Birdsong - One of Nature's Healing Sounds

BIRDSONG...

Someone asked me recently why I record birdsong. It's not like I do so excessively or anything, I don't keep a database of various species and their warbling, but every now and then if I am privileged enough to see and hear a particularly beautiful moment, I'll video and share. I was surprised that this person found it strange - to me birdsong is simply one of the most glorious and inspiring sounds in nature.

But in case it's just me and I'm a bird song loving weirdo, here's my justification!

Healing

Bird song (not all bird calls but specifically song) falls naturally into the higher registers of sound, at a pitch proven to stimulate the brain, raise endorphin levels and promote healing. Literally, physical healing but also emotional and spiritual well being too. Studies from the 1960s onwards have reinforced the science behind this. (I discuss in more depth in Draíocht Ceoil The Sound of Magic in Irish Traditions (2026, Moon Books))

Listening to bird song sparks joy. The soaring melody, rececitive, and thrills are ideally suited to provoke a corresponding human reaction - something emulated by generations of composers using flutes, whistles and strings. 

It has the added effect of connecting us to nature. By providing this energising joyful experience in the context of the natural world, a sense of well being, and belonging, aids the beneficial effect.

MESSENGER 

In addition, birds and their song have long been associated with messages from the Otherworlds whether through dreams and journeying, or signs and augeries in this reality. Next time you hear a spectacular outburst, stop and listen. It may well contain some spark of Imbas designed especially for you.

When journeying, remember to listen - your eyes are only one avenue to understanding.  What can you hear? What does that sound suggest to you? What is your emotional response? Practice this in daily life too - start by pausing next time you hear a lon dubh or a spideog in full voice 

VIDEO My Tiktok 

Irish Pagan School Class on Draíocht Ceoil 

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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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Harp Club and Cauldron - upcoming collection on the Dagda

Delighted to be invited to contribute to Harp Club Cauldron, an exciting and expertly curated collection of writing on the Dagda. As a feminist and poet, my contribution will address the intersection of Faith, Imbas and Science, in the magical, spiritual and creative tradition of our landscape. 

Publishers Eel&Otter Press hope to present this collection in 2018 and have launched a funding campaign. The project boasts Lora O'Brien and Morpheus Ravenna at the helm and the contributors include an impressive array of scholarly and creative voices. 

Books can be pre-ordered at the link below; and rewards for backers of the project are excellent, including access to the creative process, being listed in the book as backers, beautiful artwork and more

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/harp-club-and-cauldron-a-harvest-of-knowledge

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The Host of Morrigan Marches Again #poetry#ireland #pagan #deity #humour

For Lora O'Brien - mostly in jest....


The Host of Morrigan Marches Again


The recruitment drive was quietly done;
stealthy (by design)
signs were set, and entrails yielded omens.

Some of those conscripted in
didn't even know they were
til orders came and uniforms were donned.

"Onwards!" cried their leader
sword drawn, and battle eye a-gleam.
"Um, what's the plan?" one Private asked.

"I have a dream, " the curt reply. And
no one asked again, for who can argue
with the power of a well placed aisling?

She will be pleased, when She sees
the standards flying and the cauldrons
set again over flames -

the felling of great trees no longer
acceptable, the ranks improvised 
with government papers and utility bills -

and the red gold of the setting sun
over the smooth undulations of the land
sets fire to visions of a Nation's pride.

The Host of An Morrigu marches once again
though wanders might better describe
some of its progress towards the field of carnage

while some dance and sing and others still
sharpen pens and draw ink like blood
from their own veins.

Still they are a war-band, and they will fight
whatever weapons they choose
in this world or the others.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Pagan Writers Community

Anyone who writes with an eye to alternative spirituality should check out Pagan Writer's Community on Facebook and also the new website on http://grou.ps/paganwriterscommunity/

An excellent resource for esoteric writings, pagan poetry and fiction and to connect and interact with other writers.

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When St Patrick Met the Druid

When St Patrick met the Druid

Seeing is believing, but really
there were no snakes to start with
It's not a miracle
to drive away the invisible.

He was a gaunt man
inflamed with the need to prove
he was no swineherd;
Patrician of Ireland
refusing to acknowledge an Ollamh
A Doctor of Knowledge, a poet.

He has no subtlety of words
but speaks quickly without reflection
eager to fill the space between us
With reflections on his God

I ask him, what three things
make a man of honour?
He does not know the answer
He is no initiate.

Yet he has fire, this slave turned master
I can see him devouring us all.
I waste no more words on him;
He cannot hear what I say.

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Lugh

In honour of the day - Happy Lughnasadh


Lugh
sitting in golden splendour
belly full and mead sweetened
Look down on these my friends,
my clan, my people
my tuatha and my Tir
Lugh, let sweet mellow days
be their fill, and all the ripe
beauty of your season
leaven the approach of winter
with cider-apple and harvest
and plenty
and love.

