As I begin to celebrate the patron goddess of the land of my ancestors, who is goddess of healing and poetry, governments are talking about how to move on from the "Troubles". I am also a child of Africa and am so proud of the "Truth and Reconciliation Councils" in South Africa and so despairing of Zimbabwe ever recovering.... I was brought up to "forgive and forget" and, although I have tried, I find re-membering to be a more wholesome healing process for me. Asking a victim of violence to forgive can heap burden of responsibility upon injury....
Re-membering
To forgive and forget is to allow injustice to be repeated. Nobody learns from the experience
and the victim remains a victim.
Forgiveness is a process,
not an act of will.
It is impossible to forgive,
to give to the past
and move on from,
wounds that we cannot remember.
Amnesia is an illness,
not an accomplishment.
It is only when we forget how much we love our beautiful planet,
how much we depend on her for our very survival,
that we can poison,
rape
and destroy her.
It is only when we forget how much we love our beautiful children,
how much we depend on them for our very survival,
that we can poison,
rape
and destroy them.
It is only when we forget how much we love our beautiful selves,
how much we depend on ourselves for our very survival,
that we can poison,
rape
and destroy ourselves.
We must remember
and re-member,
reconnect with our severed limbs,
our disowned parts,
our humanity,
so that we can begin to put ourselves
and our lovely planet back together again.
It is only when we have fully re-membered
that we can begin to move on
and co-create a better world.
by Bríd Wyldearth 2007
Getting Over It
by Bríd Wyldearth 2007
When they say they wish that I would get over It
they are saying that they want me to stop talking about It
They are telling me to shut up
I will not shut up
I will not stop talking about It
And I will not get over It
until It never happens to anybody ever again!
Friday 30 January 2009
Thursday 29 January 2009
Poem for Brigid poetry slam
I have not been blogging because my mother had a stroke last April and I have been visiting her and grieving. She died at 9.30 am on 25th October 2008. I privately washed and blessed her body before a three day Roman Catholic funeral. She was buried on Samhain, 31 October. The church was full. My brother celebrated the mass with twenty seven fellow priests and the cardinal supporting him on the altar. I wrote the bidding prayers. The first was the celtic blessing that ends: "until we meet again may god hold you in the palm of his hand" and the last prayer, which my brother read was: "Deep peace of the quiet earth to you". A procession of hundreds of people: purple clad priests, school children, family, friends and my brothers' parishioners walked behind the hearse to the grave and the family members lowered her coffin into the earth and threw rose petals onto her. I read the following poem to her. There was around of applause when I was finished.
Joy
You are my mother, my deep, deep mother, our memories entwine.
You are my mother, I am your daughter, our memories entwine.
I remember you, Joy, embodiment of your name, full of joie de vivre.
I remember you singing as we drove through African bush:
“Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree, merry merry king of the bush is he,
Laugh kookaburra, laugh kookaburra, gay your life must be!”
I remember learning the contralto part of “Jesu, joy of man’s desiring”
with you in the church choir.
I remember watching you sing the Messiah in the Albert Hall.
I remember making clay crocodiles with you.
I remember learning to sew a beautiful, turquoise doll’s dress with you.
I remember sketching and painting with you.
I remember your belly growing with child.
I remember you bringing my baby brother home,
a tuft of black hair emerging from the blanket in your arms.
I remember your belly healing.
I remember thinking that all babies came out of a hole in their mummies’ tummies like we did!
I remember you driving miles every day to visit me in hospital.
You ate the revolting hospital food for me so that I wouldn’t get into trouble.
I remember how happy and gentle you were with me,
when I woke you in the middle of the night of my first blood.
You showed me how to use those clumsy, old fashioned towels and belt.
We drank weak tea by the warm aga and you told me how, when you were a girl, you made your towels from flannel and washed them,
instead of throwing tons of paper and plastic away.
I remember visiting the farm where you grew up and the gravestone nearby
that you had designed for your father:
simple words beneath a simple Bethlehem star.
I remember driving through Glen Coe with you
and looking for the Loch Ness monster in the rain.
I remember circling Ireland with you,
from the Giant’s Causeway all the way round to the birthplace of Brigid.
You followed the Stations of the Cross,
in honour of the saint you named me for,
while I communed with the legendary stones that bore witness to the life of the pagan goddess of healing, poetry and smith craft,
whose name I thank you for.
I remember your beautiful and extraordinary, dear, departed friends:
Ellen, your fellow teacher, who named her daughter Mary Brigit
six months before you named me Brigid Mary;
Bibi, mother of my first love, who loved the moon and always made us laugh;
Babs, who you first met feeding horses on the way to your son’s school,
your first friend in England, and, by sheer coincidence,
related to your mother’s best friend;
Christine, gentle country dancer, passionate warrior against nuclear weapons;
May they be at the pearly gates to greet you.
I remember your dear old friends who survive you:
Phillippa, Peggy, Mickey, Felicity, Nancy.
I remember laughing with you with all of them.
And I will always remember all your loving friends in Bannockburn
who I got to know at your bedside.
