Today is the day we witches celebrate the clear movement towards Spring that we've made since Yule. The sun gets up earlier, stays up later, shines a stronger and different quality of light upon us these days. On Imbolc, we honor the Goddess Brigid, a goddess of the fire of inspiration, the well of creativity, of smithcraft and of poetry.
Reya started, and Deborah Oak has continued, a great new tradition: blogging poetry on Imbolc to honor Brigid. And, so, in between getting ready for a houseful of witches this evening, spending some silent time at my own altar, and standing in a sweater on the porch, letting the firey sun shine through my closed eyelids, I'll share a few of the poems that I love.
Hail, Brighid, the Bright. Hail and Welcome!
St. Francis And The Sow
The bud stands for all things, even those things that don't flower, for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing; though sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on the brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing; as St. Francis put his hand on the creased forehead of the sow, and told her in words and in touch: blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow began remembering all down her thick length, from the earthen snout all the way through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail, from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine down through the great broken heart to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."