A Blessed Imbolc...

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Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;

And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still;

No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,

And willow stems grow daily red and bright.

These are days when ancients held a rite

Of expiation for the old year's ill,

And prayer to purify the new year's will.

~an excerpt of A Calendar of Sonnets: February by Helen Hunt Jackson

I hope that you all have a lovely Imbolc, Feast of Brigid, and Merry Lughnasadh & Lammas to you folks in the Southern half!

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

Winter & Yuletide Blessings

photo by Justin Kern

And now the fire's the focus of the room

By winter made so. Like a gay salute

There crackles in the hearth

The holly's fusillade.

~ from Winter by Maurice Craig

May this season be full of love, merriment and comfort! Warm hearts & hearths to you and your loved ones, and many blessings in 2013!

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

blessings to you all this samhain

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Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft star-shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

~Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
 

May your loved ones, both ancestor and alive be with you to celebrate this sacred time! Warm hearts & hearths to all of you dear readers!

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

Merry Midsummer!

{photo by Other Think}

A bird in the boughs sang “June,”
And “June” hummed a bee
In a Bacchic glee
As he tumbled over and over
Drunk with the honey-dew
~by Clinton Scollard

We hope that all of my readers have a lovely Midsummer and if you are in the Southern Hemisphere, a lovely Yule/Winter Solstice to you! :)

leave you with a great song for Midsummer, Belly of June by Horse Feathers.

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

A Blessed Bealtaine!

Awakening Spring by Luc-Oliver Merson

Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves, are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
~Song on May Morning by John Milton

We wish you all a joyous Bealtaine & May Day for our readers in the North and a wonderful Samhain to those of you in the South! :)

We leave you with some music to enjoy:

Tiocfaidh An Samhradh/Summer Will Come {lyrics here}

Thugamar Féin an Samhradh Linn/We Have Brought Summer With Us {lyrics here}:

*********

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

Imbolc Blessings

original photo by Tobias Vemmenby

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers,
And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers.
A poet's face asleep is this grey morn.

Now in the midst of the old world forlorn
A mystic child is set in these still hours.
I keep this time, even before the flowers,
Sacred to all the young and the unborn;

To all the miles and miles of unsprung wheat,
And to the Spring waiting beyond the portal,
And to the future of my own young art,

And, among all these things, to you, my sweet,
My friend, to your calm face and the immortal
Child tarrying all your life-time in your heart.

~In February by Alice Meynell

I love this time of year. Imbolc is a sacred day in my faith, but I also love knowing that the signs of Spring are just around the corner. This is real good news for us gardeners who are just itching to get our hands in the dirt once again!

In the meantime I have plenty of cleaning and preparation to do for our celebration of this day. So I will leave you with a beautiful version of the song Gabhaim Molta Bride {I praise Brigid} performed by Claire Roche. Lyrics and a nice translation can be found over at Gaol Naofa

~AND~

A link to the new Tairis Tales blog, which holds a collection of Gaelic legends & lore. It can be found here {and I nominate Heelan Coo as the best web address of 2012! *moo*}.

A Blessed Imbolc to you & yours. :)

Sláinte!

Laurel {& Aymi}

Winter Once Again

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I have tidings for you;
the stag bells,

winter snows,
summer has gone.

Wind high and cold,
the sun low,
short its course,
the sea running high.

Crimson the bracken,
it has lost its shape,
the wild goose has raised
its accustomed cry.

Cold has seized
the birds' wings,
season of ice,
these are my tidings.

~Ninth Century Irish Poem

Samhain Blessings...

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Tangled in root and thorn
Caressed by bracken and moss
Pools of blood and scratched flesh
A vessel of decay will go back to the
Land of Forlorn where
I will be blessed.

Midnight compass and guiding fire
Witching stang in black earth
The Antlered Brow rides high in the
Hunt for Souls...

Come catch me Wild Hunter!

I welcome the vibrant yelps of Your
Red-eared hounds
I summon the beating hooves of Your
Phantom steed
I beckon the wailing of Your
Hunting horn.

Soon Death will find me and
I will return to my
Ancestral Home.

{from Samhain 2008}

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We wish all of our readers a wonderful Samhain & Hallowe'en! May your loved ones who have past be close to you, and the ones who still live be even closer.

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

In Praise of Summer

I had meant to share this video in my last post because it pretty much sums up the feelings that the end of Summer conjures up in me.

