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



20 February 2026

"Hail Brigit - Slán seiss a Brigit co mbúaid” - Book of Leinster

 


TRANSLATION (ORIGINAL BELOW):

Sit thou safely enthroned, triumphant Brigit, upon the side of Liffey far as the strand of the ebbing sea!

Thou art the sovereign lady with banded hosts that presides over the Children of Catháir the Great.

God's counsel at every time concerning Virgin Erin is greater than can be told: though glittering Liffey is thine today, it has been the land of others in their turn.

When from its side I gaze upon the fair Curragh....The lot that has fallen to every king causes awe at each wreck.

Logaire was king as far as the sea,--Ailill Áne, a mighty fate: the Curragh with its glitter remains--none of the kings remains that lived thereon.

Perfect Labraid Longsech lives no more, having trodden under foot his fair thirty years: since in Dinn Rig--`twas a wonted abode--he dealt doom to Cobthach the Slender.

Lore's grandson, Oengus of Róiriu, seized the rule of Erin,....sway; Maistiu of the freckled neck, son of Mug Airt, through princes across their graves.

Fair-famed Alenn! Delightful knowledge! Many a prince is under its girth: it is greater than can be fathomed when Crimthan the Victorious was seen in its bosom.

The shout of triumph heard there after each victory around a shock of swords, a mettlesome mass; the strength of its warrior-bands against the dark blue battle-array; the sound of its horns above hundreds of heads.

The tuneful ring of its even-colored bent anvils, the sound of songs heard there from the tongues of bards; the ardour of its men at the glorious contest; the beauty of its women at the stately gathering.

Drinking of mead there in every home-stead; its noble steeds, many tribes; the jingle of chains unto kings of men under blades of five-edged bloody spears.

The sweet strains heard there at every hour, its wine-barque upon the purple flood; its shower of silver of great splendor; its torques of gold from the lands of the Gaul.

Far as the sea of Britain the high renown of each king has sped like a meteor: delightful Alenn with its might has made sport of every law.

Bresal Bree was king over Elg, Fiachra Fobree with a fierce band of warriors; Ferus of the Sea, Finn son of Roth they loved to dwell in lofty Alenn.

Worship of auguries is not worth listening to, nor of spells and auspices that betoken death; all is vain when it is probed, since Alenn is a deserted doom.

Brigit is the smile that smiles on you from the plain...of Core's land; of each generation which it reared in turn Liffey of Lore has made ashes.

The Currah of Liffey to the brink of the main, the Curragh of Sétna, a land of peace as far as the sea,--many is the king whom the Curragh of Carbre Nia-fer has overthrown.

Catháir the Great-- he was the choicest of shapes --ruled Erin of many hues: though you cry upon him at his rath, his prowess of many weapons has vanished.

Fiachna of Fomuin, glorious Bresal ruled the sea with showers of spears: thirty great kings to the edge of the sea seized land around Tara of Bregia.

The Peaks of Iuchna, delightful place, around which many graves have settled behold in lofty Allen the abode of Tadg, son of Nuada Necht!

The apparel of Feradach--a goodly diadem--around whom crested bands would move; his blue-speckled helmet, his shining mantle,--many a king he overthrew.

Dunlang of Fornochta, he was generous, a prince who routed battles against the sons of Niall: though one were to tell the tale to all, this is not the world that was once.

Illann with his tribe launched thirty battles against every king, Enna's grandson, a rock against terror, it was not a host without a king's rule.

Ailill was a king that would bestow favour, against whom a fierce blood-dark battle-host would rise: Cormac, Carbre, Colman the Great, Brandub, a barque in which were hosts.

Faelan the Fair was a track of princeship, Fianamail with....; Braiin, son of Conall with many deeds, he was the wave over every cliff.

Oh Brigit whose land I behold, on which each one in turn has moved about, thy fame has outshone the fame of the king--thou art over them all.

Thou hast everlasting rule with the king apart from the land wherein is thy cemetery. Grand-child of Bresal son of Dian, sit thou safely enthroned, triumphant Brigit!


SOURCES:
The Book of Leinster. l.7148-25.

"Hail Brigit": an Old-Irish poem on the Hill of Alenn. ed. and trans. Kuno Meyer. Halle a.S., M. Niemeyer, 1912.

