across the green, rocky land
Near Tara's halls where
Mysteries of the past
Are felt like ghosts
Hovering and protecting the land
Of St. Patrick and St. Brigid.
With nimble imploring
Of a tale found quite pretentious,
I found:
My sisters, my comrades,
Obtained skills some found offensive.
They roamed the hills of Scotland,
Burdened with hope enough for nations,
And every time our Mother cried,
Witnessed imprudent brutalization.
Through lands both waste and riches,
Continued on:
A solemn pilgrimage;
Armed with only incantations,
And herbs:
A witch's privilege.
Morrigan has told my spirit
What Brigid tried to say,
Men without us are monsters,
But their minds are such as clay.
That is why we carry on
Our nomadic occupation,
Driven from villages as The Dragon dies,
Though what we bring's salvation.
I've seen my sisters burn on poles,
Through lights: Theatre Magic,
Everyone was awed indeed,
My sisters' fates were tragic.
So to ensure insure
'Twas not in vain,
I set forth in expedition,
To find the valley between the hills,
That my sisters' lore has mentioned.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.