Mael Bridge "A Brigit of Ireland Devotional" BOOK LAUNCH - I'll be reading #poetry at it #booklaunch #pagan #bridget #spirituality

 

“A Bridget of Ireland Devotional”

Join me at a FREE online Book Launch; a community celebration of Poetry and Devotional works I will be reading poetry tomorrow night Saturday 28th 9pm Irish Time (1pm Pacific Time) To celebrate the launch of Mael Bridge’s long awaited book, A Bridget of Ireland Devotional,” You are welcome to join us on 28 August from 1:00-2:30 PM Pacific Time (starts 9:00 PM Irish Time) for poetry, prayer, & song. To receive a Zoom link on the day, you will need to register (see link below), or you can watch on Facebook Live on my Page, Brigit's Portal. REGISTER to attend via Zoom. https://www.tickettailor.com/events/sunamongstars/556582 BRIGIT'S PORTAL to watch on Facebook (live or later). https://www.facebook.com/BrigitsPortal I am very much looking forward to seeing how our joint celebration unfolds. Brigit's blessings.

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Bedside Manners ~ #Alzheimers and the #FamilyCarer a new #poemseries

Bedside Manners:Alzheimers and the Family Carer is a poem series exploring the relationship the Family Carer has with Alzheimer's - both the person for whom they care and the larger issue of the disease itself and how it affects every aspect of life.

The role of the carer is often interpreted by outsiders, framed in martyrdom or judged for any perceived heresy to the doctrine of self sacrifice. What carers find most difficult is often the refusal of others to acknowledge their loss, pain, frustration, stress and responsibility.

When we complain, the reaction is often one of denial - a rush to tell us how it's the disease, not the person or how privileged we are to be able to provide home care, how awful it would be if we were to put them in a home and so forth. Spoiler Alert - we KNOW it's the disease. Also we are the ones giving up our lives to care for the person, please don't tell us how it's a privilege.

These poems are based on personal experience and that of other family carers of loved ones with dementia.

They cover a range of experiences from heartbreak to hilarity, moments where we are lost and ones where we find profound meaning.

Each is accompanied on Insta by a fuller explanation, again directly taken from discussion with other family carers. Every poem is based on lived experience of caring for a relative, rather than professionals in the field, or advocacy groups.

BESIDE MANNERS is a series on twitter @gercelt with fuller exploration of each theme on Instagram @gercelt. If you want to add to anything said please do, 

Feel free to share (credit either Geraldine Moorkens Byrne or link to @gercelt) if you have writing to add (from personal experience only please) I'll happily link to it or you can guest post on Insta or Twitter. There is a hope that the full series may make a book to raise funds for Alzheimer's Research.

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New #Authors, New #Books to discover in August, all under $5

 

New titles and New Books to Discover in August

Pre-order USA Today Best Selling Author Molly Fitz's compilation of new authors, While the Cat's Away for only 99c! 

ALSO THE BODY POLITIC is only $1.99 on Amazon for AUGUST 

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Sending out #books to #readers and #bookshops is a great feeling!

 

Not gonna lie, one of my favourite things at the moment is the weekly posting of new orders out to readers. I'll never get over the thrill of seeing someone thought enough of my book to purchase it; I know how many books I browse, how carefully I choose, before buying a paperback and I appreciate the time my reader spends and the fact they are willing to take a chance on an unknown, new author. Even if they've read my poetry, it's still a leap of faith to invest in a paperback at twice or more the cost of the ebook (I keep the ebook price low because I hate to see ebooks priced at almost the same as a paperback that has to be printed and compiled and glued and shipped!)

So every book that I send out from here gets a postcard and bookmark, because I love you the best ;)

It actually looks a bit like summer out there now, and while the next project is the Audio book (for which I am madly excited) it's also time to push The Body Politic as a summer read. It's deliberately printed in larger print with short paragraphs to help visually impaired and dyslexic readers enjoy it, and a few readers have said they found it easy to read on beaches and while travelling! So if you know anyone looking for a summer book, one of our new print run is waiting for them.

In other news, I'm working on Book 2, and it's going well. 

I'm also working on a Remembrance Ceremony, for the many people I know planning to hold Covid-related Memorial Services, to compensate for the tiny funerals we have endured during the last 15 months. When I have it completed, I'm offering it free of charge to anyone who would like to use it. It can be adapted or I am happy to help adapt it, to individual needs. It's my calling, on Celebrating Words, to provide this service and I'm happy to offer it gratis for those who need it. 

