“The Curragh Wrens” by Mael Brigde

The Curragh Wrens     [1]

heroic Fionn MacCumhail

dust now in the sidhe

Brigit’s abbey

crumbled musty ruin

who dwells on the proud Curragh?

pennants fly   bugles sound   gleaming bayonets

barded mounts rumble cross the plain

host of a foreign Queen

outside the troops’

untarnished bone-white tents

clasp close for bare necessities

the Curragh Wrens

shelters burned   commerce refused them

furze their only nest

in starched gowns they huddle   baby at breast

drink with wandering soldiers

by the barrack wall

these your little

neglected night birds   Brigit

following love   selling their lives

flogged in the streets for their sins

Inspired  by “Stoning the Desolate”, by Charles Dickens, from All The Year Round, No. 292 1864.

http://www.kildare.ie/library/ehistory/2012/02/stoning_the_desolate.asp

For James Greenwood’s article in Dickens’ Pall Mall Gazette (1867):

http://www.kildare.ie/library/ehistory/2008/07/the_wrens_of_the_curragh.asp

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[1]    “...the poor wretches of whom we have spoken are called ‘wrens,’ ‘because they live in holes in the banks’...” James Greenwood in Dickens’ newspaper the Pall Mall Gazette, 1867.

“Thereupon she entered” by Ani Greenwood

Thereupon she entered

Thereupon She entered
And on the right hand: wonder
And on the left hand: hope
To the north of her red rock
To the south of her climbing sandy hills
To the east of her croft in ruins
To the west of her crashing sea

Thereupon She entered
Singing that pierces time
And Her long gown, wetted
In the pink soaked sand
Clung to my entrails
And Her hands swept down
Like a hawk upon the heart

She the Lady of Hoy
She the Lady of Callanish
She the Lady of the Western Isles
Lady Brede, Lady Wildness, Lady Mother of the Sea
She the yearning that pierces the heart
Always calling

Ani Greenwood, 6 Dec. 2007

Image: Callanish Stones by Mlm42~commonswiki

“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)

“Elemental Brighid” by Gail Nyoka

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.

©GailNyoka

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.

“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).

“Invocation” by Ruth Bidgood

Invocation

by Ruth Bidgood

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).

“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