Erin Go Bragh[less]!

I'm not a whit Irish, in spite of the red hair. Still, any day celebrated with parades, singing, dancing, and green beer is my kinda holiday. To kick things off, look up Saint Dymphna for a lesser known bit of Irish history. And here's my poetic tribute to to the wee lass, a little opening prayer for the day and for whatever compassion we can muster for one another...

ST. DYMPHNA

            patron of the mentally ill

In fitful dreams I find you shivering

in rowan and ferns along the Blackwater

river, wreathed in St. John’s wort

& anointed with yellow-rattle,

half-starved and wrapped in a celtar

cinched at the waist with an oak rosary,

humming strains of your mother’s brief

lullaby. But your father was a chieftain

and knew the magic, found you anyway.

Grief or madness drove him to finger

your small bones for signs of her

in the curve of your emerging breasts,

the winged cup of your pelvis, your

silky down, and you a fugitive

child with courage enough to keep locked

that garden gate, though he found you

again, sealed the gate forever. Forsaken

daughter, in my own trembling delusion

I am your Síle na Gigh, we offer up

a novena to our Mother and for nine days

I give you this blessing too—my stone lap

cushioned with heather & moss, pillow

for your bruised and worried brow.

(Amen.)