Saint Brigid by Patrick Joseph Tuohy (1894 – 1930) Oil on canvas
Congratulations to Nollaig Rowan, the overall winner of this year’s competition with her poem What Name Shall We Give The Baby and to the joint runners-up Maria Hoey and Stephen Brock. The 3 poems can be read below and will appear in issue 17 later in the month.
What Name Shall We Give The Baby
I was told that a wise woman from the East
Travelled from Duibhlinn to found an oak church
In a place full of birds she called Cill Dara.
In my world the Abbesses made the rules
Lording over Abbots in that matriarchal
Family in the eighth century.
I made the long journey from bloated belly
Down the birth canal to be born in February
To my Abbess mother Aifric and her holy sisters.
I was baptised with fire stoked in the plains of Cill Dara
A cloak wrapped round me for warmth in winter
My eyes held the knowledge of centuries.
Abbots looked on, helpless, but promised
Their assistance in manly tasks of wood-chopping
Deer-slaying, moon-watching and protection.
Meanwhile I grew, nameless so far
Winter robins and wise women gathered
‘We must give the child a name, a dedication’.
I squirmed in my woven wool, itchy and irritated
Do they not remember the wise woman from the East?
‘Brrr, brrree’ I mumbled from my swaddling.
‘Bríd’ one said ‘Bridgie’ said another
‘Breege’ said a third, not daring to shout
The sacred name of their founder.
When Abbess Aifric spoke she was calm
And inspired ‘My baby is Bríd-óg
Like our saint and her spideog.’
Hail Brigid, goddess of fire
Of healing, of water
And of women doing their own thing.
Nollaig Rowan
So, tell me
So, tell me,
which was it,
Brigid, Bríde, Brigantia?
Even your name is a mystery.
And who and what were you,
Saint?
Goddess?
Christian?
Pagan?
Or did you have one foot in the past
the other in the now,
as a wise woman would know how?
They claim you as their patron, you know.
all sorts,
poets and brewers,
scholars and midwives
sailors and cows.
A rum mix if you ask me.
And I have to admit
that I find it hard to pin you down,
you turner of water into beer -
I like that by the way -
the common touch
cooler than the whole wine thing…
But I like to think that you were all woman,
flesh and blood
brazen and bold,
no man would take your name from you
or anything else you did not choose to give.
And I’ll think of you,
on this day of Brigid
this Imbolc
this space between the darkness and the light
where, whoever and whatever you were,
you still shine bright.
Maria Hoey
Bonfire
“It was a pleasure to burn”
- Farenheit 451, Ray Bradbury
Beneath, below
Toiling on barren soil, the garden of my heart
I search for kindling down every avenue, each life I cycle through
And dole them out to the flames
Devour my shame, my grace; feed me your words in return
Burn bright, little bonfire, burn
Great flames lick skyward like a pack of ravenous dogs
You are my will and testament, my hungry God
A thrall to your beck and call, whore for your scorched breath on my neck
Without a care for what’s next or what came before
At no altar do my knees fold save yours
We dance madly in the garden, naked and aching, night after night
Crackling flames my lullaby; a fireside serenade
All your secret teachings I long to tease and unearth
Burn bright, little bonfire, burn
Make me your blue-eyed pagan; I’ll sing your sermon in this singed tongue
Til my throat stings and my lungs combust
Til I’m ashen faced, lamed by age, til all the nails in my coffin rust
I’m breathing smoke, savouring the taste of soot
Sure the heat hurts but God, I adore your touch
Set me alight, make a pyre of my heart
Burn bright, little bonfire, burn
The garden is stark, charred, cracked open wide
It bears no fruit save the inferno I have nurtured like a child
I am beneath, below. I am so far below. So
come, devour me whole, eat me fast, eat me slow, bite, chew, swallow
Make me yours in black baptism; wedded to the light. Make me an ember,
colour of twilight, sailing through the night like a blazing party favour
I want to live in the glow of your holy locus
I’ll starve to keep you full, so the spark may survive
Burn bright, little bonfire, burn
Fucking burn me alive
Stephen Brock
Drawn to the Light Press 