Full details will be posted when it's up, but feel free to email me if you want .

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Twitter Fragments

I'm doing a thing on twitter where we post a small poem (under 140 characters) Some people do haiku, but I tend towards fragmentary three line verse
twitter @gercelt

also check out @twitlaureate, or search #poetry for more on poetry on twitter

Twitter Fragments


i
Silent house, paused between sleep and wake
and I the ghost, that passes in that space
part guardian, part spectre at the feast.


ii
Cold morning grey competes with duvet warmth
sounds of stirring city siren-calling me to work
summer, in the town beside the sea

iii
Dublin is back in the bosom of winter,
grey skies reflected in slick pavement puddles,
grimly chilled by driving rain

iv
Dead weight of afternoon, pressing down,
keeping me at my desk
oh for the freedom that came with summers past!

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Suburban Summer

The city lying in a daze
quieter than at midnight
rocked gently in a haze
of shimmering on black tarmac -
pavement hot to barefoot touch.

Sun glinting on shining glass
in spiralling reflection,
casting prisms on the grass
of gardens lulled by bee and mower
the infinity of suburban summer.

pottering in the garden shed
Tiny stirrings of family life
children still have to be fed -
the alluring sound of icecream van
the counterpoint to kitchen smells

Days too perfect in memory
and endless enigma of nostalgia
painful in unattainability;
yet there have been skies this blue
and hours of dreaming peace.

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Yule at the Court of Maeve

I just found one of my poems was posted on a certain wellknown neo-nazi website - posted by a member as if it was one of their own, no accreditation to the author, and no permission to post it. Not only a breach of copyright but theft. Although part of me is grateful that the nasty little moronic bigots didn't put my name on their filthy site.
Just so we're clear, nothing would ever induce me to prostitute my work by connecting it in any way with the mindless, one-brain-cell-between-them cretins that espouse neo-nazism. I hereby reclaim my poem, one of my favourites to add insult to injury and bad cess to the bigots - they are incapable of understanding the heritage of honour and integrity it evokes.



Yule at the court of Maeve



I left the city
and traveled through the plains
and found the forest
of Warriors, among the forts of the
kings.

The Warrior Queen, Maeve of the Sidhe
beloved of the Hunter and
favourite, blessed daughter of the Morrigan
greeted me.
I vowed never to return to
the corruption of the free.

I fished on the shores of the Atlantic;
I have prayed on the Mountain of
saints.
Late autumn now finds me dwelling
deep in the forest, with those
who escaped, like me.
I have no suits and no favours.
I walk in bare feet with the deer.

In the winter, I will pack my pelts
and furs, make me a gurney and load it.
I will pull it to the Court of the Tribes of the West.
I will unload it at the feet of Maeve
and beg her receive her daughter, and
I already know the pleasure I will see, in my mothers’ eyes.

I will pass Yule there and stay until
Imbolc.
No more will I measure time by the glossy calendar of man. I will await
the spring with a glad heart,
and then ,
when the mountains shed their covers
and the green rushes re-appear,
I will gather my bow and my dagger
and once more, to the Hunt again.

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Out of the Corner of My Eye

Out of the corner of my eye
something moves.
It's nothing he says, nothing -
everyone's eyes play tricks.

he pours a glass, dark red
rustling behing me
it's a good year, full bodied
and licks his lips.

I shift in my chair, listening -
shadows crawl.
Taste this, just a sip
Cloying, too sweet

Breath on my neck, stirring
(hackles rising)
touch like cold meat on skin
(teeth baring)

Out of sight, Out of mind
he never learnt
He shouldn't have tried it on
not with me.

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Is This Not Blasphemy?

My very own Poetry Challenge - feel free to join in :)
Pick a news story; as current as possible (same day as reading this notice if possible) and write a poem about it.
Include the link to the news story too.
please feel free to leave a comment on this blog linking to your own poem!

--------------------------------------------------------------
OSCE argues against blasphemy law
Tuesday, 19 May 2009 17:08
Europe's top security and human rights watchdog has urged Ireland not to preserve blasphemous libel as a crime.

The OSCE said this would flout international free speech covenants.

