“Who Tends Her Flame” by Mael Brigde

For the Daughters of the Flame, and all who tend Brigit's fire. Thanks to Gillian Daley for letting me use her image, and to the many Daughters who have entrusted me with your heartfelt communications over many years. My life is very different because of you.

Who Tends Her Flame

this one is old (so she tells us)

seldom ventures from her house

sees ice form on boughs

above the passing stream

marks the flight of owls

prays urgently for soldiers

for children

for the soul of a country

(she says) that damns itself

comes to her shift early

leaves late

this one dances in red

grinding lights

song flung across

a throbbing stage

guides her pen over

gaping pages

creamy coffee cold

in her forgotten cup

raises her eyes

to age-dimpled windows

tattoos the knots of Brigit

on her back

this one

toils in church offices

wrestles her child

through pain

addiction

dreams of mossy shrines

and rain-silk hills

she carries her mother

through stroke and cancer

trades stinging words

retreats into her yogic lair

to pray

jests when life tastes bitter

on her tongue

who tends her flame

women   children   men

who await the unexpected

who wish for more for self

for soul   for world

who linger a moment

longer than they must

who when rays of sunlight

strike slanting through shadow

see a bright eye watching

and fiery dancing feet

Image: Gillian's First Altar as a Daughter of the Flame - Gillian Daley (2003)

Poem: copyright Casey June Wolf (2011)

“Elemental Brighid” by Gail Nyoka

Elemental Brighid, I have heard your voice

and it is a deep, knowing vibration.

You are the keening on the wind, the sorrow of loss

You are the breath that breathes new light

new thoughts, new knowledge.

You are the beating of the wings of a swan,

the poet’s cloak of feathers.

You are the falling acorns of your sacred oak.

Elemental Brighid, I have felt your touch

and it is deep within the beating of my heart.

You are the green grass and the hollow hills,

the crags, the trilithons and the burial mound.

You are the speckled snake, prophetess of time;

You are the Three Worlds united

in the wide branches, towering trunk and

underground roots of your sacred ash.

Elemental Brighid, I have tasted both

bitterness and intoxication

in the flowing waters that are the gentle brook and

the rushing river.

For you are the five streams of my senses,

the flow of the ocean, the deep, clear pool.

You hold wisdom and healing, the blood of life.

You are the delicate bend of the willow.

Elemental Brighid, I have seen your true nature

and I know who you are.

You wear the multi-hued raiment of a changing flame.

You are the bright, strong desire of fire in the belly;

the burning creation of fire in the head;

the heat of the sun and the inner soul.

You are the words of the poet and the bard.

You are the lightning strike

on the living oak of the Druids.

©GailNyoka

2006

Image: Irish Oak, Oak Cottage This tree in the garden at Oak Cottage at Lisnarick is over 400 years old and the girth of the trunk is 5.5 metres. There are surrounding beech trees which may have been planted at the time of the plantation. By Kenneth Allen.

This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.

“Booleying Time” by Mael Brigde

Booleying Time

she rests beside

their crooked hillside shelter

her sister’s breath

past woven walls

whistles

softly in

softly out

darkness   mist

hooves heavy on soft earth

black shapes barely seen

mutter

now and then emit

low complaint

summer night is fresh

skin tingling

she sings

sings to you to keep them

well and safe

to lull her fears and keep her

well awake

no wolves tonight

cows grow fat on mountain flowers

hides sleeken

udders swell

and every day

butter for her to eat

far below

mother only now is resting

father close beside her

and brothers on the straw

soon

little horned ones

we will go down to meet them

Brigit be your shield

from deer-pits and raiding men

falls from sudden cliffs

hush my darlings

don’t worry

valley grass grows long

there’ll be no repast of holly twigs

and fallen leaves

for you back home

Booleying—summer pasturage in the hills to allow the valleys to recover their growth of grasses it takes place from Bealtaine to Samhain; cattle from several herds of connected landholders may be booleyed in common by younger people, usually in single gender groups.

Osier—willow used in basketry and as wattles.

Image: This work has been released into the public domain by its author, Youngbohemian. This applies worldwide.

Poem: Copyright Casey June Wolf (2015).

“Invocation” by Ruth Bidgood

Invocation

by Ruth Bidgood

We call her now to walk on the riverbank,

Brigid of Ireland, Ffraed of Wales, the Saint, the golden one,

who breaks the ice, dipping first one hand, then two hands,

freeing the river to flow into time of seed,

time of ripening, time of harvest.

