Sunday, 1 February 2015

Imbolc, Brigid Poetry Cyberfest 2015

Snow Drops For Imbolc 2015, photograph by Bríd Wyldearth

Imbolc 2015

I need to do nothing today
even though I feel better than yesterday
and the urge to go out 
and celebrate Imbolc is upon me

by nothing
I mean
writing my journal
writing this poem
walking with my dog and cats
bringing in logs for the fire
painting meditation
warming up food
uploading some poetry
contributing to the annual Brigid Poetry Cyberfest
having a bath
and maybe changing my bed clothes

my heart aches to be in St David’s
by Non’s Well,
White Sands Bay
and to walk along the coastal path 
to St David’s head

maybe tomorrow

I must be strong
remind myself
of how lucky I am
for this healing lesson
that gives me the time and space
to do nothing
to go deep

by Bríd Wyldearth 2015 

Imbolc Rainbow Labyrinth 2015 by Bríd Wyldearth

Wednesday, 18 June 2014

Friday, 6 June 2014

Three years ago today, Hecate Moon Wolf went off to faerie land on her next big adventure. I did not think I could live without her and I did not imagine I could fall in love again but "I am somehow still around", to quote John Betcheman. On the beach today I met another woman who had been owned by a canine Katy, someone to share some fond memories with. I put a chicken drum stick on her grave in my woman made stone circle in my garden. I have posted all the photos I can find of her here as a permanent memorial. All the photos are by me except the last one, the only one I can find of the two of us. I wrote the poem on her last birthday which we spent at Non's Well eating the most delicious vegan cake, made especially for the event by Lunar Rage.

at Callanish at the lunar stand still

At the Cairnpapple

Photograph by Witchhazel Wildwood at Waylands Smithy 1999, the only photo I can find of both of us.

On Spring Equinox 1998,
seven weeks after I rescued Xena Warrior Princess,
a filthy, toothless Yorkie,
running down the middle of Rotherhithe New Road,at midnight, on Imbolc, 
who deserved a heroic and courageous name,
and, just before I rescued another Yorkie called Suzy,
you were born.
Fierce, irascible Aries warrior,
they had called you Shreddie, after your penchant for shredding tissues, I presume?
And, six months later,
when I had had two rehearsals,
two reassurances that I was qualified to companion a canine,
we met.
This was less than a month since a Dalmatian ate my Suzy in Rotherhithe park,
and left a hole in my heart as fatal as the one his fang made in hers,
as big as the one her human had left in her heart, when she had died of cancer.
We met less than a month since my empty eyed next door neighbour,
off her medication,
tried to strangle me.
Within a few days of watching the life shaken out of Suzy,
I was gasping for breath, 
facing the truth that I did not have the strength to escape,
facing inevitable, merciless, unseeing death 
for the second time in less than a week,
when three angels 
flew up from the Rotherhithe New Road 
and pulled my attacker away from my throat.
I know they were angels 
who else  could they be?
Who else on Rotherhithe New Road
would notice or bother?
I pushed my door shut, 
slid to the floor
and never saw them again.

On Autumn Equinox,
seven months and three weeks since Xena Warrior Princess
ran into my life on Rotherhithe New Road,
six months after you were born in Kent,
five months since Suzy's heart was broken when her human died,
almost four weeks since she then grew cold in my arms,
a few days since angels spared my life,
you jumped onto my lap 
and told me I was not going home without you.

The white hairs in your miniature wolf coat reflected the full moon 
on our first walk in Sydenham Hill Wood
when you told me your goddess name:
Hecate Moon Wolf.

Were you a gift, a recompense from the goddess of death 
or were you dedicated to her 
in the hope she would not claim you before your time?

She did not claim you before your time:
Thirteen years after your birth
thirteen being Hecate's number,
you were still here, 
still teaching me,
still telling me what to do
still dancing for joy in anticipation of dinner and bones and treats,
still protecting me form cats and cows and humans,
with a warning growl and bark.

You growled to protect me from Suzy's murderer and his human
the first time we passed them on our way to the park.
A cultured canine from the very start, 
the gallery in the park was a favourite venue of yours, 
and, as my pagan power wolf,
you made magic with me in circles of women.
On our first ever holiday, you decorated white b&b sheets
with mud from the labyrinths in Rocky valley.
We spent our first winter solstice together in Cornwall.
The first time you saw the sea your barked, 
a brave little soul pitted against ten foot waves.
We danced my zodiac of masks in Boscawen Un stone circle
and we moved to the land of stone circles in time of the 1999 eclipse. 
You ran circles of joy round the Men an Tol every time we visited.
We walked cliff paths,
drew labyrinths on the beach,
kissed circle upon circle of stones, 
played and slept under Uffington White Horse,
bathed in sacred wells and healing oceans,
nestled in beech tree roots at Avebury
drummed as the sun set and the full moon rose over Glastonbury Tor,  
and slept for two weeks beside the Callanish cathedral of stones 
as the full lunar stand still danced on the earth.

