I'm a cell, I'm fragmented, I change my form;
I'm a repository of song, I'm a dynamic state.
I love a wooded slope and a snug shelter,
and a creative poet who doesn't buy his advancement.
Wyf kell, wyf dellt, wyf datweirllet;
wyf llogell kerd, wyf lle ynnyet.
Karaf-y gorwyd a goreil clyt,
a bard a bryt ny pryn y ret.
From: Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesin, edited and translated by Marged Haycock
Friday, 1 February 2013
The Festival of Brigit
Brige in February
I saw her last week, coming down from the sky
with a white following
billowing up in a furl of swansdown
loud as the quickening wind.
She flew in over the blue rooftops
over the flatlands and the hills
over etched white horses and towers
over islands couched deep in the violet of snow.
Her feet were gold, fire-blinding, striking
sparks from the earth-anvil, flares
and radiance coming off her
flash-fires of light - light storms
Lambs sip milk from the ewes
swan-clans strut the meadows
the snake has come from her hole
tongue flicking at the new
shiver of green in the wind,
the blind opaque squints of the furrows
are opening, transparent as sky
She'll strip the iron habit of winter out of your bones
lick the glow of gold in a flush through your skin -
open your mouth to her kiss
she'll inspire you,
her spark in your heart
the beginning of healing
the ancient beginning of new life's song.