Feb 022017
 

Years ago there was an annual online poetry slam in honor of the Goddess Brighid, patron of poets. I don’t know if anyone still participates but I love the idea.

Brigid by Emily Balivet

In honor of the Celtic goddess I post the work of my favorite Irish poet.

Image: Brigid by Emily Balivet

 

Father and Child
She hears me strike the board and say
That she is under ban
Of all good men and women,
Being mentioned with a man
That has the worst of all bad names;
And thereupon replies
That his hair is beautiful,
Cold as the March wind his eyes.

by William Butler Yeats

 Poetry  Comments Off on Poetry in honor of Brighid
Feb 022012
 

February 2nd is Imbolc, the Pagan holy day associated with the goddess Brigid, patroness of poets among many others. She was later turned into St. Brigid, also the patroness of poets. In her honor on this day, for the last few years, many bloggers have posted poetry. I have actually lost track of the original blogger who started this but I like the idea so I’m going to keep doing it. I like to use Irish poets to honor an Irish Goddess/Saint.

The Two Trees

W. B. Yeats

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,

The holy tree is growing there;

From joy the holy branches start,

And all the trembling flowers they bear.

The changing colours of its fruit

Have dowered the stars with metry light;

The surety of its hidden root

Has planted quiet in the night;

The shaking of its leafy head

Has given the waves their melody,

And made my lips and music wed,

Murmuring a wizard song for thee.

There the Loves a circle go,

The flaming circle of our days,

Gyring, spiring to and fro

In those great ignorant leafy ways;

Remembering all that shaken hair

And how the winged sandals dart,

Thine eyes grow full of tender care:

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.

~

Gaze no more in the bitter glass

The demons, with their subtle guile.

Lift up before us when they pass,

Or only gaze a little while;

For there a fatal image grows

That the stormy night receives,

Roots half hidden under snows,

Broken boughs and blackened leaves.

For ill things turn to barrenness

In the dim glass the demons hold,

The glass of outer weariness,

Made when God slept in times of old.

There, through the broken branches, go

The ravens of unresting thought;

Flying, crying, to and fro,

Cruel claw and hungry throat,

Or else they stand and sniff the wind,

And shake their ragged wings; alas!

Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:

Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

 Art, Poetry  Comments Off on 7th Annual Brigid in Cyberspace Poetry Slam
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