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Bealtine Edition of the PPP

Bealtine Edition is now available....including the results of the Pagan Paeans Launch Competition!
Also register to enjoy the member's section - post poems, read, give/get feedback, join debates and enter poetry competitions

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Pagan Paeans

"Inspirations"

The Paganpoetrypages.com is proud to announce its latest poetry competition.

We've posted two images as inspiration - all you have to do is look and write a poem. The best , most original take on it wins!

Launching the Pagan Paeans Anthology

The winner will recieve a great prize; a £20 gift voucher for Amazon.co.uk/Amazon.com and a free copy of [b]Pagan Paeans, the first PPP anthology (out May 1st!)

Please post your entries in the PPP site, in the section "PPP competitions". If you are not already a member, just register, it's free and very easy to do! www.paganpoetrypages.com
If you have any queries please email ppp @ anfianna.com

Pagan Paeans will be available from Cafepress.com May 1st 2009

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New Poetry Anthology Seeks Submissions

The Pagan Poetry Pages is seeking submissions from new and past members for their first Anthology due out at Yule; the submissions deadline is November 10th and poetry can be submitted along with a bio to ppp@anfianna.com. Poems should reflect the spirutal nature of the poet and/or a theme of nature, seasons, festivals and celebrations of spirituality. However all good poetry will be considered. Submissions must be accompanied by a short BIO and submitted in the name under which they should be published.

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Lugh Among the People

Lughnasadh

Lugh among the people.

i.

Deliberate, in measured steps,

approaching the great circle

leading the people to pray, with the sound of brass trumpets;

Priest or Poet, calling us each to his own, filling our hearts

with the beat of a bodhrán and the sound of the pipes made of thorn

I am the dancer, lost in the rhythm of nature, dancing on the edge

of the world, swinging out over chasms of infinity

lit only by the icecold stars.

Singing a song I heard somewhere

mourning the loss of a woman

of infinite love. I am the Creator of words.

I am the Fiddler. I am the moment when Summer ends,

yet still the sun beats down and the Earth yields.

I am the paradox, of Autumn beginning.

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Encounter

Encounter

Light and dark at play
across the dappled water
I hear the frost break
underfoot, like glass.

Horned and hooved, pawing
at the frozen ground, antlered.
Lowering crown, challenging,
playfully I think. A forest Pan.

Breath suspended in tendrils on
icy air; we stare transfixed.

Reluctantly, you turn from me
relinquish me, to the gathering dusk.
Darkened skies pass across the plains
and rain turns to snow in the forests.

All trace gone except in my minds eye
and the grand look of your own.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Territory

-------------------------------

Territory


First
was the spear shaft
spiked in my soft flesh
with anger and with fear
and I first heard the word
"mine"



after were many spikes
Cranogs and fences,
ramparts and causeways
pinpricks that tore
perforated the completeness
of my soul
and many voices shouted
"mine"


soon after
deep scars
gashes across the face of me
a million hands all grabbing
all tearing
all shouting
"mine"


All using part of me
my sacred communion
throwing me like offal to pigs
drawing lines through my
energy
all building boundaries
all enslaving me
all claiming me,
"mine"

I contemplate
spinning out of orbit
into the ice-cold rind of space
into the red-heat of a burning sun
into the wasteland of eternity
and when their shouts have silenced
point at the endlessness of time
and tell them

"mine".



©Geraldine Morrkens Byrne

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Cliona by the Shore

This is a poem in the Filí tradition; the code within it is accessible to anyone with the time to read a few sagas and perhaps have a look through the Key of Solomon: it's one I never bother explaining. People seem to find their own meaning in it; the meaning it has for me is intensely personal which makes it amusing that in its obscurity it seems to be one poem others find universal!
Available in the Where the Hazel Falls Anthology


Cliona by the Shore


I let myself in
with the key of the kings and
wrapped red ribbons
around my poor head.
‘I thought you were dead’ said
my mother.

I fired up at this and she waved me aside
‘I merely remark’ was her only reply

I heard on the news that the Temple had
fallen.
I am aghast at their simple faith
And men search their words
For slivers of meanings
shards and remnants
of a truth they will hate
‘you came home too late’, says my mother

The debt I repaid is burning a hole in my pocket
For the cruelty of martyrs is mercy.

The wet grass smelt sweetly
Giving me courage
I willfully left there
and drove to the ocean
but none of the fishermen
put out to sea.
‘Are you leaving me? ’ asks my mother

I smiled in return and released her to fade.
For I am the prophet of beauty decayed.

