5th annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam for Brigid

Autumn Hiscock passed on through Facebook the invitation to publish Brigit poetry all over the web today.

(Go to the bottom of this post to see my offering.)

Autumn encourages us to "Help weave a web of poetry today in honour of Brigid by posting a poem (original or otherwise) on your blog, journal, Facebook page, Twitter, or somewhere else (who says you can’t write one out and pin it to a bulletin board at work, or tape it to your office door?). Leave links to it in the comments area of other post...ed poems; follow the other links you find online to read a vast woven web of poetry today."

Here is the original invitation from Oak:

5th annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam for Brigid
Feel free to copy the following to your blog/facebook/website and spread
the word. Let poetry bless the blogosphere once again!
WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading
WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2010
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.
Please pass this invitation on…

Hail, Poetry! Let the web be woven!

Autumn's offering can be found at http://www.owldaughter.org/blog/?p=2761

And here is mine, from 20 February 1995:

St. Brigit of Kildare

she was a short woman with heavy hair
the colour of peat
plaited and pinned back recklessly
her skin bore a swarthy
neolithic caste
hips hands forehead
broad and strong as rock

she never read
nor spoke from a pulpit
and no
she didn't appoint bishops
hang her garment on a beam of sun
cause the milk to flow
from calfless teats

she never met saint patrick
didn't catch the slippery christ
as he was squeezed from his mother's pelvis
she never was a goddess
though she believed in many
her god was well accompanied

the land spoke to both of them
birds' pathways meant much
and a poem sung on an injured part could heal

yeats would not have known her
we would not have known her
she would have stared at us
from crooked brows
if she had seen how we'd picture her

she would have trod on
momentarily
a sort of prayer inherent
in her breath her step
her glance at the harebell
on the moist edge of the spring

Mael Brigde