Writing Brigit


Writing Brigit

Many years ago I wrote my first Brigit prayer. Poem. Blessing... I have been writing them ever since, but seldom publish them. Some are carefully researched and crafted, some are simple and straight from the heart. (Belated update: I did eventually publish a book called A Brigit of Ireland Devotional - Sun Among Stars. It contains many of my Brigit poems and prayers, essays, and resources.)

The prayers and blessings of my sisters in the Daughters of the Flame and other Brigit-loving women and men, living and long-dead, fill me with surprise and delight, as well.

I would like to share some of these writings with you.

Following is the one that signs off each of my emails, a reminder to guide my words and intentions with care when I write to anyone. It's as good a place to start as any.


Flame Offering

In the name of the three Brigits

I light the candle of my heart

May I offer it to everyone

gentle and steady

warm and bright



15 December 2016

“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)

13 November 2016

“Elemental Brighid” by Gail Nyoka


File:Irish Oak, Oak Cottage - geograph.org.uk - 423332.jpg

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.



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.

31 October 2016

“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).

16 September 2016

“Invocation” by Ruth Bidgood




Invocation

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).

15 September 2016

“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

20 August 2016

"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)



05 July 2016

“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.

06 June 2016

“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.

12 May 2016

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. 


10 May 2016

“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).

16 April 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


ImageBlackstones 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.

11 March 2016

“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.


21 February 2016

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 12th century writer, Geraldus Cambrensis.

 copyright Casey June Wolf (2011).

30 January 2016

"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)

11 January 2016

“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.





For more information about Susan Connolly,click here.