We dwell by the shore now
And bless the white thimble
The rue grows around us
like weeds on a grave and the favour still warms us
in cottage or cave
‘We’ll save the world later’, my wise mother says.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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The Children of Lir Sailed into Bantry Bay

DSC00104
Originally uploaded by charlesbyrnemusic.

The Children of Lir Sailed into Bantry Bay
Four white breasts abreast in the blue harbour
How are you faring, i asked for something to say
Heartbroken at their endless wandering selves.

We are fine, they replied with courage
we sail where the winds allow and soon
we will find safe anchorage, in the bosum of Lir
and rest in the safety of our home.

How many years have I asked the same question?
How many times have you replied with hope?
I pray someday I will come for you, my four friends
and ye will be far away, finished wandering at last.

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Firenne

Firenne: the life force "truth" that under-pins all living things. The most complex and yet elegantly simple philosophy of my ancestors; a creation theory and blueprint for life rolled into one.
Firenne comes at a cost; those who would reduce our pagan heritage to new age charlatanry want to reduce the colour of our beliefs to a monotone should remember that Firenne brings life and death, light and shade and while it was the mainstay of Brehon justice by which even kings fell it is equally the weapon of punishment, the scourge of the filí on those who dishonour.

In modern paganism, websites, forums, groups and covens trot out the whitewashed version of ancient, complex and culturally contextual beliefs. The mantra is "it's my path...I can do as I please..." but Firenne remains immutable no matter how we try to change the world and shape it to our vox-pop imaginations. And those who claim to live by "honour" invoke Firenne whether they understand it or not - invoke both its duties and its rewards and most of all, its judgement.

The following piece was written, like Speak and be Damned, because of a campaign of hate and bullying that flared up in 2005 online, attacks by pseudo-pagans who wanted to use a project online to shore up their social lives and build up a little following or the faithful to pander to their egos. Those who opposed them found themselves in the centre of a bloody war of words; in the end it came down to a clash between those who actually follow a pagan path and those who wished merely to play at it, while gathering kudos and a little power over the gullible.

Sadly not exactly an unusual situation among neo-pagan groups, bitching and warring being only second to claiming extraordinary powers for oneself. But some wars are worth fighting; unless your beliefs are as shallow as theirs!

As a poem, it is based loosely on the rhythms and patterns of the Old Irish poems and roscanna. As a personal statement it represents the ties of loyalty, of standing by those who are in the right, of choosing honour over reputation or popularity; it is also a prediction, of the cost of betraying honour and Firenne. The cost is not always visible but in the end the one true loser is the dishonourable, reducing their inner landscape to desert, atrophying in a mire of lies. In Old Irish writing, to live without Firenne is to die.



Firenne

I have seen
the best of my warband
struck by arrows
from treacherous hands
and yet they stand.

They are wrongly accused,
harrased by shrill jackals
whose minds are unshackled
by any standard of honour;
and yet they stand.

When you adopt
the cloak of lies,
how threadbare your clothes!
How ragged you are
how unfit to be seen.

When you bully,
crawl on your bellies
in filth, for the prize
of fool's gold -
you become lower than dust.

The people of honour
will not stand with you
nor breathe the same air
nor eat from your plate
for you are poison to them.

The land will not hold you
the very stones turn from you
how polluted you are
how tainted the blood
spilt from your veins.

The crows turn from you
the worms cannot feast
your bones are not part of us
you speak not our tongue
alone and unmourned are you.

I have seen
honest hearts pierced
truthful mouths stopped
loving hands bound
these are abominations.

I have seen Firenne
dishonoured
but I have been comforted
for the penalties are great
and they are inexorable.

No man need lift hand
Firenne brought down the ramparts
at Royal Tara on the breath
of a single word.
so too will it tumble you.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Things that amused me today...

Some things that interested me today:

Human Skull Mounted as Trophy

Prooving that our ancestors had a robust view of interior decoration and rather different ideas about what constitutes "tasteful"

Wouldn't you Love to Live here?

Okay so as has been pointed out to me I would be a dilittante and of course would insist that it was heated to the max, and had all mod cons and really only want to live there because it's cute but just think - Irish Poet writes about pagan nature in a house like that! I'd sell books, so I would!

Modern Pagans Honour Zeus in Athens


How nice it is, I think Zeus deserves it much as He isn't one of my lot.

and finally I shouldn't laugh - but.....

