Imbolc is celebrated on 1st-2nd February, in the Northern hemisphere, and marks the halfway point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. It's the celebration of the end of Winter and the beginning of the “Light Half” of the year. Imbolc is a Pagan festival in honour of the Goddess, Brighid, but, as with many Pagan festivals, it was also celebrated by Celtic Christians and later by the Roman church, who called it “Saint Brighid’s Day” or “Candlemas”. All these celebrations - and similar festivals in other traditions at this season - are a joyful acknowledgement of Light, physical and spiritual, coming into the world.
I have suffered with a sunlight deficiency condition since I was a child and our dark British winters, though possessed of a certain beauty, are particularly difficult. Imbolc is, for me, the Stirring time - the Quickening time - when I begin, like the spring flowers, to push my way through the dark and cold and feel the tingling of green leaves and bright blossom again. It’s a time when I start to re-awaken all over again, to life and love and the joy of being.
Here are some of my Imbolc poems, with love.
Imbolc
Electricity splinters
naked through the world.
Sharp and sparking
dangerous through the
veins and nerves of the
multi-seasoned earth.
Frosted light and bright and
hard as diamonds –
stung by spring’s quicksilver –
shaken from its deep sepulchral sleep.
Quickening
Today’s the day,
the birdsong day,
the day of mischievous Mercury
silvering rain
and rushing through all our veins,
the day of the Dance beginning again.
This is the day Ouroboros smiles
and almost spits its tail
to the stars,
the day Janus turns both heads towards me
and winks.
This is the day when,
even through rain -
or snow
or frost,
warm fronts or cold fronts
no matter -
the Sun begins to shine.
This,
today,
is Quickening time.
Brighid’s Day
The world is a stage
and every day,
a new scene in the play...
And now,
Brighid comes out from the room where the Green man sleeps,
steps through the curtain
and takes centre stage.
Her smile is no longer shy-behind-snowflakes,
or sneaking at Solstice,
ghost-like guest at the fireside.
Now, she smiles wide
and takes a bow,
laughing aloud
and throwing flowers to the crowd,
the orchestra begins to play.
Now,
today,
Winter speaks a last soliloquy,
a final flurry of frost,
and bows out.
Waterfalls roar
and the forests cry out,
“It’s almost time!
Time to thaw,
time to melt,
time to feel the tingling of leaves,
the warm breath of another Summer on the breeze.”
The Green Man stirs
and birds sing...
Brighid smiles,
her belly full of promise,
feeling the Quickening of the season
and the approaching birth
of Spring.
Half Way
In the still-dark days,
where Frost feels welcome
and snowflakes make love
to the cold ground,
In the silent pause,
the bated breath,
in the steel of Winter pretending death,
a swell,
a stirring sigh,
naked branches stretch stark fingers
to a steely sky -
an upbeat
for a coming downbeat,
and the overture begins to play.
Brighid steps upon the softening Earth,
Swans fly above the sunrise flame,
and the world is given birth
again.
Welcoming Brighid
Welcome Goddess,
pregnant
and full of promise,
life quickening in your belly
and the sting of Spring
mercurial in your veins.
Welcome Brighid,
Beautiful,
Bountiful,
your joy-filled laughter
barely restrained.
Welcome Love,
Welcome Grace,
Welcome the Seasons,
turning apace.
Welcome Life,
Welcome Light,
Welcome days
banishing night.
Welcome Goddess,
pregnant
and full of promise,
life quickening in your belly
and the sting of Spring
mercurial in your veins.
Welcome Brighid,
Beautiful,
bountiful,
your joy-filled laughter
barely restrained.
Ouroboros’ Kiss
Boldy,
step into the Ouroboros circle,
the place where life and death
smile into each other’s eyes,
where dross
is turned to gold.
Strip naked,
cold,
then,
strip again.
Flay skin from flesh
and flesh from bone,
throw all into the cauldron
and keep on dancing.
Stars bright above,
the moon another Ouroboros,
smiling strong.
Dance!
Dance the dance of dawn,
of the ancient ever-young,
of the re-born.
Look to the East,
where the new day
pours liquid gold over the horizon
and dance!
Dance to the rhythm
of the season,
to the song of the stars.
Dance to the dying
and rising,
the cessation and creation,
the continuation.
Dance!
Here, in the time between times,
in the dark-light,
not-quite night,
in the dance before dawn,
I am re-born
and I rise on the bliss
of Ouroboros’ kiss
to dance again.
Imbolc’s Cauldron
Beneath the frost-hard earth a stirring sigh -
a pulse, though faint, beats unashamedly -
and whispers into cloud-wrapped, wintry sky,
and echoes in the pounding of the sea:
“Awake! Awake, for Quickening Time is here
and Mercury runs warm through every vein,
The snow-kissed Earth feels Springtime drawing near
and Imbolc’s Cauldron bubbles once again.”
The belly of the Goddess swells and blooms
and feels, with every dream-drenched, pre-dawn breath,
new life a-stir in Winter’s Catacombs
and Resurrection rides the back of Death.
“The Spring is near!” birds call from leafless bough;
“The Quickening Time is here; the Time is Now.”

Image: "Brighid Smiles" By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)
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