Poems: Welcoming the Good God of Ireland

I was happy to read today that two of the poems from my soon-to-be-finished collection Sun Among Stars: Poems & Prayers to Brigit of Ireland, will be published in the upcoming anthology Harp, Club, and Cauldron: A Harvest of Knowledge. The subject is the Irish god An Dagda, The Good God, so named because he was good at everything. The book will feature essays, poetry, and whatever else editors Lora O’Brien and Morpheus Ravenna find worthy of their collection. The poems will be published under my Brigidine name, Mael Brigde. (Bet you didn't know I had such a thing, did you?)

I am happy about the poems, but I am also excited about the book. I trust these editors to select well thought out works, and the Dagda is a personage I am drawn to in many ways, due only in part to his being the father of the goddess Brigit, who is of special interest to me. I look forward to reading what people have to say about him.

From their Indiegogo page:

Welcoming the Good God of Ireland

He is a king, a druid, a war chieftain, a lover, and a worker of the land. He nourishes and he kills, he loves and he fights, in equal measure. He knows the sorcerous arts of druidry and the secrets of time. He is the Dagda - the mightiest of all the Irish Gods, and yet he is often overlooked in popular approaches to the Irish Gods.  We’re here to tell his story, and we need you to help make that possible.

Eel and Otter Press is proud to bring you Harp, Club and Cauldron: a curated anthology of scholarship, lore, practice and creative writings on the Dagda. This project is spearheaded and edited by Lora O’Brien and Morpheus Ravenna, respected authors and long-term practitioners of Irish spirituality. We’re teaming up with a stellar lineup of authors, artists, and spiritual practitioners to produce a volume as rich with knowledge and spiritual sustenance as the Dagda’s inexhaustible cauldron. We’re gathering in a harvest of original, in-depth scholarship on the lore, history, and cultural context of the Dagda, insightful reflections on his place in living Irish culture and religion, beautiful devotional rites and tools for the practitioner, and gorgeous devotional artwork.

Of course, there are costs to getting this book published and that’s why we’re launching this campaign. We believe authors and artists should be paid well for quality work, and there are publishing costs to cover. So we need you to join this campaign and help us welcome the Dagda.

Harp, Club and Cauldron: A Harvest of Knowledge in a Book

Our vision for this book distills the scholarship, experience, and creative vision of the Irish and Celtic spirituality communities to bring you a harvest of knowledge. The book will feature:

• Works of original scholarship on the Dagda, his role in literature and cultural context, and related divinities
• Translated early Irish textual material with commentary
• Tools for the practitioner including prayers, rituals, recipes
• Insightful experiential writings from priests and practitioners
• Curated original creative writings
• Original artwork and illustrations

We’ve recruited some of the best scholars, spiritual practitioners, and creative writers on Irish spirituality and mythic tradition to produce original material for this book. In order to ensure that Irish voices are featured prominently in this work, we’ve carefully selected our slate of contributors, rather than put out an open call for submissions. Our contributors have been chosen for the depth of their knowledge and connection to Irish tradition and the quality and originality of their work.

Your Death Full of Flowers

by Wild Grace

At last I am able to reveal that I have several poems coming out in a breathtaking new anthology edited by Slippery Elm (who also translated the poems into Spanish, or from Spanish into English). Let me quote from the website:

Your Death Full of Flowers

A bouquet of poems arranged and translated by Slippery Elm

The thread that ties this bouquet together is that of the story of Blodeuwedd from the Mabinogion. A woman composed of flowers, who sought to kill her husband, and was thereby transformed into an owl. Blodeuwedd meaning flower-face, and the owl said to have been called blodeuwedd in the Welsh of yore. 

Just as the wizard Gwydion gathered blossoms of broom, meadowsweet, and trefoil, the editor gathers the poems to conjure something greater, a something that then goes on to wing the poetry out into the world. A deadly and nefarious agenda in the eyes of the princes of our age, or of those who are their followers and find no love or meaning but in their expendable busts. 

