Friday, January 28, 2011

Brighid's Fire

It rises in my head
And words come to me,
Sometimes poetry,
Sometimes just a thought.

Always, I am sure
That words are my tools.

Now, I think again.

Not just words.
Not just
The babblings of my mouth,
Not thought of,
Not planned.

That's just not good enough.

It's not, any more.

Now the words must arise
From deep inside me...

I was told, long ago,
That Silence was Craft.

I haven't Learned it yet.

I still talk too much,
I interrupt too much,
And I don't say much.

So now, I'll make a change.

Odd thought, for a Bard,
That Poetry is still.
That words are all wrong.
That what I need to do
Is learn to shut up.

I have too much to say.
When anyone speaks,
I always add my bit,
No matter the need.

It's time to let that go.
My Goddess, my Brighid
Is Mistress of the Word
And knows its true use.

The Fire In The Head
Burns out, if not kept
In sacredness, and used
Only when there's need.

So I-- I will begin

To practice Silence,
To Listen, as my gift
To Herself of the Flame.

My heart will still be full,
But I will not speak.

Perhaps, if I do this
My own Inner Flame
Will once again burn bright.

Perhaps She will hear
And know it is for Her
That I remain mute.

The truest Gift of all
Is hard to attain.

For me, to speak is easy,
To babble and chat.

Remaining still is harder.
So....I will do that.

Aisling the Bard, Imbolc 2010

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