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

today 

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

but 

be

me

to go deep

within

earth

creativity

solitudenous

still

silent

peace

by Bríd Wyldearth 2015 

Imbolc Rainbow Labyrinth 2015 by Bríd Wyldearth

SEVENTH ANNUAL BRIGID POETRY FESTIVAL

And with the festival:
https://www.facebook.com/BrigidPoetryFest
it seems time to post on my blog again. The first poem I want to post is one I feel to be my favourite at the moment:

Still I Rise
You may write me down in history 

With your bitter, twisted lies, 

You may trod me in the very dirt 

But still, like dust,
I'll rise.



Does my sassiness upset you? 

Why are you beset with gloom? 

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells 

Pumping in my living room.



Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides, 

Just like hopes springing high, 

Still I'll rise.



Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.



Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines 

Diggin' in my own back yard.



You may shoot me with your words, 

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness, 

But still, like air,
I'll rise.



Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds 

At the meeting of my thighs?



Out of the huts of history's shame 

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, 

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise 

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave. 

I rise

I rise

I rise.

Maya Angelou

Imbolc, Sixth Annual Brigid Poetry Festival

Bríd

With a nod and a smile
this goddess of creativity graciously accepts my offerings
embodied in ten years of hard manual labour
at the canvas face

This goddess of fire demands
that I stand in her perpetual flame
and tell my truth

This goddess of water demands
that I baptise myself in the deep well of my emotional memory
and paint and sculpt my truths

This goddess of poetry
chooses me as a vessel
through which to pour her rhythmic velvet
and with each act of creative midwifery
she reveals more of herself to me
becomes more visible
solid
real

When my mother named me after Saint Brigid
little did she know that she was dedicating her first born
to an ancient goddess of healing, poetry, smithcraft, midwifery, creativity, fire and water

I did not know what I was looking for
that I was longing for her
as I set out on my spiritual quest

When I found her
in Glastonbury
in her chapel
with her wolf in stained glass
milking a cow on the tor
I recognised a kindred spirit
a home coming
and yet
the very last thing I ever expected
was to meet her
to know she is with me
in a room full of my art
graciously accepting my offerings
with a smile and a nod.

Bríd Wyldearth, Imbolc 2011

First Brigid poetry festival offering

I woke up today, remembering a poem that still speaks to me and may very well have been my first step towards the goddess :"Mother of god, no lady thou,
common woman of common earth.
Our lady, ladies call thee now,
but christ was never of gentle birth,
a common man of common earth.
For gods ways are not our ways,
never a lady did he choose,
only a maid of low degree,
so humble she might not refuse
the carpenter of galilee.
Out she sang, a song of her heart,
never a lady so had sung.
She Knew no letters, had no art.
To all mankind, in woman's tongue,
hath israelitish Mary sung.
And still, for men to come she sings,
nor shall her singing pass away:
"He hath filled the hungry with good things."
O listen lords and ladies gay."
And the rich he hath sent empty away""

by Mary E Coleridge

INVITATION TO THE SIXTH ANNUAL BRIGID POETRY FESTIVAL

I think this poetry festival has made this my favourite time of year :)

This year there Anne Hill has created a facebook page which will make it easier for non bloggers to take part I hope :
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Brigid-Poetry-Festival-2011/124403944294363

Also

HEARTS AND FLOWERS
a healing journey of paint drawings, ceramic sculpture and poetry
by
Bríd Wyldearth
3rd January ~ 18th February 2011
at The Mulberry Bush Cafe, High St., Lampeter

You are cordially invited to bring a poem to share and a little water from your favourite spring or well to celebrate the begining of spring and the fiery water goddess of healing, creativity and poetry
at 5pm on Wednesday 2nd February

Invitation to The Fifth Annual Brigid in the Blogosphere Poetry Slam

I cannot find an invitation and it is getting late so have copied Oaks invitation from last year and am offering my blog as a place to link if you plan to publish: moondrummer.blogspot.com

I hope this is not duplicating something I have missed, but have so enjoyed previous years, I feel I can risk the spam for the sake of the goddess of poetry.

Brigid blessings to you all

Invitation to The Fifth Annual Brigid in the Blogosphere 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, 2010

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.

Reconciliation in Northern Ireland - more poems for Brigid

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!

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