We greet her from her churches and her wells,

from the cold sea-coast and the doorsteps of hill farms,

with the immemorial cry,

‘Ffraed is come! Ffraed is welcome!’

We call you, saint of fire,

Protectress of the peat-stack,

meet us where we kneel on the hearth.

Give kind warmth of fire

to us and our kin,

like the outstretched hands of a mother

taking our hands,

like her arms sheltering us.

Be in the midst of the house,

be the mothering fire

in the midst of the house.

from The Threshold of Light: Prayers & Praises from the Celtic Tradition, ed. by A.M. Allchin & Esther de Waal (1986).

“Hostel” by Mael Brigde

Hostel

your hostel

its entrance in the countryside

its contents beyond this world

vast cauldron furnishes

every sumptuous feast

wild garlic  leek

joints of tender calf

salt butter dissolves

in simmering oats

pluck of harp and lyre

mesmerizing voice

games by hearthfire’s glow

enrich the hours of night

a happy ageless comely place

where travellers rest

on wooden couch

and fine wool cloak

no sudden transformations

on their return without

young men turned to dust

as ages skirr

Brigit smiles on all her guests

hears their many tales

comforts them

and guides them on their way

Copyright: Casey June Wolf (2015)

Image:  Maedoc book-cover, Ireland, circa 1000 AD. The earliest unambiguous depiction of an Irish harp. Attribution: Sea horn at the English language Wikipedia [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons

"Possibility" by Mael Brigde

  

Possibility

much that seems impossible

unfolds with ease for Brigit

five cured cuts of meat

she feeds to a starving stray

yet the five remain

for the chieftain and his guests

on a smoke-black wall

a harp hangs heavy with dust

springs to life in novice hands

at her request

dead wood of an altar greens

thin shoots press forth

new leaves uncurl

with the chance brush of her palm

there is much I extend no hand to

knowing I would fail

but she is here

I reach out with nervous finger

place weight on doubting feet

copyright Casey June Wolf 29 June 2011

Image: "Homeless Dog Walks the Streets" Rennett Stowe CC BY 2.0 (httpcreativecommons.orglicensesby2.0)

“My Life as a Bird” by Mael Brigde

My Life as a Bird

when at end of life

my spirit is freed and takes wing

I will fly to you

a small wren   a dunnock perhaps

dun brown and barely seen in life

dun brown and barely seen in death

joyful   fruitful

feeding in the shelter of your great tree

polishing my bill against its bark

your work

shall be my enlightenment

I will light upon your palm

gaze in simple trust

into your labyrinthine eyes

Image: Dunnock by Jacob Spinks from Northamptonshire, England (2012). This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

“The Mystery of Brigit” by Hilaire Wood

The Mystery of Brigit
Irish goddess of poetry, healing and smithcraft

You walked out of ancient mists
bringing light to my path,
blessing with fire
restoring the life with the flame.

Clothed in your grace
I follow your footsteps
to the place where mysteries merge
and the shapes behind myth
are revealed as truth.

Your presence soothes 
and sharpens memory,
you are my maker of song,
the radiant flame of gold
that illuminates the land
beyond the ninth wave,
that forges a sword of light
to penetrate, to heal.

Kneeling at your well
I drink of your mystery.
the waters of the sun
flood my skull with sacred fire,
flowing with light
my spirit sings of the deep.

© Hilaire Wood 

Image: IrishFlyFisher [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Charm for Difficulty in Breathing (Traditional)

“A person who had difficulty breathing might be relieved by ortha an tachtaidh:

“‘Seven of the prayers of the Son of God. And seven of the prayers of the two holy women and the angel. And the creed in honour of holy Brighid. O Brighid, come to the help of this poor person!’

“At these last words the person saying the charm breathed into the mouth of the sufferer and then said seven Paters, seven Aves and the Credo.”

                                         from Irish Country People 

                                           by Kevin Danaher, 1966.

Text with the image:

"Albatross--The water greeted me with a roar and a dash that flung me gasping back upon the sand." [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Image:

Bullen, Frank T. (1904) Denizens of the Deep, New York City: Fleming H. Revell Company. 