In the garden of these pages we encounter the whimsy and abandon of the eccentric who goes through life, toothless and in colourful rags, giving out flowers just because. Who heard the patter of Death’s slippers by their nightstand and received him with a bouquet. Who throws flowers at grooms and graves, and awoke suddenly as the rose’s final petal fell. We encounter the lyric and litany, the poison, the perfume, the lament, the laughter, and the eschatological love poem. The flowers that open above us. 

Flowers have been plucked from a well pick’d troop of poets, poets of the other breath, of the diverse brushstroke and the obscure melody. Major figures in English, Spanish, Arabic, American, and Welsh literatures, as well as newly emerging voices. Poets both young and old, and poets dead as much as living. Poets who have proven themselves worthy of the appellation, not just through prizes, accolades or infamy but through a certain generosity of the spirit and a marked commitment to the Poetry. This almost spiritual pedigree, of wise innocence, of beatific inspiration, might be boiled down into two words, which in some ways, are each a reflection of the other. For the old: trust. For the young: bravery. 

All poems appear in English and Spanish, and one in Arabic. The two languages form a dialectic in which meaning is generated in the space between them. It is in this hermeneutic tension between the Yes and the No, at the interstice between the two different tongues, between the dead nettle and white archangel, right in the centre of the book, that the beginning of an answer is given to the riddle of all riddles. 

_________________________________________

This book is a fairy dart tipped with a draught to re-enchant a chantless world. That the lector remember his or her mortality and live all the more fully for it. Our aim is true. We swear by all flowers.

Alteration to Schedule, Surrey Muse: Val's Poems Read Early

night walk by elizabeth mcclung of SCREW BRONZE

Doesn't sound like much of a news flash but if you were thinking of not going on Friday because you are not able to stay up (or out) late in the evening, this could make the difference in whether you go.

It's been decided to read Val's poems at the beginning of the evening rather than reserving them for the end, when the Open Mic usually occurs. So the info again is:

There will be a Tribute Gathering for Valerie with various performers at City Centre Library in Surrey, room 418, behind the Surrey Central SkyTrain station, on Friday, 24 October from 5:30-8:30 PM.

Thanks, Surrey Muse!

Flower Poems, near to bloomin'

I have had a handful of poems accepted for a new anthology from

Swamp Lantern Books

-- a book of poems about flowers. Don't think Victorian nosegays. Will let you know when the release date and all that rot is finalized. (Check out their website. Anthology not yet announced there.)

Very much enjoyed the challenge to look deeply at the floral world around me, and in memory, and dredge up words worth saying about my petalled friends. It made the spring so much more alive in me.

: )

Point: Poem Up at Linnet's Wings

I don't often send my poetry out--well, practically never, actually--so I was pleased when the Irish magazine Linnet's Wings accepted my poem "Point". You can pop over there to see it and everything else they have on offer, or you can just read it here:

point

there is no response
but standstill
to this fresh hit

past and future
so far foreshortened
press in against now

as a single point
i neither flee nor speak
nor hide away
there is nothing left
but this

The Prizes: "Roksana" & "Posture of the Infinite"

Back in the mists of time I did an interactive interview and chat for Bitten By Books. The prizes included a poem and a story written to specs given by the winners. (Within limits. See the bottom of this post for details or check out the video interview and text chat at the BBB site.) 

I wrote the poem "Roksana" for Rose last November. This is what she'd said: "Ok, protagonist's name is Roksana, and the ability she has is shape shifting to any animal. Roksana loves paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Chocolate is her life." Rose mentioned that she was from Uzbekistan, and told me a bit about what is important to her. I tried to bear all this in mind while crafting the poem, which turned out to be about a were snow leopard. It was great fun to write it and to be in touch with the delightful Rose.

Elisa took longer to decide what she wanted her story to be about. (I can relate! I took much longer to figure out how to write it!) She came up with this: " Based on the types of things you have in your repertoire, I think a story that touches on the process of a character finding his/her path in life would be great. I think most of us ask ourselves every now and again, “What is my purpose? Surely, I was meant to do something!” It’d be great to see this question answered by a divine someone in this character’s life. Be it a fairy, goddess, grocery clerk, you name it. Does that make sense? Actually, it would be pretty neat if the person directing people to their “right paths” was someone you’d least expect. Like that grocery store clerk, or perhaps the homeless man you pass by at the corner every week. Or a bus driver." 

