Fire in the Head, by Dragonfly, age 17
vivelatrout [at] hotmail [dot] com
Imbas
Scots-Gaelic word for divine inspiration, the ‘manifestation
that enlightens’. The ‘fire in the head’, which
brings spirits, ecstasy, and dreams to the poet. ‘Imbas
forosna’ is a ritual tradition for finding these. |
I’ve always loved language. From my mum I have inherited a passion
for reading and writing, speaking, twisting words and meanings and weaving
them together. I love the puzzle of deciphering another’s message
and the idea that someone else is bringing my words alive when they whisper
it to themselves or shout it aloud. Yet, every time I look at this website,
feeling the urge to write something for it and the irritation when nothing
comes, I find myself on the quest for inspiration once more.
My First (legible) Poem, Aged 5
Summer glades of buttercups
Winter glades of snowdrops
Each season brings a different flower
A different flower, a different hue.
Scouring through books on Scotland I seek out my ancestors. One is certain
my surname means ‘wide pasture’ while another asserts my past
lies in a ‘big hill’. On my mother’s side I am from
Essex, or possibly Belgium. Here endeth my attempt at the book approach.
However, I did learn that my Scottish clan’s motto is ‘bydand’,
meaning ‘stand and fight’, ‘steadfast’ or ‘to
stand prepared’. I understand; I feel it in myself. Contemplating
this, I reach for my drum.
White moon, you look like a drum in the sky,
pale skinned and smooth.
I wonder, as I listen to your song,
who holds the tipper, which
strikes so quick
we do not see you shake
The drum brings trance to me easily, probably from being lost in the
rhythm of so many words in so many books. As a small child I loved ‘Can’t
you sleep, Little Bear?’ where Little Bear loses his fear of the
dark when he discovers the light of the stars. As I grew up, I was captivated
by the frightening and beautiful world of C.S Lewis’ ‘Narnia’
and the satisfaction of finally understanding Terry Pratchett.
Poesy
The heavenly gift of poetic skill. Often personified, her followers
have included John Keats and Wilfred Owen.
Around me I still sense Faery. As I grow up I worry more and more, or
perhaps less and less, that I’ve gone completely crazy when I see
a cloaked woman break off a piece of the moon and disappear with it, or
when I point out dryads to my giggling friends. Surely the enchantment,
fight and flight and sheer bliss of living on the edge of madness, that
frightens and excites me at the same time, can’t be a dream?
Weight of the waters crafted you:
stones from the sea driven sand.
Shifting form in change’s face,
rolling in ocean waves.
Being infused with adventure,
You are the poet’s cold muse.
But rocks always sink to the bottom,
and where they are tossed they can’t choose.
I wrote this poem in school. I find poetry that doesn’t have a
rhyme scheme and comedy value very difficult; I could not call myself
a poet without laughing. However, what this poem does show is another
thing I find inspiration in: the land, the sea and the sky.
Awen
The Welsh word for the ‘fire in the head’: the
fluid, ecstatic peace that inspires our spirits and entices
the lustful power of our aspirations.
|
I live on the highest hill in the Cotswolds near the Rollright Stones
and Wychwood Forest, a stream and a well, valleys and little villages.
I am inspired by nature, biology, sociology, the human psyche, faery and
song and dance and the rhythms I feel all around me. I seek it out, float
on top of it, swim beneath it’s surface and soak it all in.
Being so immersed in inspiration can sometimes drown out my beloved literary
expression. I see imbas in the forests, poesy in my words and awen in
the burning grate, which I half want to keep to myself and half ache to
write about here. This is what stops me, when I look at this website,
from creating fabulous articles based on profound thinking. There is almost
too much to take in and too much to share at the same time. How can I
reproduce what I feel when I climb trees to speak with dryads or trip
in a badger’s set and land face first in the mud or hear my mum
say she is honestly, deeply proud of me? These things happen, and the
only words for them are imbas, poesy and awen.
I can only end on a contradiction by way of concluding this meandering
journey.Although even writer’s block can be inspiring, some things
cannot be spoken: only felt.