“Home Blessing” by Mael Brigde

Home Blessing

may your smoke-hole

be blackened

your house-post straight

your cattle strong-legged

            and sure

Image: Kenneth Allen [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons. Interior, Seán Mac Diarmada's House... Although it was a cold day, there was a cheerful warm fire from the hearth. The master thatcher was forming scolbs (pins) or spars to hold the thatch together on the roof. (12 January 2009)

Poem: Copyright Casey June Wolf (2016).

“Sleepy Sovereign” by Mael Brigde

Sleepy Sovereign

streams like clean blood run

when you roll in sleep

stones settle back on silty beds

strands of glistening bubbles

scurry from your healing mouth

when you awake in spring

serpent peeps from her mound

birds gather in readiness

sun opens a groggy eye

before the first green shoot of spring

copyright Mael Brigde 2016

Image: Blackstones Bridge by Graham Horn. The River Caragh is quite turbulent at this point, even in its low state. (17 April 2008) From geograph.org.uk. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.

“Brigid of the Morning” by Rowan Fairgrove

Brigid of the Morning

I am the poet and the poem

The inspiration in the night

I stand beside the Tarb Feiss

And whisper wisdom low and true

I am the shining sun of morning

A fire that burns inside the head

My gifts are knowledge and transformation

I pound and quench and draw Out souls upon the forge of time

The flowing waters of my well Soothe womb and soul alike

At childbed I am the midwife who brings new souls to birth

For mine is the gift of life.

Those who seek me will find nourishment

I am the brewer of new ale

I am the baker of the grain

All acts of transformation will I aid

The seed becomes the shoot The shoot grows as

its nature dictates Thus has it always been and

always shall be I am the vitality of fire that

dwells within.

copyright 1998 Rowan Fairgrove. All Rights Reserved.

this can also be found at http://www.conjure.com/brigmorn.html

Image "Brighid Peace" by Rowan Fairgrove.

The Falcon

From the Ormesby Psalter

The Falcon

so temperate

this faithful falcon

perched on your round and holy tower

chastely rebuffed all amorous advances

till the proper season when

in accordance with its nature

it made its way

to the mountains of Glendalough

far from the eyes and longings

of celibate monks and nuns

the falcon raised its family and returned

mate forsaken

to your tower once again

there it throve for centuries

venerated by townspeople

preying on perching bird and dabbling duck

loyal to you in some strange kind

long after you preceded it

from this earth

Based on the story of Brigit’s falcon told by the 12^th century writer, Geraldus Cambrensis.

 copyright Casey June Wolf (2011).

"By Brigit’s Day"

By Brigit’s Day

milk retreats to the cow’s horns

from Christmas to Imbolc—

with your return

the cow gives milk again

wild birds mate

jackdaw and grey crow

the hen’s egg   brooded

hatches safe and strong

nothing in water

or on the ground

is not thinking of propagation

the farmer knows it

if he has not written his name

on the land by Brigit’s day—

his work is late

Copyright Casey June Wolf (2013)

Source: The Festival of Brigit, Séamas Ó Catháin (1995)

“Brigit”: a Poem by Susan Connolly

 Irish Foxes by Ken Billington 

Brigit

Susan Connolly

1.

Run, little fox,

past hermit cell

and derelict castle,

past river and monastery

and quaint rose cottage.

Through oak wooded

centuries

weaving your way—

run swiftly now

in the open air.

Brigit called a wild fox

out of the forest.

That fox was you!

You played for a while

and went safe

through the forest,

the king on his horse

after you.

Brigit hung her wet robe

to dry on a ray of sun.

If they touched

her shadow

the sick were healed.

'Every stranger is Christ,'

she said, and gave

to everyone.

People came to visit her.

A playful fox drew near.

She believed in mercy.

In the doorway of her

mother's house at sunrise

Brigit was born.

A fox howled

the day she died.

2.

Brigit—

we name our daughters

after you,

Brigit, Breege, Breda.

After our mothers, sisters

friends

we call our daughters

Bri'd, Bridie, Biddy.

Daylight will be cold

if your name fades

from our lips,

like a fire gone out

forever.

At the edge of Cuan wood

the fox goes,

no king of Leinster with him now,

though the same land

stretches away.

Brigit—

bright stillness in the sky

while I live stormily

below—

bright spark within

Brigit buadach

Beth ad heo. *

*Victorious Brigit,

The living one of life.

 The Poetry Ireland Review, No. 57 (Summer,1998),

pp. 53-54

For more information about Susan Connolly,click here.