IN PRAISE OF SUMMER
Mawl i'r Haf

Summer in paternal pride
Begets the trees' pleasing shade:
Forest-master, wood-watcher,
High tower, hill-thatcher,
Regal ruler, virile member
Blows the world from an ember.
Summer, source of wondering words,
Dwelling of each spreading wort,
Balm for growing, in a welter,
Ointment, bewitchment of the woods.

By god! Blessed is the hand
That gives growth to branches hard!
Earth's four quarters are impelled
To generate, on sweet impulse
Out of the earth, verdant crops,
Birds that burst to flying flocks,
Hay meadows, blown by breeze,
Hives, humming swarms of bees.
Foster-father, loving help
Of earth's loaded garden heap
And webs of leaves, a leafy graft.
A source of never ending grief:
How soon August comes, the brawler
Who tears down my lovely bower.
To know that all this green and gold
Must depart in mist and cold!

Tell me, Summer, to what place
Do you creep to hide your face --
When you leave, sowing woe
To what country do you go?

Summer answers: "Poet, cease,
Lest your praise should turn to curse.
Fate invites me, fate repels;
Spring surrenders, autumn rebels.
I must grow in but three months
Crops enough to fill your mouths,
And when the rooftree and the leaves
Are bundled close, like harvest sheaves,
I must escape the winter wind,
And enter Annwn , leave the world."

Blessings, tuned by every poet
Fall on you, as you depart:
Farewell, king of idylls;
Farewell, lord of the idle;
Farewell, cuckoos fledged;
Farewell, June's fields;
Farewell, sun climbing
And the plump, white-bellied cloud.

Bright captain sun, you shall not reign
So highly; drifting snow will ruin
Your handiwork. But meagre hopes
Will plant a garden on summer's slopes.

- Dafydd ap Gwilym, paraphrased by Giles Watson.

Giles Watson's YouTube channel is a treasure trove of beautiful poetry, rich with Pagan imagery, folklore & mythology, agriculture and nature. Pretty much all of my favourite things! ;)

I Sing the Smith is probably the one that I love best...

Giles Watson also has amazing photography and poetry over at his Flickr account, and some of you may also recognize him from when his A Witch's Natural History was published in The Cauldron.

When you get a moment, go check him out. :)

Sláinte!

Laurel

Galloping Towards Summer's End

{probably the last monarch butterfly I will see this year}

The robins are starting to leave and the last few nights and early mornings I have been greeted with a chill in the air, cold enough to see my breath. We are bound to get some more warmth, but Summer is definitely coming to a close 'round these parts.

I did my first big wild tobacco harvest a few days agp and I am quite happy with how I did given it's my first time growing it. The plants we had in the ground got a lot bigger than the ones in containers though, so that is a lesson learned for next year.


We are still enjoying a steady harvest of most of the pretties we are growing.


I have been coming across the occasional oddity {below being this week's favourite...}

{a triad of entwined hobo turnips}

The pumpkins are getting ready to turn orange...


And the sunflowers are really going to town!


Frost and falling leaves are just around the corner!

Sláinte!

Laurel

A Wonderful Bealtaine to You All! :)

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May-day, season surpassing! Splendid is color then. Blackbirds sing a full lay, if there be a slender shaft of day.The dust-colored cuckoo calls aloud:

Welcome, splendid summer! The bitterness of bad weather is past, the boughs of the wood are a thicket.

Summer cuts the river down, the swift herd of horses seeks the pool, the long hair of the heather is outspread, the soft white bog-down grows.

Panic startles the heart of the deer, the smooth sea runs apace-season when ocean sinks asleep-blossom covers the world.

Bees with puny strength carry a goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms; up the mountain-side kine take with them mud, the ant makes a rich meal.

The harp of the forest sounds music, the sail gathers-perfect peace. Color has settled on every height, haze on the lake of full waters.

The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses; the lofty virgin waterfall sings a welcome to the warm pool; the talk of the rushes is come.

Light swallows dart aloft, loud melody reaches round the hill, the soft rich mast buds, the stuttering quagmire rehearses.

The peat-bog is as the raven’s coat, the loud cuckoo bids welcome, the speckled fish leaps, strong is the bound of the swift warrior.

Man flourishes, the maiden buds in her fair strong pride; perfect each forest from top to ground, perfect each great stately plain.

