Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
imbolc
Posted on February 2, 2019
Imbolc ˈɪmbɒlk/ noun

i asked the bear,
do you know what imbolc
is?
he stared at me with glassy eyes.

i told him. it is
today.
i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.
jeremy wyatt Jan 2011
Poor mad Bran sat at the edge of the well
scratching  and pulling at the stones
through days of cold and rain
summers blaze
whispering to himself words of no import
no-one understands this poor mad man
sat with his hound that never leaves his side
the people feeding and warming him when they could
a big man with no mind they said
but he had a smile for the children
and could cure a lame horse with a touch
then scratches at the stone and talk  again
at mid summer's eve he stopped talking and listened

On Midsummer's day he was gone
at lughnasadh he was found at the well
freshly healed wounds on him and the brave hound
and a girl-child with no voice to speak
but she could smile and sing of the sea
they took the girl to the great hall
but she came to sit each day at Bran's side
listening and singing to him in the evening
waiting for them to come for her

They came  at Imbolc
biting frost days wise women sensed them
creeping slow stained fields defiled by their foulness
the child is what they want
and some would quail and give her up
the women blessed her
set her upon on her horse
asked  for it to run it's small heart out

doors crashed, splintered wood
swords and spears flash and jab
evil tries to take her back
but she is gone and evil  must follow
hindered by men and their strength
women and their hearts and knives

Bran digs in the stones where he scratches
shouts to his hound "Guide Her back to the sea.."
drags the sword out from the rocks
where he has guarded it all these long years
then waits for evil to come
Iron-clad heavy, black steel and hate
ten spared the chase to bring terror and death
"You will all die..." their eyes flash
Yes, but not here, not today,  Bran's smile back..

Gone now leaving scarecrow corpses
nothing evil daring to come past
the wreck of bodies  he scattered
armour scales flew like ****** rain as he bites through
to their blackened hearts
then runs to the sea to meet fate and the coming change
he catches them at the strands edge
cold spume driven by the east wind
soaking the wounded dog and the horse collapsed
foam flecked, stricken, and the child who won't leave them

Thundering their hate an onslaught of rage
horses of the sea rise up and drag so many down
but a few keep on, the strongest ones
Bran sees them, He knows there is no hell
but these would take her somewhere worse
so he will stand alone and face their curse
He whispers quietly again to what flies above him
all these patient years they guarded and watched
he was the first to bring the cross to this wild land
but waited till now to show his hand

Swords and strength blood and wounds battling on
until even he is struck down,
Angel guardians silent watch his doom.
Broken spear driven through his chest
but still striving to live and save

The Great Dark One moves in to take the child
sneers, plots to soil and twist her to his will
the last one Bran could just not ****
but She looks up with gentle tears
"What would you have me do"? Asked this
child of the Elder Gods..
" Take me to your realm,
so I may be the darkest of all powers."
"No" says Bran,"With one final embrace,
I take you with me to heaven, with Christ's grace.."
Hugging him tight, Bran's death-spear kills two,
one forgiving one forgiven, as the weapon drives through

And the waves drifts slowly in washing the hurt from
child and beasts,  She drifts in the tide ,
horse now beside her playing in new form
guardian of the child of the sea,
who this Man of God She  Mourns
But the dog, strong again returns
to sit by the well and remember his master,
the coming of Mad Bran and the dawn
of the  Old God's passing.
This is a story in my head I have shrunk down to this size for fun. I will try and do it properly one day, that and a thousand other things I mean to do!
Paige Feb 2019
The sun will rise again
The gnarled branches will bloom
The forest will yawn
And sleepy sighs will follow
The frost will melt
And the soil will give birth
To a new world
Dawn is coming
The creatures sing with her arrival
Gone will be the ice
That separated us from her warmth
Shadows will dissipate
And the wild will grow anew
Our bodies will thrive
My body is her garden
Soothed by her presence
Awakened by her opening eyes
I am a part of her
One with the earth and the creatures roaming
This is our rebirth
Our celebration
Together we welcome the morning
We feast through the glorious day
And by fire light we pray for the harvest
Welcome, mother
We have been waiting
i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.



.
A trenchant thought cut through the rest
to jolt me out of this haze (I savour), and
as the noxious redolence of Aetherius left
the fog of Endorphus settled in its stead;
While the mists of the oraculate cast
their insidious shadows upon
my bare chest.

Lughnasadh, Samhain, Imbolc and Beltane shall come to pass!
By harvest, hallows-even, spring and summer will it matter?
Pharmahuasca maelstrom drank the earth.
and I began to wander, in wonder again.
K Mae Feb 2014
In the belly
of the Mother
unseen the God
Spirit is received
In the belly
of the Mother
unseen the seeds
begin to quicken
In the belly
of the Mother*
sacred reunion
fertility of Earth
The Pagan holiday Imbolc, meaning in the belly of the Mother,
celebrated beginning  sundown February 1 continuing through  February 2.  
We are halfway to Vernal Equinox, Spring.
Anjelica Feb 2013
We
You
I
It is all a reflection.
The pond ripples
and we feel the Earth
tremble.
Our body changes
and frequencies are radiated
But the tree stands tall
and strong
unchanged by the waves of the world
constantly staring at Himself
through the looking glass of the water.
He is eternal,
unchanging
However,
when the reflection does something
extraordinary
His heart swells
and the feeling goes
D
     O
        W
            N
through His roots
reaching into the pond
and releasing his love
into the world
and into each reflection...

*This is where Spring was born
A reminder -

It is still winter,
We are still in the thick of it,
Chains and snowshoes
are still requisite,
Imbolc and Candlemas
are still to pass,
Groundhogs hibernate,
Tarns still as glass,
The tumbling finch song
has yet to be sung,
and even the false spring,
has not yet sprung.

So lie still a while longer,
Let the chill freeze you through,
Warmer days will return
in their own time,
And so will you.
Meet me among the numbing fields
where the cream narcissus grows.

Where my desperate human voice sings
against the flow of the autumn winds.

Do you hear the pillars of my empathy crumbling?

The wicked Imbolc has passed,
leaving me naked and sick in the light
of longer days.

Yellow-trumpeted blooms of each joss flower
are caught swaying to the emptying sounds
of my apathy.

Where I have been patiently waiting for
the flowering blood of hyacinth.
Derek Yohn Dec 2013
Tomorrow is just today re-lived for Punxsutawney Phil.
It is odd to me that he is so very human, hunkered
low against the cold winds of winter's wrath until
finally, in celebration of Imbolc he rises to survey his vast
lands, a keen eye to the ground to scout out this years'
competition, even if it is only his shadow.

Phil's home in the burrow on Gobbler's **** is the
family sanctuary; there is a joke there but it is beyond
me, God.  Just please keep us warm and brave, looking
to the sky instead of the ground, our shadows to our
backs where they will always belong.
Imbolc = the Gaelic festival marking the beginning of spring, celebrated at the end of January/start of February

Gobbler's **** is the name of the hill where Punxsutawney Phil (Groundhog Day) lives...
andy fardell Feb 1
How bright is your light of white and blue
Brided be blessed on fire anew
Some be green or the yellow of sun
Half be the in and shine out the dark
Ti's a beginning of the beginnings
Tickled snowdrops only mother to know
Our future is safe and so be the
Lighten candles of spring
Janet Doyle Feb 2022
The night flashed in a sudden light,
Followed by the thunder’s roar,
Catching my eye, the brilliant bright,
I watched the sky, waited for more,
In dead of night, a sign of hope,
A storm blown in by winds of change,
Changing my mind, changing my scope,
My mind, like clouds, to rearrange,
The coming storm, to wash the past,
Brings flashing light to show the way,
To feel alive, the storm to pass,
To fight again another day,
A wind to knock me off my feet,
Water’s depth to swim or sink,
A mountain’s high, a daring feat,
My complex mind, to overthink,
And in the night an endless peace,
Knowing these things, are my friend,
My pain, my soul, my mind’s release,
The warming sun to feel again.

JHenry
The date of the celebration
(the second day of February) coincides
with medieval feast of Candlemas,
and its pre-Christian predecessor,
Imbolc, a day also rich in folklore.

An old Scottish prophecy foretells
sunny weather on Candlemas
means a long winter.

The tradition is recounted in this poem:
As the light grows longer
The cold grows stronger
If Candlemas be fair and bright
Winter will have another flight
If Candlemas be cloud and snow
Winter will be gone and not come again
A farmer should on Candlemas day
Have half his corn and half his hay
On Candlemas day if thorns hang a drop
You can be sure of a good pea crop.

Punxsutawney Phil is the focal point
of oldest and largest annual
Groundhog Day celebration,
held in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania,
every year since 1886.

Members of Phil’s “Inner Circle”
claim he is now 137 years old,
(rumor circulates this one groundhog lived
to make weather prognostications
since 1886, sustained by drinks
of "groundhog punch"
or "elixir of life" administered
at annual Groundhog
Picnic in the fall),
hence thanks to said magical
life-extending serum
they feed him each year—
and his predictions
one hundred percent accurate.

Coincides with astronomy's
first cross-quarter day,
marking the midpoint between
winter solstice and
spring (vernal) equinox,
which will occur at 5:24 PM on
in Northern Hemisphere
Eastern Standard Time
Monday, March 20, 2023

Small consolation old man winter
spans fewest days
of all four seasons,
especially when

A powerful nor'easter
will develop in western Atlantic
beginning late Friday,
(February third two thousand
and twenty three)
bringing heavy snow,
strong winds and
coastal flooding to parts
of the East Coast,
but there remains
a larger than usual amount
of uncertainty in forecast
for this storm.

Yours truly remembers
when spry Jack (****) Frost
(just yea high -
both arms stretched to sky)
came early, left late and bossed
zealous vernal equinox
rattling barenaked lady branches
obviously inapropos
to budding friendship.

Now (courtesy global warming/ climate change)
mother nature experiences feeling strange
within valleys and atop many mountain range,
wherein goods traded away on stock exchange.

Fortunate concerning yours truly
versus daring to brave
inclement treacherous weather
getting stranded in the process
(possibly becoming gratefully dead)
risking life and limb venturing forth

amidst near whiteout conditions
creating debacle perilous and grave
shoveling snow lest he get buried
he can remain holed up
(in tandem with the missus)
snug as a bug in his mancave.

While nestled inside warm abode for awhile
(at least until temperature upwards doth dial
safely ensconced against elements (of style),
I stopped at metaphoric woods edge
trekking until... for no rhyme nor reason
the poetic metered equivalent,
viz another mile
then stopped for coffee break

burst of energy gave me cause to smile
fording imponderable stream of consciousness
impossible (airy) mission to dodge regarding
aforesaid daunting task to craft worthwhile
poetic endeavor to entertain anonymous readers
gleaning how one bard (with his shaky spear)
evokes fiction being snowbound
as if cast adrift within Siberian exile.

Straightaway I continue writing askew
aware how literary trademark modality
characteristic of one hapless wordsmith
unwittingly indelibly embedded
analous to mine Caucasian
versus swarthy melanin hue

man automatically confers eligibility granting
innumerable known mighty opportunities
(privileged skin color - how unfair)
bigoted prejudices shade those
either hashtagged as black,
naturally copper toned gentile and/or Jew.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
HISTORY. . .HAPPENS.

It is 11.32
in 1132 and  - now.

A sunset sets fire
to Kildare

burns it to the ground.

Night takes the town
in its arms.

Memory sets fire to time.

I, a mind invisible
( divisible by all )

move through the pages
of history

slip silently through
the ages

an unobserved
observer.

The ghost I've
yet to be.

The latitude of now
the longitude of then

the ****** flux
of history.

Voices scattered throughout time
( spoken in a 16th century accent )

whisper to me
greedily

wanting to be
remembered.

". . .the successor of Brigit
was betrayed

carried off...put into a man's bed
forced to submit to him."

"I hear you..!" I say
". . .I hear you!

". . .seven score killed
in Cill Dara...most of it burnt..!

The Chronicles tell
the tattered tale.

The voices once again
lost in the wind.

Diarmud Mac Murrough's
violence on Kildare

happens all over
again and again

written upon the wind.

The **** of the abbess
destroying the divinity

of her authority
her harmony.

A woman baptises
her new born

with milk
as in the old way.

The fires of her age
flickering across her frightened face.

Brigit born anew.

Time tamed
comes to my side

licks my hand
like some mythical hound.

"Take me back..."
I command
". . .to my own now!"

"Now!"
I cry.

Out of the Silken Thomas
one two and three inebriated

merrymakers sway and spill
out into the Christmas of I984.

One big one small and one very very tall
together they sing

informing the yet-to-be
of what is lost and past.

"Rejoyce!" the snow says:
"...snow falling faintly through the universe

and falling faintly...upon the living and the dead."

I tell the night
that is already passing into

the great beyond.

"Remember O Thou Man
Oh Thou Man, oh Thou Man.

Remember, O Thou Man
Thy time is spent.

Remember, O Thou Man
How thou camest to me then

And I did what I can
therefore re. . ."

*

Walking through Kildare one passes through all the history still hanging in the air...once one has heard the voices of those who have passed before us...it is impossible not to hear them ever again...the air is stained with the history of their times and the soul cannot but soak up all that has happened.
Brighid reappears in various guises in various times and seems part historic, part mythic, part Christian, part pagan. One of her dualities is that she is herself but also an incarnate representative of Mary.
She is the protectress of dairymaids and is associated with February lambing day (one of the four primary Gaelic holy days, Imbolc, meaning "bag of cream" or "butter-womb"). She was born herself by manifesting from a bucket of milk being carried out the door by her mother, a milkmaid. And the Irish Catholic Church, before it came under the aegis of the Roman Catholic Church, baptised in milk rather than water. My Auntie Nelly used to put the sign of the cross on the flanks of our cows by dipping her fingers in the milk.
As the first abbess of Kildare ( Church of the Oak ****-dara ) she was followed by an unbroken line of abbesses who commanded great respect from the people and were responsible through the saint’s order for maintaining by precise ritualistic means a continuous fire ignited by St. Brighid before her death in ca. 522. The abbesses were assisted in this by 19 nuns. With the sack of Kildare the fire of centuries was finally snuffed out.
The **** of the Abbess of Kildare in 1132 destroyed her sanctity and rendering her unfit for her office. MacMurrough imposed in her place a kinswoman of his own.
Her **** paved the way for the Norman occupation of Ireland.
James Joyce was intensely proud of being born on February 02, lambing day, that is on Imbolc, which by the old reckoning shares the claim for being St. Bridgid's Day along with February. The Celtic day was measured in a lunar manner like the extant Semitic calendars so that a calendar day begins at sunset, not midnight). Joyce considered St. Brighid to be his muse and liked to have his works first issued on February 02 to honour her.
She is invoked in all post-Chamber Music work. As St. Bride Brighid continues to maintain her abbey, now a "finishing establishment" for the "The Floras . . . a month's bunch of pretty maidens." She is Maria in "Clay," the moocow in Portrait, the old milk woman in Ulysses, the maid in Exiles, the broken branch in "Tilly," (one means allowed to stoke the sacred fire at Kildare was to wave air over it with a branch), and a thousand references to milk and things bovine in FW.
The Norman-Anglo Conquest of Ireland began in 1169, when a mercenary invasion force from Norman-occupied Wales captured Wexford and Waterford. A year later they took Dublin, and over the next century, 75% of Ireland would fall. Dermot MacMurrough's wily reign of deceit, beginning in 1132, paved the way for the Norman occupation.
is noted that a conversation started on the original comment

with thoughts such as mine which is interesting

yet the first remark darted

and as you may know that we have come to know ourselves better since the isolation so have hidden

comment that there was a wish for more participants which comes ironic

for now there is one less

while the day was imbolc

so we walked the country paths

noted new green growth and those with country habits

i go rake wet leaves
LÁ FHÉILE BRIDE - SAINT BRIGID'S DAY

( for Noreen )

even Brigid's statue
protects the little birds
nestling behind her

and as a little garsún
wasn't it to the birds
I would pray

believing that Brigid
was releasing them
to Spring skies

*

St. Brigid's Garrison Church in the Curragh Camp where I was born...this statue was woven into the fabric of my childhood. Birds used to nest behind her wooden cloak. Her cross is the only cross I can bear and was a staple of every Irish home when my childhood was in full bloom. Great story of her going to ask the King for a bit of land to build a convent on and he laughed and said you can have as much as your cloak can cover. So being the good saint she was....she spread her cloak and it covered miles and miles. Never mess with a saint!

Of course it is also the beginning of Imbolc (pronounced 'im'olk')that good old Pagan festival if you are that way inclined.

An Irish word that was originally thought to mean 'in the belly' although many people translate it as 'ewe's milk' (oi-melc)all associated with the pregnancy of ewe and the giving of milk. The Curragh Plains are of course festooned with many many sheep so that made it all the more real for us.

It is a festival based on seasonal changes associated with the onset of lambing and the blooming of the Blackthorn.

She is the Goddess of among other things....those curious creatures we call....poets.

Indeed wasn't auld Jemmy de Joist born the very next day in the wake of her feast day and the days beginning to lengthend.

An old proverb from Scotland tells us....
Thig an nathair as an toll
Là donn Brìde,
Ged robh trì troighean dhen t-sneachd
Air leac an làir.

The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bríde,
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground.

Spring has indeed been sprung from the depths of winter.

The Statue of St. Brigid & Children can be seen over the main entrance. The statue is eight feet in height and was carved in teak by the late Oisin Kelly who is best known for his The Children of Lir (1964) in the Garden of Remembrance,, Jim Larkin (1977) O'Connell Street and his Chariot of Life (1982) at the Irish Life Center.

And didn't auld Seamus give him a mention in his second "Glanmore Sonnet."

"'These things are not secrets but mysteries',
Oisin Kelly told me years ago
In Belfast, hankering after stone
That connived with the chisel, as if the grain
Remembered what the mallet tapped to know."

So from the wee buachaill I once was I could join the dots from statue to statue and all the way into a Heaney sonnet Brigid lore of yore.
February is like a phantom
Passing swiftly through the door.
It’s the soul-month of the year,
The snowdrop, the little month.
Love whom you love
With all the love you have
For time will not wait.
None of us are going home.
You won’t keep your name,
It’ll burn out like a flame.
Even the lamb that strayed
Will be found to be splayed.
Passengers on a ship of fools,
It’s for you I come to shrive.
February is like a ghost,
It glides across the floor.
What is any of it about?
You and I are all we have.
Happy birthday February!
From Imbolc soars a silver ball,
And then that will be all.

— The End —