In the pulse of the hammer, and tongue of the flame,
The steel in the speaking of bold, ancient names.
In the magic of making for tearing apart,
Is the song, and the sword, and the name of the art.
That She makes for the making of that 'neath Her hand,
That She tests for the temper, the world to withstand,
That each blade is a baby, each song is a son,
And the sharing of either, a war fought and won.
Oh stand, place your foot on the edge of the stage
Face to the forge, and give voice to the blaze
Your heart wields the hammer, the anvil; your soul
Stretch your hand to the magic, and bring it in full
That the song may speak savage when wielded with skill,
That the blade keeps its beauty when freed of the kill,
That the war of the poet is fought with the page,
And the songs of the soldiers live, thoughtless of age.
Oh come, raise your sword, and your hammer, and pen
Rise to Her call and do magic again
Strive as though never you thought to retire
For the Covenant's sealed when the listeners take fire
In the hand of the drummer that marshals the beat,
The silver strings blazing with un-dimming heat
In the passion and power and pride of the world,
In this Goddess in Glory in Genius unfurled.
Brighid is my patron Goddess, and in many ways, her principles and metaphors really do define my life. I sing and write because I am driven to it, and I share the fruits of my creativity as a sort of devotion to that potent force of Creation. The stage and the posting board are Her temples, and in a deeply personal way, I feel more at home there than anywhere else. I figure there are worse Gods to revere than one of craft and creation, poetry and performance, fire and frenzy and truth. She and I get along pretty well, when all is said and done.