"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

"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

“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.”

"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.

"A Bhríd (To Brigid)" by Alan Wells

A Bhríd (To Brigid) 

by Alan Wells

I bind unto myself today Brigid’s girdle of protection from illness 

I surround myself in Brigid’s cloak of protection and healing 

I carry before me Brigid’s cross of protection from fire, hunger and all harm

May I be a reservoir of Brigid’s compassion for all beings 

May I have the stability of Brigid in recognising the oneness of all 

May I have the strength of Brigid’s love for the traumatised 

May I have the openness of Brigid’s heart for the displaced 

May I know the beauty of Brigid’s peace of the eternal soul 

May I know the depth of Brigid’s connection to all of nature 

May I know the glorious perfection of Brigid’s unity with the divine 

May I know the power of Brigid’s holding of the sacredness of all things Through the belief in the Threeness of Brigid, the exalted one; 

The Brigid of Healing, the Brigid of Poetry and the Brigid of Smithcraft 

The Brigid of Justice, the Brigid of hospitality and the Brigid of the cowless

Through the faith in the Oneness of all creation 

I bind unto myself today Brigid’s girdle of protection from illness 

I surround myself in Brigid’s cloak of protection and healing 

I carry before me Brigid’s cross of protection from fire, hunger and all harm

Gurab amhlaidh é trí Bríd 

That it is so through Brigid 

A new interspiritual prayer for Brigid’s protection and healing, from "Brigid: An Interspiritual Icon for the Pandemic and Beyond - an Exploratory Study,” pg. 63. (Written in the Irish monastic tradition of the Lorica by Alan Wells.)

Lorica meaning breast-plate or body armour of protection from the Latin. One of the most famous Lorica prayers is known as St. Patrick’s breast-plate. It is also known as The Deer’s Cry and also Féth Fíada which is a term usually given to mean magic veil/mist said to have been used by the Tuath Dé to allow themselves to be beyond human sight. According to Morgan Daimler it is said of the oldest part of St. Patrick’s Lorica “this section is thought to date back, possibly, into the pagan period and to reference the magical ability to pass invisibly which was a skill of the Aos Sidhe and Tuatha De Dannan.” See Morgan Daimler, Through the Mist: A Dual Language Irish Mythology Book (Independently published, 2021), 193.

Image: "Girl in a black robe with talisman” by petr sidorov on Unsplash