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.