Justice Minister Dermot Ahern said earlier this month that he would seek to amend the law that provides prison sentences for blasphemous libel, but could not abolish it altogether without a referendum to change the constitution.

www.rte.ie/news/2009/0...ation.html

I choose this newstory because imo the mere idea of blasphemy laws in a civilised democracy is absolutely unacceptable.
--------------------------------------------------------------

Is this Not Blasphemy?

The words in my mouth
are as sacred to me
as communion wafers.
They are the body and
the blood and the spirit
of me. You would rip them
out and trample them.
Is this not Blasphemy?

My freedom is the holy
incarnation of my being;
my mind in consiousness,
formed in the image of
the sacred and divine.
Take away my rights
and you will defile me;
Is this not Blasphemy?

Your right, to your opinion
is my article of faith; you
would deprive me of mine
and see no irony. That
we should all speak
as we see fit, is my dogma.
When you deny this
is that not Blasphemy?

Maybe your gods can be
threatened; so weak they
need protection, coddled
in the cradle of law. Mine
reside in my heart, safe
in the strength of my own
conviction, immutable.
They know not Blasphemy.

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Spring

The Prompt is to write a poem on a Spring theme


Signs

Slight touch of green life
the first blush of bud

the seedlings sprout
before the ides of March

the rain falls in fat tears
the sky clears to egg blue

the air smells of earth
the light changes daily

the season rushes forward
the sap rises high

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Don't You Dare

Prompt : Take the phrase "Don't you (blank)," fill in the blank with a word or words, and make that the title of your poem. Then, write a poem using that title.



Don’t you dare.


Don’t you dare –
I didn’t. I daren’t.
I wish I was braver.
I wish I could jump
From planes.

Don’t you dare –
I never told them
What I thought
I kept the peace
Regardless.

Don’t you dare –
I am not reckless
I am the voice of reason
I am the
cowardly lion

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So we decided to .....

Another from the poetry challenge: write a poem using the prompt..."So we decided to go..."


So we decided to……

So we decided to go
Despite misgivings
Like, it was free beer
And although we didn’t much like
The look of them
Well, it was free beer

They were largely harmless
Huge shaggy youths
With gangly limbs and
Awkward. We stood to one side
And laughed a bit
Just among ourselves

I danced to Morrissey
And tried to look cool
And then someone
put on a song I’ve never been able
to recall. Something
about a child.


I remember the beginning
And the end, but not
The bits in between,
And I thought at one point – wow.
That’s a song
I wish I could sing.

I knew then I was
Getting too drunk
The room spun and
Someone pulled me into the hall
To tell me
They were lonely.


We’re all lonely
I said. We’re all alone
You’re not special.
I am never that cruel when sober.
I fell over limbs
Sprawled from the stairs.

You found me then
and held out a hand.
I’m starving, you said
And this is a crap party, isn’t it?
So we decided
To go.

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Poetic Challenge : The Problem with You

See Writer's Digest blog Poetic Aside for details of prompts for each challenge: I am not doing them properly in order at all, but picking them up as they strike me. I am a bad participant :)

This challenge was entitled "the problem with..." It resonated greatly with me for personal reasons.

The Problem with You

She has a list. I jest you not
All the things that - in her opinion
I do wrong, say wrong, think wrong
am wrong
she can list them.

I am half flattered. A lot of thought
went into this. I am fully dismayed
she has sifted, thought, compiled, arranged
and delivered
a verdict on me.

She is a friend. I must remember this
Or make her suffer; I know her buttons
too and can remove that smile. The problem
with me is
I don't back down.

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Poetic Challenge

Many thanks to poet Maureen Duffy-Boose for alerting me and getting me involved in this. It's great fun and while I won't do it everyday (I am far too lazy!) I certainly will be attempting it on a regular basis over the next month.

Writer's Digest blog Poetic Asides is challenging poets to write on a variety of themes (prompts posted by them on the blog)

Yesterday I did :

A poem on something missing

Oh
I keep finding reminders
of things I can no longer recall
I cannot even remember
what the reminder meant at all

When I find things now
I have to rack my brain
when did I lose it and
what on earth was it for, again?

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I dwell in your heart (i)

The Psalms of Living

I. I dwell in your heart

I dwell in your heart, child
the old woman told me,
I have no other home.
There are places I have laid my head
but they were not home.

I live in the way you laugh
in the things that make you cry
in the days you have not yet lived,
in the nights still to come;
I inhabit these places, waiting.