Captured from Celtic Literature Collective.



ORIGINAL:

Slán seiss, a Brigit co mbúaid, for grúaid Lifi lir co tráig; is tú banfhlaith buidnib slúaig fil for clannaib Cathaír Máir.

Ba móu epirt i cach ré airle Dé fri hÉrinn úaig; in-diu cid latt Life líg ropo thír cáich ala n-úair...

Ba rí Loegaire co ler, Ailill Áne, adbol cor; mairid Currech cona lí ní mair nach rí ro boí for....

Ailend aurdairc, álaind fiss, ill mór flaithe fo a cniuss; ba móu foscnad tan ad-chess Crimthan Cosrach ina criuss.

Gáir a ilaig iar cach mbúaid im chúail claideb, comtaig drend; bríg a fían fri indna gorm, gloim a corn for cétaib cend.

Glés a hindéon cotad cúar, clúas a dúan di thengthaib bard, bruth a fer fri comlann nglan, cruth a ban fri hoenach n-ard.

A ól meda for cach mbruig, a graig ailmar, ilar túath, a seinm rond di rigaib fer fo duilnib sleg cóicrind crúach.

A céoil binni i cach thráth, a fínbarc for tonngur flann, a fross argait ordain móir, a tuirc óir a tírib Gall.

Adrad lítha ní flu clúas, solud ná sén síabras bás; is bréc uile iarna thúr indid Alend is dún fás.

Foglas a ngen tibes duitt a maig réid túaith Críchaib Cuirc, di cach lín ron alt a úair do-rigni lúaith Life Luirc.

Currech Lifi lir co hor, Currech Sétnai, síth co ler, is mór rig fris—rala cor Currech Corpri Niód Fer....

A Brigit 'sa tír ad-chíu, is cách a úair immud—rá, ro gab do chlú for a chlú ind ríg, is tú forda-tá.

Táthut bithfhlaith lasin Ríg cen a tír i fil do rúaim; a ué Bresail maic Déin, slán seiss, a Brigit co mbúaid.


Image: "Ballyward Brook confluence with the Liffey” by jwd. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.

31 January 2026

"Imbolc Eve” by Gail Nyoka

 


Imbolc Eve

 

It is not by chance

She comes,

leaving the imprint of her foot

in the ashes of your hearth,

reminding you that

the fire is not truly dead.

 

When you are ready

it will burst into 

visionary flame.

 

Therefore, leave milk

and cheese

at your doorstep – 

a taste of your devotion

to belief in the birth

following glistening frost

waiting for the sun.

 

Therefore, hang out

your strips of linen.

 

She will come

sprinkling her blessings

with the morning dew.

 


 Image: “Ashes; Your Turn!” by Taifur Azam, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

26 January 2026

"A Petition for Imbolc” by Mael Brigde



A Petition for Imbolc


We go on our knees and welcome you in

Brigit, noble woman

open hearts and eyes to you

threefold goddess

saint of many truths


Preserve us through storms and challenges

through division, disruption, and nightmare

Shield us from fire, from flood, from drought

from doubt and anger and fear

Put nothing in our paths that will bring us to ruin


Never let us drown in the sorrow of life

dear Brigit

Keep us safe

in every moment of our hardship and disease

the unavoidable trials of living things

Keep us safe

that we may find healing even in dying

May the health of our souls and bodies

be protected from despair

May we retain sovereignty over ourselves

free within the mutual obligation

of a people bent on caring for itself


Help us to be the people we envision together, goddess

filled with your inspiration, compassion, and fire for what is right

We lay before you a great meal tonight  Brigit

potatoes and kale 

oat cakes and ale

and we draw back our chairs to eat with you

our noble goddess, our blessed saint

our comrade, our helper, our guide






Image: "Figure Kneeling in Prayer” by Marius Abel (1856). Shepherd Gallery, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons


Note: Inspired by, but not a reworking of, "Blessing of Brigit” from Carmina Gadelica Volume III


