The annual Brigid Poetry Festival is an online celebration of Imbolg/Brigid’s Day in the form of sharing poetry around the web.
This year, I am deeply inspired by Isaac’s song “There Were Three Sisters:”
There Were Three Sisters
© 1987, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits, music English trad. (“Henry Martin”)
There were three Sisters in our ancient land,
In our ancient land there were three.
And they did dispute which of them
Should be, should be, should be,
Greatest of all in the hearts of the free.
Oh, first spoke Danu, the Mother of All,
Her voice was as rich as the earth:
“I give them my cattle, my grain,
And mirth, and mirth, and mirth.
Freedom without joy is of little worth.”
And then spoke Macha, the Goddess of War,
Her voice was the roar of the wave:
“I give but courage, for fear will
Enslave, enslave, enslave.
Freedom’s a gift given but to the brave.”
Now third spoke Rion, the Light of the Moon,
Her voice was as vast as the sky:
“I give to their thoughts great wings
To fly, to fly, to fly.
Freedom means naught if you never ask why.”
[Repeat first verse. Instrumental break.]
But then came Bridget, the Queen of All Arts,
Her voice was a flickering flame:
“My sisters I fear your gifts miss
Their aim, their aim, their aim.
None but through me can their true freedom claim.”
“For pleasure and riches are fleeting at best,
And a warrior’s strength is quite brief.
And knowledge alone brings them naught
Save grief, save grief, save grief.
Without beauty’s fire within their belief.”
“My healers restore hope to those who despair.
My smiths forge them weapons so grand.
My bards cause all those who kneel
To stand, to stand, to stand.
The fires of Freedom are lit by my hand!”
There were four Sisters in our ancient land…
Bearing Water for Brigid
Sketches for a water vessel —
bottle and message elide on waves.
Voice of Brigid calls.
All who hear: Imagine.
Exposed to wind, to grit, to rain
and hail,
rock faces erode.
Vessel
Designated fixed space
Sacrosanct container
Conveyor through fluid
separates
Fluidity
Creates place, surface to paint.
Amusement;
diffusement of emotion,
beatitude, foment of dueling farce.
Harsh edges polished,
pure colors
blend in the dark.
Brief infusion
of giddy illusion
glows
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
smiles,
a secret
clue revealing
purpose, meaning,
engages
wild eternal child,
ages’ flamboyant fool,
Glorious
Muse
(Voice rains from within)
A wound is a sacred vessel.
Pain carves into flesh
sense memory;
carries the seed
of its own demise.
Sentience
engulfed in life
learns anew to be whole.
Wounded with the potential for wisdom
when eyes are are pried
from seeping, sucking, suffering
aching to censure what future we admire.
Redefine the schizm.
This wound is our project.
To heal, discover the vision;
realign the seam to fit
self-framed landscape.
Let loose that genie of desire.
Ride rushing blood streams.
Build a roaring pyre of grief,
insane belief in wrathfilled deities.
Revile that old refrain: “life is pain” or a game
to be lost.
No Faustian bargain.
Just a
rambling adventure
daring
to explore
essence of ecstasy.
Don’t wait for the rest to see
and demur.
Stretch your sail.
Take sight of your guiding star.
The only failure is self-denial
in favor of the vile lie
that pain is destiny
instead of faithful friend
lending energy
for change.
Slice vivid memories.
Exult in the tastes, the textures.
Enliven your way.
In the end
the vessel breaks.
There the Goddess stirs
2011 Aquarius