Australians Mourn Gnomesville Massacre

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Speak or be Damned

This is an angry poem, an outraged poem.
I rarely get angry, ever, but as anyone who has ever been involved in an internet forum knows, nothing can be as devastatingly vicious or bitchy as a falling out between online "friends".
There is a peculiar kind of passive aggressive behaviour played out online, which is not only almost impossible to counteract but worse, is insidious -sooner or later it infects you. Worse, it can inform your own behaviour to a startling degree.
In 2005 a group of close friends split apart revealing deep-rooted resentments, lies, betrayals - a painful thing to watch and a sorry tale all round. One of the most frustrating things about the situation was that while knowing that people were lying, if we tried to explain our point of view there was no way to do so without revealing extremely damaging things about people who were after all, once friends. We also wished to avoid imposing the situation on those not directly involved so we forbore to bitch and whine at them.
But by not doing so, a lot of people believed the one side they heard in detail and interpreted silence as either guilt or acceptance. One had to choose between personal integrity and self defence - a deply uncomfortable position.
And this was just online stupidity; imagine the wife trying to fight against the shadow of her husband's mistress or the person trying to defend against the hydra of rumour in the workplace. The political prisoner or the innocent wrongly convicted - how often can they cry out without being dismissed? Michael Moore is labelled a crank for telling us the truth as he perceives it. Other figures suffer similar malignancy - but silence is and always will be interpreted wrongly.

A friend once told me "you can't be misquoted if you say nothing". I now disagree - I have seen myself quoted having said nothing. My silence was either quoted against me, or my silence was filled with words and lies of their choosing. I was lucky, hurtful though it was it was all trivial, it was not real life nor a matter of great importance nor when it came down to it did the loss of such people diminish my life in any way. All that was hurt was pride; and perhaps a little tender-heartedness and sentimental sniffling, go on I'll admit to it!

But it did make me think, and as always happens when one tastes injustice - or at least should always happen - it made me a tiny bit more appreciative of all those who really suffer from it I understand those who are trapped between the desire not to debase oneself in the game of mudslinging and the added injustice of having such mud slung all the harder, because they will not play. And of course of knowing that the moment they do stoop to respond there will be happy and gleeful cries of "AHA! you're just as bad...." So this little poem, while not terribly elegant is heartfelt and dedicated to those who have the real experience, of which just a taste was enough for me!


Speak or be Damned

There is nothing like the itch
of unspoken secrets, the fever
of injustice when we know ourselves
maligned. The ache of heart
when innocence is bought and paid for.

What coinage this, tarnished and warm
from dirty pockets? have you ever realised
betrayal in the silence of a friend? oh, i
am heartsore with the glances
whispers like arrows and words
like stones.

Were you, like me, brought up
to be graceful? don't give them the
satisfaction, don't backbite, don't bite back.
if you do, the taste of it lingers like
drinking blood, curdled.
and what can you do?

Speak and be evil spoken:
stay silent and be mis-spoken: the
burden of soiled trust is not easy to unload.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Where Once Stood Tribes

We like to think our generation is the most evolved, and of our ancestors as primitive; whereas in fact there are standards to which our ancestors adhered, in the light of which we are savages, unreconstructed and illiterate.
"Where Once Stood Tribes" is an expression of loss, for the things our ancestors knew and felt, that we have cavalierly discarded.




Where Once Stood Tribes

Where once stood tribes
who rose and fell
on the bounty of a living land
soul and soil intertwined
One blood, one heart,
of one mind,
muscle and sinew
rock and tree

now stand deserts
raized and mined
farmed not free and filled
with remnants of a glorious past
now dismissed
barbourous land
savage land
free land

Once here ran the young
chasing after quarry
wild whooping youth
training for the fight
with hunt and flight
stone blow
axe fell
arrow flew


Once stood Warriors
honour bound to those
whose small lives fed
whose small bones ground:
love of warrior
for the fallen enemy,
so sweet in pain
life in death
alive in death.

Who can judge
from these degenerate times
the free and brave?
Bearers of ancient honours
honour of soul
of strong arm
of strong back
of keen eye
of fleet foot?

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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January is Freezing

Posted for no other reason than that it's freezing out today My feet are so cold - I feel about 90 years of age moaning about my aches and pains. So I was reminded of this poem, about a different kind of cold and a different kind of freezing.



January is Freezing

Cold light seeped in, through misted frames
Casting a golden glow over smoke rising
from the cigarette in my hand and hanging over the grill;
tobacco and bacon and fried eggs.
The smell of a Sunday afternoon.
I lean elbows on a crumb-laden table
and watch a sullen shadow cross the mahogany,
cast by a bottle, like an alcoholic sun dial;
and it is strange to have you sitting here again,
your shoulder touching mine, your cup warm against my hand.
The scattered cartons of a late-night ill-advised meal
one lone rice grain welded to a fork,
careless reminders of a moment of mad abandon.
Shivering gratefully and huddled against the draught
I try to normal out, without the pain.
In the enervation of a Sunday hangover, still
sourly tasting the delights of the night before
I cannot ask you where have you been,
I can only watch the pearls of rain,
mingling with the icy glass and sigh





Geraldine Moorkens Byrne January 2003

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