“To Brigid” by Mary Eileen Grace

 

To Brigid

 

 

Holy Brigid, Bride, you lead me home today,

Queen of Love, showing me my own true heart.

 

Fire ever lit, flowing milk that does not cease

to fil the hungry poor and give captives sure release.

 

Your compassion calls me out to do my part—

gather, listen, share, forgive and pray.

 

These seem so little, merely straw and coal

to stave off winter’s howling winds

 

and certain death. Yet still I know

myself called to take the plunge below

 

and enter your well of Wisdom, facing sins

of generations past to find your blessing:

 

Woman, be made whole.

 

 

 

 

Credits: This poem is a revision of one that appeared in Seasoning the Soul: Meditations for the Celtic Year (Pilgrim Spirit Communications), (2012, 2018), a collection of writings by members of “Brigid’s Circle.”  Mary Eileen Grace is a pen name of Eileen Loeher Knoff of Redmond, Washington.

Image: Ladybug in garden by Mael Brigde.

Three Poems by Cynth AB Salas

 

Surely as the day comes

Surely as the day comes,

As the sun rises again and again,

Sure as its light shines on the land,

Is the great light of your forge's fire,

Is the great heat of it,

That tames with your tools.

Is the great light of your wisdom

And illumination given to poets,

Is the great healing given to all who come to you.

Great Brigid watch over us.

 

  

Brigid of the Forge

Brigid of the Forge,

Forge tending Her flame,

Flame kept by for healing,

Healing given time and time again.

Again, Great Brigid calls out the birth of Spring,

Spring following your Imbloc, Brigid,

Your feast day, your sacred day,

Day rich with poetry upon the land,

Land that knows your story, Brigid.

Brigid of the Forge, 

Forge that brings work,

Work tend Her flame,

Flame that heals,

Flame that warms,

Flame that holds light despite the darkest hours.

 

 

 

Bless you, Brigid, who acts in great miracles

Bless you, Brigid, who acts in great miracles,

Miracles that move obstacles,

That give what is needed,

Her cloak stretched across the green of the land,

Land on which to build, to work, to grow.

Who in mercy closed the womb,

Who in mercy fed the hound,

Who in mercy healed the man with leprosy,

Bless you, Brigid, who in mercy brings peace.

 

Image: “Street Dog” by Slyronit, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

“Brigid Prayer” by Erin Gahan Clark

 

Oh Brigid

Exalted One, Eternal Flame

Lady of the fire

Woman of the holy wells

Send your blessed water

This day and every day

To heal my wounded body

To soothe my aching heart

To cool the fires in my burning mind

Oh Brigid, Bride

Fiery Arrow, Radiant Flame

Woman of the holy wells

Lady of the fire 

Send your sacred fire

This night and every night

To burn away resistance

To kindle the flame of inspiration

To Illuminate the way

Oh Brigid, Brig

Exalted One, Quickening Flame

Lady of the fire

Woman of the holy wells

Cast your love around me

This moment and every moment

To grant me your protection

To fill my heart with joy

To bless my life, my thoughts, my words and my actions

This breath and every breath.

 

Image: Top photo of mounted icon of Saint Brigit by Sr. Aloysius McVeigh, R.S.M. It is on the wall just outside the door to a small personal sanctuary. Lower photo is of the icon itself. Please see this article on the icon at the Brigidine sisters of Australia website.

 

 

"A Prayer to Ignite the Three Cauldrons” by Laurel Ronan

 

A Prayer to Ignite the Three Cauldrons 

Brigid—Fiery Arrow, Foster Mother, Exalted One—I ask for the blessing of your Sacred Flame, the source to ignite my Three Cauldrons. 

Coire Goirath—Cauldron of Warming, Cauldron of the Forge, seed of creation, of the land and the spirits of place—may mine be lit with purpose. 

Coire Érmai—Cauldron of Motion, Cauldron of the Well, center of healing, of the waters and the ancestors—may mine be lit with heart-centeredness. 

Coire Sois—Cauldron of Knowledge, Cauldron of the Filí, fire of inspiration, of the heavens and the gods—may mine be lit with wisdom. 

I will greet this day in alignment with my purpose,

I will walk a path that is  heart-centered,

I will be open to the experiences that will grant me wisdom. 

With your Sacred Flame lighting my way, 

my heart, 

my head. 

Mar sin a bheidh. Go raibh míle maith agat, a Bhríde bhuaiteach. 

So it will be. Much thanks to you, victorious Brigid.

Image: “black steel pot on fire” Photo by Vadim Artyukhin on Unsplash. Edited in Photos by Mael Brigde.

"To Brighid of despair” by Jenne Micale

 

To Brighid of despair 

 

She is there for you, beloved, in the warmth

of fire, in the strong walls warding off the chill,

in the softness of bread against your lips.

It doesn’t matter if you believe, if

you can feel her hand against your back.

The candle drives back the shadow: belief

is not required, only wax and a spark.

You press palms against your eyes and look for signs

You press palms against your ears and listen

for a word and nothing trickles through the shell

that encases you, an accretion of grief.

You say there are no signs, there are no words

and nothing shining that can possibly

touch you, and those conversations you once

delighted in the false lake that appears

in the sand on parched days, that guiding hand

only the cruel illusion offered to

the lonely staggering in the desert

that only the senses can measure truth,

and the truth they measure only despair.

She knows this story, she remembers when

Ruadán lay crumpled at her feet, a spear

cast through, her head thrown back and a wailing

that cracked even the hardest stone. Eyes closed

and ears deafened to everything but the hole

gobbling the very dimensions of his

familiar shape, only a silence there

that swallowed every prayer. And so she knows

you can’t hear her now, feel her hand in your hair,

that your eyes cannot see the signs she sends:

yellow asters burning by the highway,

the dawn wind subtly humming your gold name.

So friend, don’t look for her there, not quite yet.

She is the fire and the furnace, the light

dancing in the bulb, the warmth of your flesh.

Start with light and heat: those others will come

for every swan must first peck through that shell

driven by the warmth of their mother’s long

sitting, every seed must first break

after weathering by winter and wind

until the light sparks that very first leaf

and once again you feel her rushing in

Image: "Despair 1" painting by Lette Valeska, 1954. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.