Poetry competition CLOSED 4th February 2024 5:11pm
WINNER
slipalong
slipalong
RUNNERS-UP:
Sappho
and Anne-Ri999
Imbolc - Brigid the Goddess of Poetry
Poetry Contest Description
Celebrating ancient cultural practices
The celebration of Imbolc dates back to the pre-Christian era in the British Isles is celebrated February 1st. Poetry from that time relates the holiday to ewe’s milk, with the implication of purification. [ Your poem does not have to refer to this particular subject, as long as it refers to Imbolc and Brigid you're fine ] The holiday was traditionally aligned with the first day of spring and the idea of rebirth.
Imbolc celebrations took the form of a festival in honor of the pagan goddess Brigid, who was evoked in fertility blessings and oversaw poetry, crafts and prophecy. Brigid was worshipped by the Filid, a class of poets and historians among the Celts of ancient Ireland and Britain.
Guidelines:
I am looking to connect with the essence or spirit of Brigid through you fabulous poets! For those unfamiliar with this celebration, research! Expand your knowledge toward something new and yet ancient. Become the Filid!
Rules:
1. One entry per poet ( must be a new write ).
2. Any length and/or style accepted.
3. Visual and spoken permitted.
Most importantly, have fun connecting to and learning about this ancient goddess and the essence of her existence through this celebration! You have three weeks to bless us with your creation!
Brigid
summoning my strength I purify the rite
a ritual to bring in new life
death holds no power over the renewing of spring
a song for the moment
true lovers meet in the green of the day
where love is fertile bringing new life to the aisles
chaste of vision I chant
let's be merry
inside the solemn vow, I have kept my promises of virtue
sacred soul a part of the dawn
innocence blushes and rises to what is pure
a sanctuary of time a renewal of all things
taking note of winter's pause
When Father Frost withdraws his gnarled fist
I Brigid within the sunlight's bliss
bless each blossom and seed
that dares pierce the soil
feeding the masses from my breast
sing a song of plenty
oh poets of on Imboic's day
we shall reap from the bounty
my healing spirit will bless you
take heart I am among you
Written by crimsin
(Unveiling)
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Old Gods Laugh
where the ancient gods repose
there, too, Brigid resides
to dream away forgotten
by those who once presides
on altar with corn husk dolls
mystic powers now contained
within the knowledge of a time
when Brigid proud and divine
shines over poets quills
pen beauty of life's layers
Brigid's acolytes ever staunch
ambrace the air sniff for spring
while candles, milk and flowers
faithfully adorn the altar
reverence curtsied and bowed
the mystical ancient essence
every women's reflection of divinity
bless poetry in all delightful delivered forms
goddess within women's inner graces
there, too, Brigid resides
to dream away forgotten
by those who once presides
on altar with corn husk dolls
mystic powers now contained
within the knowledge of a time
when Brigid proud and divine
shines over poets quills
pen beauty of life's layers
Brigid's acolytes ever staunch
ambrace the air sniff for spring
while candles, milk and flowers
faithfully adorn the altar
reverence curtsied and bowed
the mystical ancient essence
every women's reflection of divinity
bless poetry in all delightful delivered forms
goddess within women's inner graces
Written by Grace
(IDryad)
Go To Page
Sweet Skin of Fog
For Brigid
A blank page lays open-handed
ready to hold this story
but all that oozes from the veil
is a memory of a memory
You appeared while I was writing
Specter from a past life
my Celtic blood lived
Conversation becomes the hardest thing to carry
under the weight of history
Our own senses become weapons
for and against yourself
over what to believe
Your sweet skin of fog
escaped from its sepulchre
becoming the chill winter morn
You asked if you needed a calling card
or soap box platform
to be remembered
to offer what’s inside your heart—
that healing touch, like soap
which washes us clean
Not the nightmare
that canonized your name
in a saintly manner
designed to absorb your existence
but the dream where we overcome
such a tyrannical religion
From that day forth
despite stones of judgment
from those who wished me saved—
I offered my bones as a lifeboat
rowing your truth ashore
from their disinformation war
My right hand is never empty
but packed with promise
like this blank page before me
waiting to hold the weight
of whatever it’s going to take
to restore history to its rightful place
I used to wish
that chaos wasn't stirring
its insect legs in wait
to swallow another fact
or life
Now I know no one ever leaves
before that one thing is accomplished
that one destined thing
preceding transcending the flesh
It may be one small thing
but still change the entire course
of human evolution
My life is different now
having felt your phantom hand
I see your face in the light
hear your voice in the ritual
of lapping waves against the boat
rowing you into the present moment
where you rightfully belong
Your gentle Spirit
a whispering specter of mist
over the water, so grateful
for newfound belief
in ancient truth
A blank page lays open-handed
ready to hold this story
but all that oozes from the veil
is a memory of a memory
You appeared while I was writing
Specter from a past life
my Celtic blood lived
Conversation becomes the hardest thing to carry
under the weight of history
Our own senses become weapons
for and against yourself
over what to believe
Your sweet skin of fog
escaped from its sepulchre
becoming the chill winter morn
You asked if you needed a calling card
or soap box platform
to be remembered
to offer what’s inside your heart—
that healing touch, like soap
which washes us clean
Not the nightmare
that canonized your name
in a saintly manner
designed to absorb your existence
but the dream where we overcome
such a tyrannical religion
From that day forth
despite stones of judgment
from those who wished me saved—
I offered my bones as a lifeboat
rowing your truth ashore
from their disinformation war
My right hand is never empty
but packed with promise
like this blank page before me
waiting to hold the weight
of whatever it’s going to take
to restore history to its rightful place
I used to wish
that chaos wasn't stirring
its insect legs in wait
to swallow another fact
or life
Now I know no one ever leaves
before that one thing is accomplished
that one destined thing
preceding transcending the flesh
It may be one small thing
but still change the entire course
of human evolution
My life is different now
having felt your phantom hand
I see your face in the light
hear your voice in the ritual
of lapping waves against the boat
rowing you into the present moment
where you rightfully belong
Your gentle Spirit
a whispering specter of mist
over the water, so grateful
for newfound belief
in ancient truth
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Not an entry
Imbolc
Sun returns to earth
and warms cold, damp soil
Seeds awaken from dormancy
and new vigor springs from them.
