Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
William Butler Yeats
Photo: Rainbow
Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his Beltaine cloak hanging down.
He sits quietly under every tree —
in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup
the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his staff upon the ground —
signals the snowdrops it’s time to grow.
Must be fun being Jack-In-The-Green —
So much time to dance, and for song.
He wears the colours of shimmering summer —
And carries the green flag all the winter long.
Jack, do you never sleep —
does the green still run deep in your heart?
Or will these changing times,
motorways, powerlines,
now and always keep us apart?
The rowan, the oak and the holly tree
are the charges left for you.
And we gaze, entranced, at your green canopy
In awe at such wondrous views.
Each blade of grass whispers Jack-In-The-Green.
As we stand in bright summer’s light.
And we are the berries on that rowan and holly,
The acorn on the Oak.
We are the song of the harvest thrush.
Oh, and Jack? How long to winter’s night?
Photo: Trish Jackdaw
When I walked into the Stones I felt the crackling energy of the past few days of madness which had been there and I knew as I stepped in Peace that they accepted in peace
As we watched the sunrise I felt the Stones settle and us become part of the land, melting into and accepted by the land, the birds returning cautiously to the centre.
When Jack entered the circle I felt the ecstasy of him and as I danced up to him, and stared into his eyes, I felt connection with deep dark past time, the dance being an echo of the past time, I saw that dance before, long ago many times, sacred… danced with him before, ancient ancestor, dancing the sacred dance for the fertility, health of the tribe, eternal dance. It felt so right and centred and right. The echo of our ancestors.
Rainbow
Photo: Trish Jackdaw
And it rises yes it rises and we knew it would
Apocalyptic in it’s brightness in its whiteness and Tryw’s robe it glowed in likeness.
And the mist it did surround us and the Stones leaned in and the skylark larked above us and the ancients stirred beneath and groaned as the sacred lorries droned.
The priest she is behind us and smiles a truth toward the Eastish place and keeps her frown beneath a natty red bandana and her hands in folds of green flowing cloak and whispers to her mates..
Who’s that all green of face?!
An antlered lad come leapeth forward all secrets in his purse
He weaves amongst the women
And waves his erect and mighty Stick.
There’s a girl with yellow hair where rainbows play within
Her voice is smooth and honey sweet whilst she seduces us with sticky bread and mead and meanwhile the green lad keels over dead and dies.
And Lisa! Lisa! smiles for miles across the misty plains she is delighted is delightful and the drumming it gets out of hand.
A changeling she can do the splits and loves her friends to bits and sighs at shiny things and bunnies fluffy nibble grass quite used to all the din.
© Trish Fraser 27.06.2008
Imbolc is just a few days away and as it seems to do every year at this time, the weather has turned dramatically windy and stormy. As I write this gales batter my home on the south coast of England, with gusts of 70mph forecast and the threat of ’structural damage’ being broadcast across the media. When I hear these warnings I always wonder what I should do, since it seems impossible for me to move my home and ’structures’ to less threatened parts of the country. It gives me a small insight into how folk must feel when there is an imminent flood warning issued which affects where you lie. Yes, we can remove precious objects from the immediate area, perhaps move furniture upstairs and so forth; but then after that? We have to sit and wait for the powers of nature to take their course. No amount of money can ever fully control these elemental forces, some of which we have unleashed with our incessant demands for more power… (double meaning intended).
Imbolc has always seemed the most challenging and difficult time of year to me, and our Grove rites always seem to have reflected that. From our first ever gathering on a soaking, drenching wet and windy morning in Bernwood, when everything and everybody got utterly soaked – and when I received a pre-dawn phone call from an individual who would have been coming along to join us for the first time asking if we were going to ‘postpone’ the rite because it was a bit wet – through to the present day, Imbolc has always presented unique challenges. This year seems no different, and so I often think about how the goddess Brighid is perceived by others, and how their relationship has developed.
As with many pagan deities our perceptions seem shaped not so much by personal relationship and connection, but more by the writings of others; and so a modern ‘mythology’ develops and shapes perceptions. Brighid is often seen as a kind and gentle guiding protecting goddess – and this she can be. But for me she does not offer that protection simply or easily. What makes her even more elusive is that she is so entwined with the Christian Saint of the same name, and to attempt to disentangle the two in a scholarly sense seems an impossible and fruitless task.
Some interesting writings on Brighid can be found at http://www.maryjones.us/jce/brigit.html. In particular her possible connections with the Welsh boar Twrch Trywth seems of significance – at least to me! And her ‘invention’ of keening seems to bely her gentle and controlled image:
According to Lebor Gabala Erenn, “{w}ith them were, and were heard, the three demoniac shouts after rapine in Ireland, whistling and weeping and lamentation.” This is reminicent of the tradition that Brigit was the inventor of keening:
“Bríg came and keened for her son. At first she shrieked, in the end she wept. Then for the first time weeping and shrieking were heard in Ireland. (Now she is the Bríg who invented a whistle for signalling at night.)”
–The Second Battle of Magh Turedh
For this writer she is much more than this gentle goddess of hearth and home, and I wrote these words at Imbolc a few years ago that seem to sum up how she appears for me:
You seek comfort of my arms?
You seek the nourishment of my mother’s milk?
The reassurance and protection of my guiding light?
And yet,
and yet….
I am no Christian Saint, gentle and kind,
Overflowing with love and tenderness.
I am old beyond time,
Older than you can know.
I am the challenge of springtime,
Bare branches outlined against a low grey sky.
I am the chill biting winds of spring, clawing,
Drawing rich red blood from your cheek.
I am the frozen earth beneath your feet,
Daring new shoots to challenge the cold
I am the pain of childbirth, searing through your body,
Screaming in anguish and praying for release.
I am the inspiration of poets,
The muse who dares take you beyond all you know.
I am the promise of hearth and home,
Of warmth and comfort, if it is to be found.
I am the flame that never dies,
That may turn you to ash in searing pain.
I am the forge that transforms your soul,
Tempering you into what you can be.
I am Brighid, triple inspiration;
Healing – for those who feel me.
Creativity – for those who hear me..
Transformation – for those who know me!
Do you know me?
Dare you know me?
…… Dare you?
After the storms there is, it seems, to be a brief respite, before they return on Sunday and through next week.
del.icio.us Tags: weather,brighid,imbolc
Today we saw silver birds,
They twinkled past the blushing aspens
And winked and blinked upon furrowed muddyness,
Over toothy yellow tombs of scattered stones of our home a south western wold.
We heard the skylarks rise and fall and disappear into stubbled ground all farmed and rural neat in rows with prickly hedges and elms that never quite can make it.
We witnessed skeins of abandoned orange twine and broken glass that glinted from the mouth of roots, a grin of scary hollows.
We felt the sun move his slender fingers across our smiling faces and peer down a black badger set,
Then he painted those polished liquid birds that poured endlessly over wintered beech and oak.
Our chins were lifted lovingly to see a sight, a flight of buzzards circle over the barrrowed bones of dead folk.
We stood and felt the songs of warriors and washing done,
Of bloodied hands and weeping moans and laughing children lit the trees all silver with their rippling playful waves,
Their feet then lifted from seeded soil, they flew and gathered in the cloudy merry land and divided perhaps decided to always be a shining delightful flock of silver birds.
