An Offer to Brigid: for Imbolg
Goddess of this festival,
for whom a constant flame is tended,
daughter of the Dagda, seen aslant
by the Morrigan in the pocked
copper of His cauldron,
we need a word about
what’s meant by ‘birth.’
We have been reborn so many times,
laboured through so many phases,
and still this void, inside whose hearth
flames crackle, spit and hiss,
inviting family only so close.
Felt dandelions bud inside us, but none
has grown. How to navigate this?
What is meant by terms such as ‘to term’
and who may use them? Is it the compass
and radar of the seed which carries it
or the power of the wind around her?
Is it the meat-hands of Market Street
which bring children streaming into Spring
or the long light-gone gestation of Winter?
If you would turn your face
from the table, anvil, furnace, all
the various tools you’re forging –
blowing, bending, sending sparks
up into the workshop air –
and answer us, we would prepare
offerings from the bellies of our pantries:
honey, herbs, corn bread, dollies.
We have carried and come to terms.
Your misty-eyed, mystified daughters,
some of us misidentified as sons.
Name the way you wish us
in our barrenness to engage with you,
knowing not just any medium will do.
In the name of circling pool and flame,
and the bright bodies who birthed you.
Note: Madelyn Burnhope is devoted to Brigid, as well as the Dagda and the Morrigan, who revealed herself to her as Brigid’s mother, a UPG (unverified personal gnosis) referenced in this poem.
Image: Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash