branches up, roots down

Here is my offering: Someday Our Peace Will Come - Ellyn Maybe one day poetry dropped from the sky and the animals grew iambic pentameter tails and the people breathed in stars one day music dropped from the sky and the architecture turned symphonic and the people breathed in harmony one day memory dropped from the sky and the past present and future sifted like flour and the people breathed in wonder smoke and ash as distant as two sides of the same coin

Mindful Every day I see or I hear something that more or less kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle in the haystack of light. It is what I was born for - to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world - to instruct myself over and over in joy, and acclamation. Nor am I talking about the exceptional, the fearful, the dreadful, the very extravagant - but of the ordinary, the common, the very drab, the daily presentation, Oh, good scholar, I say to myself, how can you help but grow wise with such teachings as these - the untrimmable light of the world, the ocean's shine, the prayers that are made out of grass? Mary Oliver

Stars Here in my head, language keeps making its tiny noises. How can I hope to be friends with the hard white stars whose flaring and hissing are not speech but a pure radiance? How can I hope to be friends with the yawning spaces between them where nothing, ever, is spoken? Tonight, at the edge of the field, I stood very still, and looked up, and tried to be empty of words. What joy was it, that almost found me? What amiable peace? Then it was over, the wind roused up in the oak trees behind me and I fell back, easily Earth has a hundred thousand pure contraltos - even the distant night bird as it talks threat, as it talks love over the cold, black fields. Once, deep in the woods, I found the white skull of a bear and it was utterly silent - and once a river otter, in a steel trap, and it too was utterly silent. What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places? Listen, listen, I'm forever saying, Listen to the river, to the hawk, to the hoof...

Yesterday was a good day. I got drunk on poetry, all the plum trees on my street burst into bloom, as if on Brigid's cue, and the day ended with hearing my all-time favorite bad poem. Yes, my favorite bad poem. Years back, a friend had a birthday party where all the guests read a bad poem they had written or did some bad performance art. It was fantastic! There's something completely liberating about creating Bad Art. It's also not quite as easy as it sounds. Try it! There's lots of words that are crying out to be included. Reading poetry all day yesterday, I learned from a lover of Tennyson that we can now adopt abandoned and neglected ones as our own at Savethewords.org . Your poem need not be full of tortiloquy, it just needs to be bad. My favorite poem at that reading years back was one that my friend's partner, Bill Simpich read. It has stayed with me for over 15 years. This year, I went to their house for a small Brigid ritual which included poetry (m...

In honor of Brigid, Goddess of Poetry and Healing, this year my contribution is a poem written in 1860 by one of my favorite American mystics, Walt Whitman. Follow the links in the comments section of this post and the original invitation to the great web of poetry that is being spun today. States! by Walt Whitman STATES! Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers? By an agreement on a paper? Or by arms? Away! I arrive, bringing these, beyond all the forces of courts and arms, These! to hold you together as firmly as the earth itself is held together. The old breath of life, ever new, Here! I pass it by contact to you, America. O mother! have you done much for me? Behold, there shall from me be much done for you. There shall from me be a new friendship—It shall be called after my name, It shall circulate through The States, indifferent of place, It shall twist and intertwist them through and around each other— Compact shall they be, showing new signs, Affection shall...

My pledge to Brigid is already showing signs of working on me. Decades back, when we were creating what has become the Reclaiming Tradition , we started making pledges in front of a big tub of water ( Brigid’s well) which held a cauldron of fire (Brigid’s flame ). This was done in a public ritual where one by one people would pledge with the community bearing witness. Over the years, I’ve made pledges that have shifted my life, and witnessed plenty that I knew would bring change. I haven’t been to a public ritual in several years, but this year I followed the call and found myself back in front of the well and the flame. My pledge this year was and is to embrace gratitude as an organizing principle and to treasure my son, my partner, and my beloved friends. My birthday was on Saturday and the whole day my pledge kept resonating. I am so blessed! My partner and I started the day with a trip to the farmer's market. If there ever was an urban pagan place of worship,...

Today is the day. It's bitter cold, and yet, spring waits. I've been mulling on what poem to post and yesterday I knew it had to be one by Walt Whitman. I opened Leaves of Grass to this poem. Perfect. Unseen Buds UNSEEN buds, infinite, hidden well, Under the snow and ice, under the darkness, in every square or cubic inch, Germinal, exquisite, in delicate lace, microscopic, unborn, Like babes in wombs, latent, folded, compact, sleeping; Billions of billions, and trillions of trillions of them waiting, (On earth and in the sea - the universe - the stars there in the heavens,) Urging slowly, surely forward, forming endless, And waiting ever more, forever more behind. Walt Whitman Follow the comments on this blog to more poetry or the many many comments and links on the original invite . Thank you to all who participate. Thank you to the poets. And thank you, miraculous earth who holds the unseen buds and births spring out of winter.

There's been a great response to my invite to the poetry slam in cyberspace in honor of Brigid, the Celtic goddess of poetry, smith craft, and healing . This coming weekend I will be spending some hours following threads on the web to poems and blogs old and new to me. Reya started this "tradition" three years ago. Now, I can't imagine Imbolc/Candlemas/Brigid without it. As January ends, and Brigid approaches, I've been looking for signs of the quickening of spring. At first glance, winter is still in full force, but right around Brigid, the foreshadowing of spring can appear, if you pay attention. That's one of the things this sabbat is about! This tuning into the changes of the seasons is just one of the gifts of my nature-based spiritual practice that I hold dear. In finding the first buds of green among the stark branches of winter's trees, I find and experience the Divine. The mystery of this and the timing never ceases to amaze. Jason ...

Well, Anne Hill asked if we were going to do this again, and I say YES! Feel free to copy the following to your blog and spread the word. Let poetry bless the blogosphere once again! WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2008 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. Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers. Thank you, Reya, for beginning what is now an annual event.