Delightful is the season’s splendor, rough winter has gone, white is every fruitful wood, a joyous peace in summer.

A flock of birds settles in the midst of meadows; the green field rustles, wherein is a brawling white stream.

A wild longing is on you to race horses, the ranked host is ranged around:

A bright shaft has been shot into the land, so that the water-flag is gold beneath it.

A timorous tiny persistent little fellow sings at the top of his voice, the lark sings clear tidings: surpassing May-day of delicate colors!

~ The Boyish Exploits of Finn

We hope that you all have a splendid Bealtaine, May Day, Walpurgisnacht, Roodmas, or plain old Happy May! :)

Here is an adorable old maypole photo for you all to use in your crafts & some music to tap your feet to:

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

Gaelic Pretties, Ribbon and All!

While on one of my thrift store adventures yesterday, I found three book wrapped in a ribbon. I couldn't help but feel someone had left me a present given what the books were about...

Songs of the Gael by Lachlan MacBean, Songs of the Gael by Patrick Watson, and The Poem-Book of the Gael by Eleanor Hull.

All for a big 3 bucks. But you can read them online for free by clicking the links.

Sláinte!

Laurel

Welcoming the New Moon

Photo by MShades

Hail unto thee,
Jewel of the night !

Beauty of the heavens,
Jewel of the night !

Mother of the stars.
Jewel of the night !

Fosterling of the sun,
Jewel of the night !

Majesty of the stars.
Jewel of the night !

~Queen of the Night from Carmina Gadelica

Happy {Belated} Imbolc!

artwork by Warwick Goble

Genealogy of Brigit

The genealogy of the holy maiden Brigit,
Radiant arrow of flame, noble foster-mother of gods,
Brigit the daughter of the Dagda,
Dagda the Good God, the son of Ethlinn,
Ethlinn the daughter of Balor,
Balor the king of the Fomoire.

Every day and every night
That I say the genealogy of Brigit,
I shall not be killed, I shall not be injured,
I shall not be enchanted, I shall not be cursed,
Neither shall my power leave me.

No earth, no sod, no turf shall cover me,
No fire, no sun, no moon shall burn me,
No water, no lake, no sea shall drown me,
No air, no wind, no vapour shall sicken me,
No glamour out of Faery shall o'ertake me,
And I under the protection of the holy maiden,
My gentle foster-mother, my beloved Brigit.

~A beautiful re-interpretation of Genealogy of Bride found in the Carmina Gadelica Vol. 1. You can find the re-interpretation over at Brigid's Flame.

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

Recommended Reading Updates

I have added more titles to our Folklore & Spirituality and Poetry & Ballads sections of our Recommended Reading {free online e-texts}. This is what I have added:

Folklore & Spirituality

British Goblins: Welsh Folk-lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions by Wirt Sikes

Cath Maige Tuired {The Second Battle of Mag Tuired} Translated by Elizabeth A. Gray

Cuchulain of Muirthemne by Lady Augusta Gregory

Fairy Legends and Traditions by Thomas Crofton Croker

Gods and Fighting Men by Lady Augusta Gregory

Peep at the Pixies by Anna Eliza Bray

Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales by George Douglas

Táin Bó Cúalnge {The Cattle-Raid of Cooley} by Joseph Dunn

Tales of the Dartmoor Pixies by William Crossing

The Cattle Raid of Cualnge by L. Winifred Faraday

The Destruction of Dá Derga’s Hostel Translated by Whitely Stokes

The Feuds of the Clans by Alexander MacGregor

The Phynodderre and Other Legends of the Isle of Man by Edward Callow

The Prophecies of the Brahan Seer by Alexander Mackenzie

The Voyage of Bran by Kuno Meyer

Traditions and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall Vol 2 by William Boterell

Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend by Donald Alexander Mackenzie

Poetry & Ballads

The English and Scottish Popular Ballads by Francis James Child

The Poems of Ossian by James Macpherson

Sláinte!

Laurel

You Can Count on the Poets

Photo by Liam Quin

Finding lore on appropriate practice can sometimes be difficult for Reconstructionist Pagans and Traditional Witches alike. That’s why I squeal like a school girl when I stumble upon the right books.

I recently bought a yummy, yummy book from one of our local thrift shops {perhaps the last pockets where one can find something of value for next to nothing, without breaking the law!} called 1000 Years of Irish Poetry edited by Kathleen Hoagland.

