Brigid Poetry Festival, Year Seven

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How did that happen? How has it been seven years since we started doing a Silent Poetry Reading for the Goddess Brigid (patron of poets, healers and midwives) on our blogs?

The answer to this question is generally uninteresting to anyone save the questioner, so I will spare you my thoughts about the passage of time, etc. Suffice to say that it is time to celebrate the return of the light, and the Feast of St. Brigid, with offerings of poetry. For anyone just tuning in, the festival has a Facebook page where anyone can post their poem. It is a lovely way to spend the afternoon, scrolling through all the postings and immersing yourself in the beauty of language.

If you are not on Facebook, feel free to post a poem below in the comments, as I will link to this post on Facebook so people can find your poem. And to start the ball rolling, here is a poem of mine I just found this morning and can’t believe I haven’t posted before now. It is an invocation of the ancestors that I did one year at Samhain, broom in hand. Very effective! Use with caution.

Ancestor Invocation

Broom on the moor,
Broom on the floor
The ancestors wait
We open the door

Inside and out
Behind and about
Dust of the ancients,
We call you out!

Out of the past,
out of the ash
Out from the ceiling,
Floor and sash

We trace the sacred steps of old
We stand upon the year’s threshold

Now join us in this dance tonight
As darkness gives to us our sight

Of teeming life in hidden deeps
Come! Be our candle while all else sleeps.

Anne Hill
Samhain, 1999

13 thoughts on “Brigid Poetry Festival, Year Seven

  1. Rhiannon

    Hymn to Brigid

    in each shining forge
    You hammer the world
    from the first
    from the stars
    the metals Your nouns
    the gases Your verbs
    write the earth
    write the sky
    each day is reborn
    in Your shining forge.

  2. Christine L Berger

    For the Lady Brigid 01-31-12

    The stones under my feet speak
    warmed by the sun, round, solid my toes can grip them
    while I listen, listen, listen
    for the song they sing
    the tales they tell
    the knowledge they carry for our benefit

    She is the undercurrent that runs beneath it all
    the directing force approaching disguised as others
    the source for lovers, for song, for music, and dance and words that
    pour through me rather than having to be sought
    She is the blessing only waiting for me to open
    to receive to allow
    without questions as to purpose or results
    duration or stamina
    She only says Now
    Breathe Now
    Embrace Now
    There is only

    I am walking through an unfamiliar landscape
    that feels like home
    It is verdant and green with old growth trees
    The air is clear and clean and supple within my lungs
    My throat is open and melodies flow over the vocal cords
    like waterfalls
    The song is the place
    All is pristine, pure and overpoweringly fertile
    I lean against a tree and feel its body as close as my own
    We are kin
    We both draw our strength our life blood within this sacred grove
    There is no other here but me
    But I feel the presence of those who have come before
    and those who will come after

    I find my way slowly to a spring
    that burbles that bubbles that froths from deep within the earth
    Dipping my head to drink
    the taste is cold and bright and stirs body and mind and spirit
    I awake refreshed and happy
    No longer missing my home

    My entire being recognizes I never left.

  3. NorthLight

    Found poem from memery: Unexpected losses

    In a vest-pocket kitchen

    yesterday morning pouring tea

    your silver-haired haunting reminds me

    the choices I make:

    book, office, sailing,

    which ones keep my dementia at bay

    which ones lead me deeper into sleep

    driving young authorship

    suburbs grandkids

    weaving my future

    stripes more fun than plaids, but simpler

    ‘my’ cat (what is thy bidding, my owner?) trips greedily around my ankles

    she doesn’t notice what I’m not wearing:

    red. bra. wedding ring. hair.

    instead a black jacket

    steadfast short powerful severe

    I miss ‘vivid’ but it is missing, as are you

    I want a gin and tonic, but am carefully caring for myself

    drinking seltzer, tea, or milk

    I want a coach and four but am slowly piloting my econosedan around town anyway

    a borrowed book keeps me focused

    away from the newly dead

    sloth reaching for my feet

    writing sisters offer but everything I read seems one-dimensional

    I keep looking for permanent magic

    the will to wear red again

    unplanned complex reflections

    the focus of a writing life

    but instead

    I am eating tapioca

    from a plastic cup

    foolish pride about 1986

    sleeping supine instead of prone

    emptying dishwasher quickly accurate

    ex boyfriend dead 30 years later

    last chance two kinds

    the first Hartford Symphony or the last opera at the Met

    Norway maple shedding branches

    outside a window full of snow

    I want to be planning worship

    but instead I’m talking on the phone

    “not at all,” I say, “or only once”

    New Haven

    several times new ideas

    lime cherry very simple

    many colors master’s brilliant

    If I leave the door ajar will the cat come home?

    he wanted all or nothing

    but I would have none of it

    yesterday I was

    remembering making love in the park in 1981

    working on my novel

    packing altar objects for camp

    when we got married our three kids took turns pulling the bell-rope

    joyous ringing over the whole town

    now I look up when he walks in naked

    “too hot in here for clothes, huh?”

    after a long moment he replies

    “not really — but I needed to empty my pockets”

    doesn’t anybody think before speaking

    the check was in the mail

    seltzer, tea, tea for two

    I would rather be watching the sun rise


    up at 6 am

    breakfast, change the oil, load the car

    drive away


    driving from Brushwood to Clairmont

    “What are you reading?” she asks me

    I don’t know how to tell her:

    A Beginners Guide for the Recently Deceased

    —- NorthLight, Imbolc 2012

  4. Mary

    Past the turning point,
    Yet Hope sends sickened Earth to
    Brigid’s healing well.

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