Sure, this weekend brings us SuperBowl Sunday, but also something more important than that: it’s the Celtic festival of Imbolc, the traditional celebration of the beginning of spring, also known as St. Bridget’s Feast Day. My thanks to Anne Hill, President of Creative Content Coaching and host of Dream Talk Radio, whose facebook post reminded me of this holiday. I have to admit, most years I let it slip by unnoticed.
This weekend Anne is hosting a virtual poetry festival in honor of Brigid, the Celtic Goddess of Poetry. If you have a prayer of praise, petition to the goddess, or wishes for the Earth, feel free to post a link on Anne’s page here:
http://gnosiscafe.com/gcblog/2014/01/31/9th-annual-brigid-poetry-festival/
Since Brigid is the goddess of poetry, it might be a good time for all us writers to send Brigid our good wishes and ask her to bless our endeavors this coming year!
My own contribution, a poem of praise to Bridget in her many forms, was something I wrote in 1985 after visiting Ireland with my mother, my aunt and my cousin. I spell the name of the goddess/saint as my great-grandmother Bridget Cassidy Moss from County Donegal spelled her name. I just read on Wikipedia that this is an “anglicized” spelling, which of course I find horrifying!–so if I’m wrong about this spelling, I leave it to one of my more knowledgeable Irish cousins to help me out here!
And so–Happy Imbolc to All! As one who has many eclectic beliefs, I urge you to take a few moments this weekend to say a prayer to either the goddess, the saint, or both–your choice. Remember, the NFL is not a deity.
Bridget
I was conceived by a woman
of the Fir Bolg
who caressed the paper thin bark
of a lone birch tree
and its small green leaves
fluttered like the hands of children
making shadows in the sun.
I was borne by a woman
of the Tuatha de Dannan
who cradled me
in the blue cup of a lupine
carried me in a wreath of fresh blossoms
she braided into her blonde hair.
The Celts named me
in contemplative dreams
of flute notes and turf smoke.
I stoked the dying embers
of the hearth fire
in the dampness of morning
and Oisin, in that hazy half hour
between wakefulness and sleep,
tasted poems on his tongue.
But the Christians say
my body was conceived
in the last hours of darkness
on a Beltane morning.
At daybreak
a cloudburst
cracked
the sky
and raindrops
caught in my eyelashes,
fog hung like heavy cream
thick and cold
in my throat.
I retreated to a peat fire,
spread cut river grass to dry,
then wove it into a cross
I presented to my father.
Finally I followed Patrick
to Slane,
sought abby walls to shelter me
from bitter chill
of a waning moon.
Still music of a Gaelic phrase
swells my lungs
and curls my lips.
They cannot silence me.
I cast my cloak onto the wind
and like fire it spreads
enveloping the hills and loughs
with a brilliance
even the Welsh women see
across the water.
Call me goddess or saint
but my face is always beautiful.
Nancy Schoellkopf
1985
Thanks for sharing this. I love the images; I can almost see this speaker as a child and young woman dancing with trees and mists. Blessed Be
thank you, maggiebea!
Beautiful words that make me long for Ireland Nancy. Thank you. Yes Bridget is an anglicised version of the name. I was named Brigid which my English mother thought was the Irish spelling. My Irish relatives however often spelled it Bridget. I now call myself Bríd, pronounced Breej which is the modern Irish for the name and suits me better. It sounds softer and more like the goddess to me. I think there is an old post on my blog http://www.moondrummer.blogspot.com that has the story of my name. I have a poem there for this years festival too and another on my new blog: http://www.rainbowlabyrinthwoman.blogspt.com
thanks for the lesson on names, Brid! I’ll check out your blog later today. Happy Feast Day!