Bardic Offerings I-J

I Am High Cloud

I am high cloud,
I look down on Eagle and Raven,
I fall on Hare and Sow,
I fill the pools and rivers with my strength,
I swim with salmon,
I enter the dark deep places passing ancient bones,
I leap from rock and spring,
Become one with Oak and Apple,
Travel to Western lands,
Bearing the gift of life
In summer sun I rise
Once more high cloud

Bram

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The Song of The Lord of the Greenwood

I am ant, I am Alder, I am Ash, I am the breeze
I am badger; I am Beech and Birch, two graceful, stately trees
I am Cernunnos, and a cuckoo you will feed me with a feast
I am Douglas Fir & dandelion, the tallest and the least
I am the eagle on the elder and the ever-circling sounds
I am the foxglove near the dog fox running from the hounds
I am Gean and I'm gentian and my flowers will not fail
I am Hornbeam, Herne and hornet, there's a sting upon my tail
I am intolerance and I am Ilex, Latin for the Holly King
I am Juniper and Justice and the latter makes nature sing
I am knapweed and the Kings own deer, kill me if you dare
I am Larch and lady's mantle, which she wears upon her hair
I am mistletoe and meadow-sweet, now behold I am a mole
I am nightjar, I am nettle, and I am nought without your soul
I am the ox-eye daisy lit by the summer sun
I am Pan, partridge, Peace, and Pear, Poplar, pheasant, Plum
I am Quercus, which the wise old Druids knew as holy oak
I am rabbit; I am Rowan, Mountain Ash to mountain folk
I am squirrel, I am sparrow, and I am the stag at bay
I am tansy, I am teasel, and perhaps I'm Toad today
I'm the Undine of the woodland stream, can you hear my song?
I am violet, I am vetch, and I am vole who swims along
I'm the Willow at the waters edge, the Wych Elm and the wand
Except when I'm a xenophobe but with May Queen I will bond
I am yarrow standing tall and proud, I'm Yew who guards the dead
I am zealous and the Zodiac, the stars above your head
I am the masculine part of you, the spirit you dread and fear
I'm the barbarian that's in your heart ever creeping near
I am green man, I'm John Barleycorn, fist in the velvet glove,
I am your suitor and the one who knows what it is to be your love.

Geoff Boswell
April 2001

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Life bleeding from my skin I hearken to the song
Always the sentinel of death in the fading life's light
My arms stretching upwards caressing the sky

My family huddles close, always clad in russet and green
The darkness is punctuated with stipples of sunlight
Piercing through the twined ceiling above

My girth widens each year, with each child that I make
Vibrant strength in my limbs, will rise to the caress of man
Yet I can bring sleep with care and death to the foolish

The older I become, so increasingly more hollow
My toes digging even deeper, as I focus my spirit
Memory of the past, joined to story of the future

Who are you most wise? my name you ask of me
Mother of the woods, holder of ancient knowledge
Grandmother of my tribe, I am Idho the eternal

Ashpretani

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Ikon of Brighid

I did not paint you.
I am innocent of your gaze,
blank as the kiln where
clay frosts with liquid glass,
bland earth burned to beauty.

It was not me.
I did not smooth the off-cut wood,
nor layer your trembling heat-haze
with soft gold and lustre.

I had learned the craft,
of writing ochre and vermilion,
forming skin dark as burnt earth,
grey and orange as embers
soothed with moss of ash.

Now I tremble at what my hands
have and have not made -
A nimbus of incandescent bells,
your face a scald, a liquid gash
where tenderness breaks through
in flakes of fire.

Now I too am ash and flame.
Caught in your crucible,
My Lady Temperer, here,
in the bright and burning glass
of your eyes upon me, praying.

Mark Wiliams

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I wrote this poem for our Imbolc festival, to honour the goddess Bride.

Hearth-warmed war hounds relish rest,
With zest sing the tales of yore.
Mead-mulled lore keepers love best
To guest at Her hall once more.

Deep-hearted maid of high mein,
Poets reign by Her sweet aid,
Names fade not, but glory gain,
No vain deed, but honour made.

Frail snowdrops bloom in Her wake,
Hearts ache for the spring to flow,
Shoots grow. Emerges the snake,
Yearnings slake whilst life moves slow.

Frost-fell nights call us to clan,
Bride can lead us from dark plights,
Set our sights to summer's plan,
Weaving dan* around our hearth.

* Dan is the Gaelic concept of destiny, rather like the idea of Wyrd, and not some bloke called Daniel!

Robin Herne

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When no peeper's past its bedtime
Before any early worm or bird
Sleeping trees draped in shining mistress
The quiet cloak of rest's unheard

Alight the moment, watch and wonder
To embrace this time, to repose and stare
And balance on the edge of wisdom
Knowing naught but all is wonder and full to brimming
Soul borne naked, smooth and fair.

Inbetween this night and morning
Adrift in time belied of space
Wakefulness resplendent blessing
Liminal hopes arise in promise
And wrap themselves in nethered grace.

This is when the world's heart is broken
On display though few might see
Shall mend but slightly for the tokens
Left by wandering wondering magi
Humble drops of quiet love from me.

After sleep but before I'm waking
When realms entangled without a seam
Upon this moment rests my blessings
And hopes to enter reflection
But one connecting silvery beam.

On today the world is turning
Off to rest expectant grace
To wait another brief encounter
Upon this liminal time and space

Scott Alcock
October 2003

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Perched, on the broken roadside fence,
Head slightly cocked,
You watch with those obsidian eyes,
Sinking deep into the seat of my flesh.

You sit and watch each life second go by,
As the guests of your world become a tiny speck,
Moving closer to their next minute.

You slither within the grasps of winters shadow,
Casting your wisdom on the scapegoats intellect,
Scratching tiny stick men into the wood,
Crucifying them on the roadside fence.

I hear your astringent arrrrrrk,
Stinging a hole in my mind,
You scourge my body with tiny black feathers,
Scandalous!
In ritual, I fall into your nest.

There I lay upon a bed of coal, waiting
Watching you tend to your patients,
Tenuous, they are non-responsive.
You are their ears, until you become their redundant reference,
Parting their dreams in their sleep.

Hours pass, you work through the night,
The lady shines down a brilliant white,
You crawl up and scratch out her eyes
Her brightness blinds the sanctuary within your black light.

My turn has come; you paint my mind,
Then stick me back in the void.
New life emerges from the darkness
A common pair we shared.

Jody Copestake
May 2004

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