Elisa hasn't yet seen her story. I have a little editing left to do on it. But it is not quite what she or I probably expected, based on her notes. The thing that I stumbled on was the "purpose in life". I have a hard time with that concept; I don't believe we have a single purpose, a single path that will suit or fulfill or be best for us. But I do believe we get knocked off any good path at times and people, situations, unorchestrated epiphanies can bring us to a new awareness that will help us get onto a path worth following. That is what I ended up writing about in "Posture of the Infinite", which features a woman who remembers countless past incarnations, and is a human for the first time.

Both of these writing projects were challenges for me and I loved that about them. My contact with Rose and Elisa was a great pleasure, too. I wondered if I was biting off more than I could chew by offering these prizes, but I am very glad I took the chance. I hope Rose and Elisa are, too! I regret the long delay in delivering Elisa's story--after my dad's death I lost all feeling for writing for several months--but I'm glad I got to ponder it long enough that I finally came up with something I think is worth giving her.

 
Prize 1: A story written for You. You choose the genre and the time period. Tell me up to three things about the protagonist (a name, an ability, something she hates or something she likes – it’s up to you) and I will do the rest. Or you can choose a theme - say, art and the paranormal or alien shopping or whatever you’re curious about, and I’ll come up with the character, etc. Or you can leave it all up to me. In any case, tell me a little about yourself and what you like or what is important to you, and I will bear that in mind as I write. The publishing rights remain with me, but the story is dedicated to you and you see it first. I’ll send you a signed printout when it’s done. Heck, if you like I’ll call and read it to you. Plus you will receive a personalized signed copy of Finding Creatures & Other Stories. (Note: writing a story takes time! This won’t come instantly but it’ll get there soon enough.)

Prize 2: A personalized signed copy of Finding Creatures & Other Stories plus a poem in the genre of your choice. Choose one element of the poem and I’ll do the rest. See Prize 1 above for details.

5th annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam for Brigid

Autumn Hiscock passed on through Facebook the invitation to publish Brigit poetry all over the web today.

And why would we do this?

Brigit is a Celtic triple goddess, as well as a saint of later and different but related fame. As a goddess she is patron (matron?) of Poetry, Healing, and Smithcraft. So it is not surprising that many writers of a Pagan or Christian bent are attracted to this personage. (Go to the bottom of this post to see my offering.)

Autumn encourages us to "Help weave a web of poetry today in honour of Brigid by posting a poem (original or otherwise) on your blog, journal, Facebook page, Twitter, or somewhere else (who says you can’t write one out and pin it to a bulletin board at work, or tape it to your office door?). Leave links to it in the comments area of other post...ed poems; follow the other links you find online to read a vast woven web of poetry today."

Here is the original invitation from Oak:

5th annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam for Brigid
Feel free to copy the following to your blog/facebook/website and spread
the word. Let poetry bless the blogosphere once again!

WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading

WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2010

WHERE: Your blog

WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day

HOW: Select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - to
post February 2nd.

RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on
this post. Last year when the call went out there was more poetry in
cyberspace than I could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear
about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun.

Please pass this invitation on…

Hail, Poetry! Let the web be woven!

Autumn's offering can be found at http://www.owldaughter.org/blog/?p=2761

and here is mine. From 20 February 1995:

St. Brigit of Kildare

she was a short woman with heavy hair
the colour of peat
plaited and pinned back recklessly
her skin bore a swarthy
neolithic caste
hips hands forehead
broad and strong as rock

she never read
nor spoke from a pulpit
and no
she didn't appoint bishops
hang her garment on a beam of sun
cause the milk to flow
from calfless teats

she never met saint patrick
didn't catch the slippery christ
as he was squeezed from his mother's pelvis
she never was a goddess
though she believed in many
her god was well accompanied

the land spoke to both of them
birds' pathways meant much
and a poem sung on an injured part could heal

yeats would not have known her
we would not have known her
she would have stared at us
from crooked brows
if she had seen how we'd picture her

she would have trod on
momentarily
a sort of prayer inherent
in her breath her step
her glance at the harebell
on the moist edge of the spring

Squandered Splendid Years

thank you to Doctissimo.ca for this image

Yesterday, as I have not tired of telling you, was my 52nd birthday. I had a lovely time. Not having the energy to organize a party this year, I instead had breakfast with sister Saya and nephew Harper, then hung out with them for the day. Harper was leaving for his first solo tour of Canada, so half way through the day we shifted from celebrating my birthday to celebrating his launching into a new phase of life. It was a sweet transition.