In your dreams I reach out
in your hopes I find strength
in your memory I am fed, sweetly
You hear me in your own voice
and are comforted.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Inside Track

Inside Track



He said: Seeing you again
was strange; in a way
I was not sure you existed without me.

Tthat you have a life, a home, friends
that you breathe and speak and think
without my observing, I find odd.

I often think of that now; that space
between intimacy and loss. I have
lost friends and that abyss hurts.

I wonder if they too assume
knowledge, privilege of being current;
or if they feel absence.

I hoard memories and replay
them. They fade despite constant
retouching until only outlines remain.

When I am old, if I make old bones
I will no longer be sure who said
what and whose feat that was.

You cannot leave stories half way
it's too hard to be a main character
without remaining in the plot.

He said he thought I stopped
frozen by his inattention; I did not.
I thrived and grew and moved

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Simple

Simple

It was simple:
-once upon a time,
-it'll all be okay,
-what doesn't kill you.
Mundanities.
Clichés.
No hostages, taken or given
no price not worth paying
freedom defined by lack of,
responsibilities
ties or attachments
plans.
Complex how time
defers payment
cashes the cheque at the last moment
reaching into pockets
taking the ounce of flesh and to hell
with blood.
Not so easy now.
Not so simple, not
so clearcut . Time falling
like snowdrops, moments melting
away before you can touch them.
Simple
how easily it all becomes the past.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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The Wedding Gift

For all those women whose approach to weddings is not to mount a military operation, who don't want to stress, who want to remember the day and the marriage not worry if the napkins match the colour of the bridesmaid's knickers. And maybe as a reminder to those who are acting as if they're about to invade Poland next - there's more to the day than style.

This is the best wedding gift I can give you....



If I could give you one thing
a wedding gift that will last
it would be the memory -
not of a glittering table,
lanterns and rose petals
favours and toiletries, or
chair covers in dusky pink-
but of the time you share
the choosing and the plans
the mother's face, the father's pride
the squeeze of hand, the
slight smile, the excited face
the neighbours gathered,
children pointing, guests
milling, laughter rippling like
a spring - stately walk, solemn vow.

I would give you the gift
of slowing time, savouring
each and every second,
noticing the important details
- not the trimming on a veil
or pewends tied with ribbon
drapes, capes, canapes,
colours, cut or clothe -
but the whispered love
the tearful eye, joyful
glance, awaited entrance,
first dance, speech and
speechless moments, grace
and bumbling fumbling, funny
sad and lovely, moments
strung like pearls on
the edge of a wedding veil.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Mud and Bones

Up in the west of ireland on some hillside a few years back bad stormy weather caused a landslide that revealed bones of neolithic settlers, hidden for years. There's a storm almost as bad brewing outside and it reminded me of a poem I wrote ...so I thought I would share...


Mud and Bones

I lie in the dark mud of Connaught
in the cruel rocky earth of the West
where the sun sets low in the evening
and HyBrazil lies just beyond sight
and I am part of your land and your lives,
though you see only the mound of my grave
and the grass growing high above my head
I am the bones of your country, its roots
the anchor of life as you know it
your seed, breed and long generation -
And I lie in the dark mud of Connaught.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Reality, for Tommie

A poem about friendship: I have a friend, whom I have never met face to face, but whose friendship is real. It is real, because it has endured - differences of opinion, changes in our lives, deep loss, happiness. We sometimes talk daily, sometimes sadly, once a month or even less. Sometimes we chat on the phone, more often online. Sometimes I have confided in her things I could tell no one else, and vice verse. Sometimes we just talk about nothing. This is her poem.




For Tommie; A poem about friendship

Shattered conversations, broken words,
glimpses of each other’s life. My words
rushed on a keyboard in work;
yours in a house with kids and dog.
Thousands of miles apart, heart to heart
across a continent, and over seas
through the ether, on the wire –
friendship spanning time and space.
Face to face, we’ve never been –
impossible to believe! I have held
your hand, felt your presence, seen
through your eyes…you have walked
city streets with me, sat at table, celebrated
family. How can it not be real?
We must redefine physics; ignore these
hard men who would say,
your friendship is virtual. Mutual
trust is real, laughter is real,
time shared is real. The only illusion
is theirs. We know, we know – Our words
are real.

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