Imbolc - Brigid Poetry Festival

 In honor of Brigid , fire goddess and saint, and the season of Imbolc.

Hands
by Siv Cedering
I When I fall asleep my hands leave me. They pick up pens and draw creatures with five feathers on each wing. The creatures multiply. They say: "We are large like your father's hands." They say: "We have your mother's knuckles." I speak to them: "If you are hands, why don't you touch?" And the wings beat the air, clapping. They fly high above elbows and wrists. They open windows and leave rooms. They perch in treetops and hide under bushes biting their nails. "Hands," I call them. But it is fall and all creatures with wings prepare to fly South. II When I sleep the shadows of my hands come to me. They are softer than feathers and warm as creatures who have been close to the sun. They say: "We are the giver," and tell of oranges growing on trees. They say: "We are the vessel," and tell of journeys through water. They say: "We are the cup." And I stir in my sleep. Hands pull triggers and cut trees. But the shadows of my hands tuck their heads under wings waiting for morning, when I will wake braiding three strands of hair into one.       Perpetual flame picture found here. Brigid's Cross picture is Wikipedia Creative Commons & found here.
)O( - Blessed Imbolc

5th Annual Brigid Poetry Festival - started early!!

For full details on this annual honoring of Brigid, please see Anne Hill's Blog o'Gnosis post here.

And here is my offering to her this day, a poem I recently wrote and read at the last Third Thursday reading at Coffee Grounds here in Terre Haute.



here


today i am here.

i really am.

i am so here....i can barely remember
there.

i feel like i’ve been beamed down - shimmering
molecules reassembled from drifting particles
orbiting around planet grief,
reassembled into this here woman,
with a happy heart dancing
full of cocoa and honey and dreams.

here thirsty is quenched
everything dry
is moisturized

i am hyyyyydrated & lubricated
and i can slide right through
the tightest of liminal space/time doorways
to be transformed each moment
to be present in new ways
to be

here.

and here, here after all
 is my life
my precious sweet sometimes desperate life
that i must love and love and love
no matter what.

love  it.

love it to death.

---Zann Carter (January 2010)

4th Annual Brigid in the Blogosphere Poetry Slam

fire, Zann Carter

TWO POEMS BY SIV CEDERING FOX

Dead Women

return
to brush
their hair.

They use our combs,
careful not to break
the teeth.

They borrow our brushes,
leaving a trace of hair
in the bristles.

They enter our beds
to feel the warmth of a man
they have almost forgotten,

but not forgotten.
They try on our gloves and soft
scarves.

They try on our nightgowns
and turn slowly
in front of the mirror.

In the morning we wake,
smooth out the gowns and scarves
in the drawer, sit in front

of the mirror.
We raise our brush or comb to our heads,
stop, notice the hair,

continue.

Peaches

There was a contest
once
for the best picture of a peach

in China.

Madame Ling
or was it Ching
sat in some yellow
pollen

then

carefully, again
she sat
upon
a piece of white

paper


_____________________

For more poems posted today, check links in the comments of the original invitation at Branches Up, Roots Down blog, and in the comments of her own poetry post today. And maybe google Brigid poetry....

For a wonderful post about Brigid and this day, check out Hecate's post from yesterday. Oh, and her poem for today is swell, too.

Bright blessings,
Zann