I had to go back to this post to find the earliest reference (Reya’s original blog post is lost in the mists) to the now annual Silent Poetry Reading in honor of Brigid (Saint or Goddess, as you prefer). And while the first invitation was for a single day’s blogging event, watching the misty full moon tonight got me thinking of a favorite line from a poem that I want to offer, so I will simply declare that this year’s event has begun!
Life is hard enough; why shouldn’t we take all the full moon weekend leading up to February 2nd to celebrate this patroness of the arts and healing, and read her a poem or two?
For those of you with dormant blogs (ahem, Oak and Pandora!), now would be a great time to dust them off and offer up a poem. And for those of you who are more web-savvy (I’m looking at you, Yvonne and Cat), perhaps there is a way to aggregate everyone’s contributions, so that it is easier to have a glass of wine on Brigid’s feast day and browse through all the great poems.
Update: Yvonne has set up a system: if you post a poem this weekend, go to delicious.com and enter your post url with the tag brighid2010. (Or get a geeky friend to do it for you; it’s not super intuitive.) If you just want to read all the poetry, search for the brighid2010 tag at delicious and all our posts will show up together. Magic!
This is a poem I wrote back in 1990. I remembered it because the last line came back to me tonight, and I still really like it. Here it is.
(after John Berryman)
What should I do, evenings, cobwebs
swaying in the rafters and three finely
printed invitations nailed to the
message board? (they quote Neruda, say
Bring the Children, or Softball at the
Reception) But marriage? Why flower
the hair or slip new diamonds through ears,
when the chapels are emptying: vessels
thrown with relief into rivers, small
silver placed in the notches of trees and
bells over arms of sky? The bride’s demure
look is not modesty but ambivalence—notice
the primrose which holds her gaze as he
leads her out of the valley. The day I
ate caviar from your navel and we pulled
each other through the brush to gather
the sweetest berries, I thought you were
a finely feathered basket, serpent-coiled
and watertight. We have been each others’
alibis, laughing as the caterers filled our
plates, saying we were too young to know
better, with the happy couple making the
evil eye behind our backs. Now, three-fingered,
I sit nights mending coil, sedge soaking
in the dish pan. I will make them one with
blue feathers, tell them marriage is not bells
but the basket, and we its constant gleaners.