Thank you for choosing me.
Thank you for loving me.
Thank you for walking with me on this earth journey.

I look at you and smile.
You fill my heart with love.
Your bark brings me into the present moment,
into living in the here and now,
into enjoying each moment of living with and loving you
my Hecate Moon Wolf,
my KKKKaty,
beautiful Katy
You're the only KKKate that I adore.
When the moon shines
over our cow shed,
I'll be waiting by the kkkkitchen door.

Friday, 28 March 2014

RSVP to Slow Dance


I want to make deep, passionate, real, unhurried love 
to the Earth
every day of the rest of my life
I want to lie down her soft belly and feel her breathe
She is a wild, untameable, woman who will not be rushed
and  if I can slow down and listen long enough
I might hear the myriad secrets that she holds
the thousand daily miracles that she unfolds
in every cell of her magnificent body
I might dare to dance with her
My heart beating time with the timeless heart
of this wild untameable woman who will not be hurried or rushed
I want to slow 
and really, 
love the Earth

© Bríd Wyldearth, Spring Equinox 2014

This reply to Slow Dance is dedicated to my dear friend Cheryl Beer,
who so kindly loved and recorded my photographic poem last year:

Slow Dance first came to me in 1999 on the cliff path in Cornwall, where I lived. 
She has been teaching me ever since, tweaking and refining the words and meaning.
Every time I think she is perfect and complete, she surprises me with a new twist.
This equinox it came as an obvious shock, that this was my response. 

Friday, 31 January 2014

Imbolc Photo Poem

drops of snow greeting spring 
on the river bank
beside a treasure filled woollen mill

well overflowing with healing 

accidental offering
of filtered tap water
in recycled silver vessel

songs of prayer and gratitude
echoing amongst the ghosts and spirits and ancestors

cloud and light breathing
above Non's chapel and Bride's bay

backlighting glazed St Bride
petitioned with candles 

and home

what would home be
without a cat and an elephant
above the door?


Bríd Wyldearth 2014

Friday, 6 December 2013

The Arts Periodical

I am delighted to see my work in the new edition of The Arts today. I drew my first ever Síla na Gig at Winter Solstice for the cover of the Matriarchy Research and reclaim Network magazine that I was guest editing. That was the beginning of a life long love affair. Please read my article as an early Solstice greeting.

Wednesday, 28 August 2013



I dream of all the women in the world

I dream of all the women that I mourn
I dream of all the women that are coldly cut and torn
I dream of all the women that are raped
I dream of all the women that are shaped and stitched for custom’s sake
I dream of all the women that are branded “witches”, “sluts” and “whores”
I dream of all the women that are covered up and enslaved and used in wars
I dream of all of women’s wasted blood and tears and sweat 
I dream of all of women’s sacred places that are desecrate

I dream of ancient women’s stories and I dream of ancient women’s art
I dream of ancient teaching circles to open gentle, healing hearts
I dream of ancient women’s wisdom and I dream of ancient women’s lore
I dream of times when women’s parts were named with reverence and with awe 
I dream of ancient women’s medicine and I dream of ancient women’s blood
shed in life nourishing cycles with childbirth and the moon
I dream of ancient women whispering that we can change and we can turn
I dream of ancient women encouraging us to make choices and to learn

I dream of times when every woman will be free to refuse pain
I dream of times when every woman will be free to use her courage and her rage
I dream of times when every woman will be free to choose to tell her tales
I dream of times when every woman will be free to remove her make up and her veils
I dream of times that may have been, of times that may yet be
I dream of fair ferociousness and of wild and raw beauty 

I dream with all the women in the world

by Bríd Wyldearth 2012

At first I was a little embarrassed to notice the obvious influence of Martin Luther King's famous speech on this poem. It was not deliberate.

I am always inspired when I hear King's words. I am passionate in my desire to see an end to racism. I have been shocked and hurt when I have been subjected to anti Irish racism. I have been shocked and hurt when I have watched friends of mine subjected to racism. I cannot bear to watch some films that depict this cruelty. I imagine that encountering racism every single day is similar to encountering sexism every single day. We never get used to it. It always hurts on some level although we may ignore it and feel bored by the repetition. Whenever I hear the words from the American constitution that King quotes: "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal", I always want to add "AND WOMEN" and I suppose this poem is my "AND WOMEN" correction to all constitutions world wide.

I have been listening to women and men paying tribute to Martin Luther King and his dream today on the 50th anniversary, people who are famous for speaking out and marching against injustice of all kinds, people who have risked their lives and I cannot help but compare myself to them and wish I had done more and hope that I can do more.

Inspired by King and the many women and men who have spoken out and inspired the changes that have already happened in my life time, I begin by offering this small tribute today.