Reading The Mentor Book of Irish Poetry this morning I uncovered these words of Padraic Pearse:

I have squandered the splendid years:
Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,
Aye, fling them from me!
For this I have had in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,
Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow's teen,
Shall not bargain or huxter with God...

Brave, humble, and jubilant words for a man about to be executed for his commitment to the cause of Irish independence. (I'll put the entire poem in the comments section for those who are interested. Or you can go to http://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/Poetry/PadraicPearse.html for more of his poetry.)

But for me, right now, what the words say is this:

There is no cause for regret. What is, is. There is exultation in living as we have lived, however critical we may be of our choices. It is a triumph to be alive, whatever the pain.

I had thoughts of myself, yesterday, as a person once folded into a skinny skinpacket and steeped in my mother's watery nature, bound by her muscles and bounded by her bones. It is a strange thing to think of, that I was me and yet I had never breathed, had never looked around me, had no worry about whether I was too stiff to bend over and get back to standing again. A fleshly being of infinite possibilities, before the first word of the story was set down on the page, and the plot began to be limited, step by step, as it must in order to proceed.

I like that feeling. That remembering that once I was as I was then, and that now I am as I am now, and that a long and rambling line connects me from there to here. Cool. Cool to be alive.

Happy birthdays, every one.

Skeleton Dance

This poem of mine has been rattling around on the hinternet for 9 years now, but has anybody read it? I dunno! So how about I put it here and maybe one of you will plop your eyes on it and have a peek.

why dance this dance of death skeleton jangling hollow bones together brittle bones like flutes that wail lonely in the wind why dance when the grave is cool and deep around you when the grave night sleep is calling you on to lie to rest to slumber leaden why nimbly dance instead shimmy through the interstices wriggle wormlike up through peeks and cracks rattle on your moss grown mound and flail against the night why not die the cricket's death chirrup ceasing stoneblack body growing dry against the hill lifedust trembling in the slightest breeze hollowed out by age why not die this death this death why not just die i will not die the insect's death never dancing to be free i will shimmy through the maze of airholes left inside my grave i will issue from my tomb and sing the hollow song i will rattle with the wind until my bones catch flesh and flesh grows on me until bone and ligament are clothed in silk again until hair sprouts dark and billowing and my eyes spark dark and gay and life flows whole and beckoning from my limbs i will not lie this death of death but dance out from my grave because i live because i live because i live C. June Wolf

©1999 Obsidian Magazine

for the beautiful original setting, go to Obsidian's site (RIP!). Skeleton Dance.

What Wolf Cubs Need

I have recently re- connected with a long lost niece who is a grown woman now and the mother of an eleven year old girl. Knowing she is an artist, like her mother, I had asked her in an email if she had a site where i could look at her work. She doesn't, but she told me that she, too, is a writer, and has posted many of her poems on the internet. This is the note I wrote back to her, along with a poem I wrote in 1993--"What Wolf Cubs Need".

thanks for the note, in the midst of all your busyness.

you're lucky. one day more and i would have PHONED you! (hey, not such a bad idea, really... maybe in a couple of weeks when the Hubby-Momma has passed through town.)

i'm thrilled that you are a writer, too! i love writing much much much. if you have a science fiction bookstore anywhere around you can find a couple of my stories at the moment--one is in an anthology called Tesseracts 9, that came out last summer, and the other is in the current issue of On Spec: the Canadian Magazine of the Fantastic.

i will dig into your poems on your poetry site. very cool that you are doing that. i guess i will have to board a plane and track you down if i want to see your drawings ever. later, later...

meanwhile, i'm glad you enjoyed my haiti notes, and that your daughter did. i look forward to talking with her about her dreams someday. they sound great. have you ever heard of the american poet, langston hughes? he wrote great verses with bright nuggets of truth in them. i always remember this one:

hold fast to dreams
for if dreams die
life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly

hold fast to dreams
for if dreams go
life is a barren field
covered in snow

i've hung onto that even when dreaming seemed fruitless. now that i have one of my oldest dreams back--writing--life is filled with many delicious fruits, indeed!

here's another one that he wrote. it also encourages the dreamer, but not only to dream, to act!