And I will always remember, with deepest gratitude, your beloved Barbara,
who held you as you died.
And I will always remember washing your dear face and hands and feet
for one last time, in holy water from St Non’s well.
Thank you, Joy, for painting with me.
Thank you, Joy, for singing with me.
Thank you, Joy, for laughing with me.
Thank you, Joy, for loving me.
Thank you, Joy, for having me.
Thank you, Joy, for birthing me.
Thank you, Una, for birthing Joy.
Thank you, Mary, for birthing Una.
Thank you to all my mother’s mother’s grandmothers for giving me life.
Deep peace of the bubbling Bannock Burn to you
Deep peace of the Scottish winter sun to you
Deep peace of the gentle breeze to you
Deep peace of the magnificent mountains that guard your resting place to you
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you
Deep peace of your beloved Son of Peace to you
Deep peace to you
Deep peace to you
Deep peace to you
Bríd Wyldearth, né Brigid Mary, 31 October 2008
Joy
You are my mother, my deep, deep mother, our memories entwine.
You are my mother, I am your daughter, our memories entwine.
I remember you, Joy, embodiment of your name, full of joie de vivre.
I remember you singing as we drove through African bush:
“Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree, merry merry king of the bush is he,
Laugh kookaburra, laugh kookaburra, gay your life must be!”
I remember learning the contralto part of “Jesu, joy of man’s desiring”
with you in the church choir.
I remember watching you sing the Messiah in the Albert Hall.
I remember making clay crocodiles with you.
I remember learning to sew a beautiful, turquoise doll’s dress with you.
I remember sketching and painting with you.
I remember your belly growing with child.
I remember you bringing my baby brother home,
a tuft of black hair emerging from the blanket in your arms.
I remember your belly healing.
I remember thinking that all babies came out of a hole in their mummies’ tummies like we did!
I remember you driving miles every day to visit me in hospital.
You ate the revolting hospital food for me so that I wouldn’t get into trouble.
I remember how happy and gentle you were with me,
when I woke you in the middle of the night of my first blood.
You showed me how to use those clumsy, old fashioned towels and belt.
We drank weak tea by the warm aga and you told me how, when you were a girl, you made your towels from flannel and washed them,
instead of throwing tons of paper and plastic away.
I remember visiting the farm where you grew up and the gravestone nearby
that you had designed for your father:
simple words beneath a simple Bethlehem star.
I remember driving through Glen Coe with you
and looking for the Loch Ness monster in the rain.
I remember circling Ireland with you,
from the Giant’s Causeway all the way round to the birthplace of Brigid.
You followed the Stations of the Cross,
in honour of the saint you named me for,
while I communed with the legendary stones that bore witness to the life of the pagan goddess of healing, poetry and smith craft,
whose name I thank you for.
I remember your beautiful and extraordinary, dear, departed friends:
Ellen, your fellow teacher, who named her daughter Mary Brigit
six months before you named me Brigid Mary;
Bibi, mother of my first love, who loved the moon and always made us laugh;
Babs, who you first met feeding horses on the way to your son’s school,
your first friend in England, and, by sheer coincidence,
related to your mother’s best friend;
Christine, gentle country dancer, passionate warrior against nuclear weapons;
May they be at the pearly gates to greet you.
I remember your dear old friends who survive you:
Phillippa, Peggy, Mickey, Felicity, Nancy.
I remember laughing with you with all of them.
And I will always remember all your loving friends in Bannockburn
who I got to know at your bedside.
And I will always remember, with deepest gratitude, your beloved Barbara,
who held you as you died.
And I will always remember washing your dear face and hands and feet
for one last time, in holy water from St Non’s well.
Thank you, Joy, for painting with me.
Thank you, Joy, for singing with me.
Thank you, Joy, for laughing with me.
Thank you, Joy, for loving me.
Thank you, Joy, for having me.
Thank you, Joy, for birthing me.
Thank you, Una, for birthing Joy.
Thank you, Mary, for birthing Una.
Thank you to all my mother’s mother’s grandmothers for giving me life.
Deep peace of the bubbling Bannock Burn to you
Deep peace of the Scottish winter sun to you
Deep peace of the gentle breeze to you
Deep peace of the magnificent mountains that guard your resting place to you
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you
Deep peace of your beloved Son of Peace to you
Deep peace to you
Deep peace to you
Deep peace to you
Bríd Wyldearth, né Brigid Mary, 31 October 2008
invitation to the fourth annual Brigid cyber poetry slam
Feel free to copy the following to your blog and spread the word. Let poetry bless the blogosphere once again!
WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading
WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2009
WHERE: Your blog
WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day
HOW: Select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - to post February 2nd.
RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on this post. Last year when the call went out there was more poetry in cyberspace than I could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun.
Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers.
Thank you, Reya, for beginning what is now an annual event.
WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading
WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2009
WHERE: Your blog
WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day
HOW: Select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - to post February 2nd.
RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on this post. Last year when the call went out there was more poetry in cyberspace than I could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun.
Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers.
Thank you, Reya, for beginning what is now an annual event.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)