20 January 2026

“Brigid — The Returning Light…” by Tara Shannon

Brigid comes in the early light,

her hands warm with the promise of flame,
her breath the scent of hearth and fields.
She enters with the dawn,
soft as the whisper of embers,
steady as the forge in midwinter.
You do not fear her.
She is gentle,
with the eyes of a healer
and the touch of spring.
But beneath the quiet lies a fire,
and she has come to tend it.
She sits at your table,
where the bread has grown stale
and the kettle has long gone cold.
"I have nothing to give you,"
you murmur,
offering the last of what you have.
But Brigid does not need what you can offer.
She has brought her own gifts—
the spark of inspiration,
the healing balm for old wounds,
the poetry hidden in the bones of the earth.
She places her hands on your heart,
and you feel it—
the weight of iron,
the pulse of the forge.
In her touch is a memory
of things you thought you had lost—
the song of rivers,
the scent of wildflowers,
the flame that once danced
behind your eyes.
Your dog lies at her feet,
calm as if he has always known her,
and outside, the first light breaks the horizon.
You cough,
and a flame flickers in your throat.
Brigid smiles,
and you feel the heat rise in your chest,
a warmth you had forgotten.
"Why do you hide your fire?" she asks,
and you say,
"I was afraid to burn."
But Brigid knows—
you were born to blaze,
to carry the light
through the darkest nights,
to be the flame that warms,
the forge that shapes.
She lifts a handful of ashes
from the hearth,
and with a breath,
they become stars.
In her presence,
the room shifts—
the walls glow with the memory of creation,
the floors hum with the pulse of life.
Outside, the land begins to stir.
The fields stretch wide,
and the old stones ring with song.
In the distance,
the old gods, kings and queens, and warriors rise from their graves,
their armour gleaming in the light of her flame.
You rise with them,
the heat of the forge in your veins,
the spark of poetry on your lips.
Brigid nods,
and with a flicker of her hand,
the embers ignite once more.
She will not stay.
She never does.
But her flame remains—
burning in the hearth,
lighting the way.
And when she leaves,
the fullness of dawn will follow,
golden and bright,
bringing the promise of new beginnings.
You stand in the doorway,
watching as she walks into the light,
and for the first time in a long while,
you feel the warmth of the sun on your face.



©️Tara Shannon
***Inspired by Tom Hirons, Sometimes a Wild God

Image: “Photo taken by me (Tara Shannon) of the sunrise reflecting through a lantern hanging just outside my front door.”

20 December 2025

"A Prayer to St Bridget" by Sarah Clancy


A Prayer to St Bridget

by Sarah Clancy


A prayer is to Saint Brigit in her most Pagan incarnation 

Bridget let us keep our eyes and poke theirs out 

We need another word than justice 

for these contests where everyone we care about almost always loses

We need new phrases for the way our bodies are perceived as traps

for men to unsuspectingly get caught in

and for how we are made to comply with this

We need other words than conviction and witness

for the surrender and regrant submission 

that even successful prosecutions entail for the victims 

We need to summons a diatribe so savage that it sounds like our maternal ancestors 

howling at us enraged with our obediences 

We need to let them shame us into resistance

whenever we denied jurisdiction over our own interiors 

our own existences 

Yes we need sentences but more than that 

we need a whole new language for the damage that happens 

when some overseer or other gets to tell us 

what the severed parts of our anatomy were worth 

what price an unnecessary hysterectomy 

a broken pelvis 

or a decade of forced labour in a laundry 

and who gets to be the judge of this 

We might need new mouths to make it known that we won't stand for it 

but so be it

it'll take a litany of curses harsh and vicious enough 

to make the judge and jury of public opinion actually listen 

We need to expose the concealed weapon of our intelligence and not apologise for it

no matter how uncomfortable this makes things 

We need to put those power brokers on notice that if they call our protest hysterical 

we'll catch them by their gullets 

We need to make it known that the days of us putting our own eyes out are over 

and that as and when it's necessary we'll fix our sites on each and every stuffed shirt 

who attempts to discuss the mitigating circumstances which mean 

it was okay to hurt us 

We need a daylight court that we can enter into whole and leave intact 

and we need words for this

Women we've lost our tongues in battle and we need to take them back



Image: Screenshot of Sarah Clancy’s video of this poem, showing a scene from St Brigid’s Well at Liscannor, with a bowing head of St Mary (white statue with rosaries around her neck) in front of a print of Jesus on the wall.