It is a pretty thick book and I have already spent hours getting sucked into it. I love a lot of the poetry in it, but the two following pretties are good examples of why I was extra giddy to find this book:

Song of the Forest Trees

O man that for Fergus of the feasts dost kindle fir,
Whether afloat or ashore burn not the king of woods.

Monarch of Innisfail’s forests the woodbine is, whom none may hold captive;
No feeble sovereign’s effort is it to hug all tough trees in his embrace.

The pliant woodbine if thou burn, wailings for misfortune will abound,
Dire extremity at weapons’ points or drowning in great waves will follow.

Burn not the precious apple-tree of spreading and lowsweeping bough;
Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men put forth the hand.

The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns not;
Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks warble.

The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems;
Within his bloom bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.

The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard’s tree, the rowan, burn;
But spare the limber tree; burn not the slender hazel.

Dark is the colour of the ash; timber that makes the wheels to go;
Rods he furnishes for horsemen’s hands, his form turns battle into flight.

Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so keen and green;
He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance forcibly drags backward.

Fiercest heat-giver of all the timber is green oak, from him none may escape unhurt;
By partiality for him the head is set of aching, and by his acrid embers the eye is made sore.

Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the fight---
Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and the white-thorn {hawthorn}.

Holly, burn it green; holly burn it dry;
Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.

Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore;
Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the sidh burn so that he be charred.

The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune;
Burn up most sure and certainly the stalks that bear the constant pods.

Suffer, if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come headlong down;
Burn, be it late or early, the tree with palsied branch.

Patriarch of the long-lasting woods is the yew, sacred to feasts, as is well-known;
Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.

Ferdedh, thou faithful one, wouldst thou but do my behest:
To thy soul as to thy body, O man, ‘twould work advantage.

~translated by Standish Hayes O’Grady {by an anonymous poet, 13th century}.

The following are different types of love magic that what I presume mostly women and girls might have tried.

The Midnight Court

…After all I have spent upon readers of palms
And tellers of tea-leaves and sellers of charms.
There isn’t a plan you can conceive
For Christmas or Easter or All Saint’s Eve,
At the moon’s eclipse or the New Year’s chime
That I haven’t attempted time on time.
I never would sleep a night in bed
Without fruit-stuffed stocking beneath my head,
I would steep my shift in the millstream deep
And await the vows of my spouse in sleep,
With broom I brushed the barn as bid,
My nails and hair in ashpit hid,
Beneath the hearth the flail I laid,
Below my pillow placed the spade,
My distaff in the graveyard’s bed,
In lime-kiln low my ball of thread,
The flax I strewed amid the dust,
A cabbage-head in bed-straw thrust…

…A potent charm as I have heard
Is putrid herbs well stewed and stirred,
I know the sort and will proceed
To make it aid me in my need.
A subtle spell that succour brings
Is orchid’s leaves and dung fly’s wings
And root of figwort powdered well
With more besides I may not tell.
‘Twas wondered everywhere of late
How yonder maid secured a mate,
At Shrove her secret she confessed
And Hallow E’en has seen her braced,
For water-spiders soaked in beer
And withered grass formed all her fare…
~by Brian Merriman, 1780 {excerpts from the poem}.

I am off to read some more. ;)

Sláinte!

Laurel

A Blessed Samhain...

Photo by Anders B

Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on polished, marbled stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I’d exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
one hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and come to visit you.
~Dear Ancestor {author unknown}

May you all feel that pulse and connection of this sacred time! A Blessed Samhain to you all! :)

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

Song of Amergin

Gaelic version & translation used in this video can be found here.

Merry {Belated} Lughnasadh & Lammas!

Artwork from r8r

There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,
Put clods upon his head;
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerfu' spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel armed wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Showed he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appeared,
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all,
For he crushed him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise;

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

~ John Barleycorn by Robert Burns

We wish all merriment, plenty & a fruitful first harvest! For recipes and a history of Lughnasadh and Lammas go to our post from last year.

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel

Happy Midsummer!

Life begins and ends with sunbeams in the forest
drops of light on bracken and moss
and the call of the stag in the distance.

~Anonymous

We wish all of our readers in the Northern half a Merry Midsummer! We hope you all have plenty of sunshine and the time to enjoy it. :)

Sláinte!

Aymi & Laurel