But someday, somebody'll
stand up and talk about me
and write about me
black and beautiful
and sing about me
and put on plays about me!
I reckon it'll be
me myself!
Yes, it'll be me.

i'm thinking of going back to australia, myself. i was there in 1985--about five minutes ago, by my watch--and stayed for five months. what a beautiful place! being your mother's daughter, i suspect you have a deep love for the outdoors, and there are so many amazing places and so many amazing plants and animals there--you and your daughter would not be disappointed.

it's funny. it strikes me when i say that about you and your mom, and knowing how true it is of me and several other of my sisters...how did we get that way? so in love with beauty and wildness, so sensitive toward animals and plants and the environment.

it isn't true of everyone, or even of most people, and it isn't as though our folks made a big point of it. so how did we get so lucky? it must have been there in the home environment somehow--oh, i know what it was, partly, anyway. even though the folks weren't BIG-time into it themselves, they didn't get in the way of our loving the natural world--animals, for instance.

lots of people grow up with one or two pets over a lifetime if they're lucky, and they're kept outside or in little cages and never get to be part of the family. i think that often those people grow up without really falling in love with their animals (and it is a small jump from falling in love with animals to falling in love with their natural homes). i remember a time when we had ten people, four bedrooms, a dog, three cats, three rabbits, two guinea pigs and a budgie. in the city! (i was only supposed to get one guinea pig, but when i told them the lady said it would be lonely on its own, they grudgingly accepted it...but gave it to my younger sister.)

and of course, mom and dad were just as amused by the critters as we were, even if they didn't have quite the same feelings about them or the same approach to their care. (like, say, they actually thought we should feed them and clean their cages. weirdoes!)

in fact, in her extreme dotage, say when she was around forty, mom turned into a pretty big animal-lover herself, adopting all the stray cats and feeding squirrels and raccoons and generally making a nuisance of herself in the neighbourhood. so i guess the germ of that was always there, and we picked it up.

then there were all those nature shows on tv. nowadays there are endless superhero cartoons and so on but back then there was much less of interest to kids on tv, and the wildlife stuff was the best. the antelopes ran, and i ran with them. the wolves howled, and i cried, too. the lions tore apart their prey, and one piece of me was munching while the other piece was being torn apart. (brrrghghgh.) even the close-ups of water dripping from a leaf, or mists in the northern woods were incredibly stirring. what a blessing! even though we never camped or stayed in cabins in the woods or any of that, we were steeped in the wonder of the Great Outdoors.

anyway, my dear, i am rattling on when you should be ramming down walls, so i will let you go.

one day, i'll send you one of my old poems. (i mostly write stories now.) ah, heck, i'll give you one now.

much love,
me


what wolf cubs need

brown and curled and wet with mother's dew
each cub slides into this world
cleaned tongued nuzzled
until the mewling starts
until the new wolf waves her helpless nailed paws
into the air
against her mother's cheek
until the sealed eyes and questing mouth
find their way to her white-filled source
every cub needs her mother
her brothers and sisters, too
to lean against in slumber
tumble over
tweak in play
to run with
growling
growing smart gleeful strong
each cub needs her father
warm against the night
gambolling when mother's gone to hunt
stretched out calm and watchful
running quick and eager
barking against those who'd pull her down

those cubs who have them are the lucky ones
cubs with "aunts" and "uncles"
who wrestle long with them
who sleep with eat with
bring treats to them
you are my uncle wolf
caring when you need not care
bringing me the long red leg of a fallen deer
to chew and fight and chew
you are my brother wolf
wrestling playing
barely conscious of the cougar on the hill
you are my comrade wolf
and i walk with you contented
safe as i can be
on this long expanse
of snow

copyright C. June Wolf
3 June 1993
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