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.
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