And our eyes drink in the wonder!
Goddess blesses the earth and its interior.
The fields, the herds and the homes...
She brings healing, inspiration and art.
SHE lights the sacred flame.
And our mouths touch the dense sky!
Imbolc is time for renewal,
of cleaning out the old and preparing the new.
Honor the life that is reborn
and give thanks for the gift of fire.
And our hands join the energy.
Written by PAR
(PAULO ACACIO RAMOS)
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File Risqué
or
The Imbolc for Dim Folk
*
O Brigid, Nordic goddess true of smiths,
unlike the Hebrew-Christian smith-god myths,
I honor thee for sending me the bill,
though thou hast failed to send the anvil still;
and please, O midwife sensible of storks,
since birthing forty brats, I need those corks,
besides, O idol handy with a ewe,
those healing creams for clotted hemorrhoids blue;
plus yet, O simple mistress of the home,
my widespread hips could use a hippodrome,
while too, O martial patroness of war,
a Glock might help defend my hoo-hoo sore --
oh, yeah, and I repeat, O muse divine,
no festive line should end with "asinine" . . .
*
The Imbolc for Dim Folk
*
O Brigid, Nordic goddess true of smiths,
unlike the Hebrew-Christian smith-god myths,
I honor thee for sending me the bill,
though thou hast failed to send the anvil still;
and please, O midwife sensible of storks,
since birthing forty brats, I need those corks,
besides, O idol handy with a ewe,
those healing creams for clotted hemorrhoids blue;
plus yet, O simple mistress of the home,
my widespread hips could use a hippodrome,
while too, O martial patroness of war,
a Glock might help defend my hoo-hoo sore --
oh, yeah, and I repeat, O muse divine,
no festive line should end with "asinine" . . .
*
Written by Jordan
(D.O.C.)
Go To Page
Springs Celtic rites (Filid?)
I heard her breath upon the dusk
the evensong in whispers husk
called, in the fading chirps
roosting birds,the last allerts
We felt the empathy reclaim
for each of us, held the chain
in the Green Mans root and branch
winter past and spring advance
Brigit danced with words betrothed
for in birth, gestation to a close
felt the lactose of the sun
ready breasts the earth becomes
Encamped beneath the frosted moon
fantasies that still prevailed,spoon
the mead, honeyed herbs upon wounds
welcome milk held in the womb
Assembled, listen when she spoke
auburn hair waved to her waist
jeweled words and settings grace
celibrate, seasons as they uncloak
Wildlife standing so bewitched
a symbiotic creature in their midst
music of her ringing tones
unseen spirits, leprechauns and gnomes
We see her now in silvered cloud
sun backed surf, crashing loud
expected air of pregnancy
spring swelling with vitality
Virgins may, the ceilidh prance
flowered lace upon each branch
echoes, her lyrics wing benevolence
entwines, Imbolc pertinance
the evensong in whispers husk
called, in the fading chirps
roosting birds,the last allerts
We felt the empathy reclaim
for each of us, held the chain
in the Green Mans root and branch
winter past and spring advance
Brigit danced with words betrothed
for in birth, gestation to a close
felt the lactose of the sun
ready breasts the earth becomes
Encamped beneath the frosted moon
fantasies that still prevailed,spoon
the mead, honeyed herbs upon wounds
welcome milk held in the womb
Assembled, listen when she spoke
auburn hair waved to her waist
jeweled words and settings grace
celibrate, seasons as they uncloak
Wildlife standing so bewitched
a symbiotic creature in their midst
music of her ringing tones
unseen spirits, leprechauns and gnomes
We see her now in silvered cloud
sun backed surf, crashing loud
expected air of pregnancy
spring swelling with vitality
Virgins may, the ceilidh prance
flowered lace upon each branch
echoes, her lyrics wing benevolence
entwines, Imbolc pertinance
Written by slipalong
Go To Page
Syncretize!
I know nothing of Saint Brigid
and I suppose I should
but winter remains quite frigid
if I'm not burning wood,
or switching on electric heat
to smell potatoes bake,
and roast the water, rinse, repeat,
for showers that I take.
But if she is another muse,
a patroness of verse,
she'll sweetly daze, and thus enthuse,
my thoughts to intersperse...
for lexical fertility
to stay in shape for spring,
and ward off imbecility...
like Martin Luther King!
and I suppose I should
but winter remains quite frigid
if I'm not burning wood,
or switching on electric heat
to smell potatoes bake,
and roast the water, rinse, repeat,
for showers that I take.
But if she is another muse,
a patroness of verse,
she'll sweetly daze, and thus enthuse,
my thoughts to intersperse...
for lexical fertility
to stay in shape for spring,
and ward off imbecility...
like Martin Luther King!
Written by MidnightSonneteer
Go To Page
