"Fuchsia and Ivy"

              From Boston to the Liscannor Vat, therefore, in a straight a line as I could, I travelled to a well Sacred to Bridgid, about whom I knew almost nothing.  A part of the material out of which I had begun to rebuild my Faith, she was patroness of Poetry, Smithcraft, and Healing.  In someone else's guidebook, I'd read the name, the place, a calendar of ritual.  With the help of some Catholic women thinkers, I'd scrape away what felt like centuries of ash and manure to get here, whatever that was.  Water.  It's steady, private pulse.  No middleman.  No man.  Fuchsia.  Ivy.  The dead.

              Down behind the framed picture of the Sacred Heart I stuff a copy of my first book of poems, in gratitude and a slow-fermenting amazement.  I inscribe it, "To My Mother. From Her Daughter."  I know I am in the presence of what of  my lifetime of churches-of men in dresses and flowers in vases-have blacked out like the flesh-sex of the middle panel.  In my hand is the manuscript of the second book, from which the publishers of my first, lyric poems have turned away.  These poems relive the sanctified violence of my childhood. These poems utter that violence not in a lyric frame-not to arrive at forgiveness as a collision that transcends, not to present exquisite feelings exquisitely wounded, not to whisper lamentations to the likewise entrapped-but in one who judges the judge.  With no name yet for this posture of address, for there is no name for it in the United States lyric tradition, I have invented the ancient public, Irish bardic mode, from necessity.  "Your Honour, when my mother stood before you," the cornerstone poem begins, from the shadow realm, empowered, for the sake of the tribe, to Speak to Power as its Equal.

              "May these poems find their way powerfully into the world," I implore, and I kneel down to drink from the water...

~Linda McCarriston

U.S.A./Ireland 

Beannaichte'

24 May, 2016

@beannaichte.twitter.com 

Jewel - Hands - Lyrics

"Irish Fable"

~ "Throw your  Heart over the Wall,

then Follow It!"

              Some time ago I read an Irish fairy story which told  how a mortal, on a fairy steed, went hunting with the fairies.  He had the choice of whether the fairy horse should become large enough to carry a man-sized man or be small enough to ride the horse as it was.
              He chose to become fairy-size and, after the magic was worked, rode gayly with the fairy king until he came to a wall so high he feared his tiny horse could not carry him over; but the fairy king said to him,
"Throw your Heart over the Wall, then Follow it!" So he rode fearlessly at the wall, with his Heart already bravely past it, and went safely over.
              I have forgotten most of the story and do not remember the name of the author, though I wish I did; but often I think of the fairy's advice.  Anyone who has ridden horses much understands how the Heart of the rider going over fairly lifts the horse up and across an obstacle.  And I have been told, by good drivers, that it holds true in taking a vehicle up a difficult hill.
              But the uplift of a Fearless Heart will help us over other sorts of barriers.  In any undertaking, to Falter at a crisis means Defeat.  No one ever Overcomes difficulties by going at them in a hesitant, doubtful  way.
              If we would win Success in anything, when we come to a wall that bars our way, we must throw our Hearts over and then follow Confidently.  It is fairy advice, you know, and savors of magic, so following it we will ride with the fairies of good Fortune and go Safely over.

~ Laura Ingalls Wilder

( November of "1922")

~ Beannaichte'
29 April, 2016

@beannaichte.twitter.com

"Shelter"

It
is in the
Shelter

of
Each Other,
that
People
Live.

~ Olde Irish Proverb

~Beannaichte'
26 April, 2016

@beannaichte.twitter.com

"Whether"

And Ruth said.

Urge me not to leave you

 or to turn back from following you;

for where you go

I will go,

and where you lodge

I will lodge.

Your people shall be my people

and your

God my God.

Where you die I will die,

and there I will be buried.

The Lord

do so to me,

and more also.

If 

anything 

but death parts me 

from

You.

~Ruth I: 16-17

~Beannaichte'

 18 April, 2016

@beannaichte.twitter.com 

"Crystal Tears"

     As I walk into the office, she is the first person, I notice. She has a very definite presence. Her shoulder-length red hair is pretty, as always.~ Though we are not personal friends, I consider her a trusted acquaintance.

    Today, we are each thinking about a friend, who died two years, ago. I mention his name, and her eyes fill with tears.

   It is odd, but I do not cry. I feel strangely numb, from all of the previous losses, in the past two years. Some that are still in process, leaving me in a state of limbo. I feel like I am walking in ankle-deep sand. Each day I go about things, but I move slowly. I long for the days, when even death did not slow my pace.

   I continue to listen to the pretty red-haired lady. She is in so much pain.~ Why am I just standing there?  Finally, her tears jar me loose, from my frozen position. I understand so much of what she is feeling. I really do!

    I move slowly, around her desk. We each speak a few words.~ Again, it is her tears, and the incredible sadness in her crystal blue eyes, that touch me, at a Soul level .  I put my arms around her.  I am much taller. Yet, she returns my hug, as she  pushes herself upward on her tiptoes. We hold on to each other, tightly,  as to  not be pulled under, by the relentless current of grief. Then, we each step back, as she thanks me for the hug. I thank her, too.

   The tears in her eyes, are still evident, reminding me of tiny shards of blue crystal , in the office lighting.~ Beautiful, yet, incredibly painful .

    We say goodbye, as I turn to walk away.

     I think to myself...it is better that she can cry.~ My tears will  remain frozen...until it is `safe' for me to cry, again...

                                                                                                            ~Beannaichte'
                                                                                                                             Alicia O'Hara c.
                                                                                                                                     13 November, 2011
                                               ~ Posted on 5 April, 2016
                                                  @beannaichte.twitter.com                       

"Adage"

When it's late at night and branches

are banging against the windows,

you might think that Love is just a matter

of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself

into the fire of someone else,
but it's a little more complicated than that.

It's more like trading the two birds
who might be hiding in that bush
for the one you are not holding in your hand.

A wise man once said that Love
was like forcing a horse to drink
but then everyone stopped thinking of him as wise.

Let us be clear about something.
Love is not as simple as getting up
on the wrong side of the bed wearing the emperor's clothes.

No, it's more like the way the pen 
feels after it has defeated the sword.
It's a little like the penny saved or the nine dropped stitches.

You look at me through the halo of the last candle
and tell me Love is an ill wind
that has no turning, a road that blows no good.

but I am here to remind you,
as our shadows tremble on the walls,
that Love is the early bird who is better late than never.

~Billy Collins
U.S.A.


~Beannaichte'
3 March, 2016

@beannaichte.twitter.com