‘Fire of the Gaels’ by Aine Mac Aodha

Fire of the Gaels!

‘She is every woman
who struggles for survival
in a world of prisons
of one form or another.
Her stories, etched on the
landscapes of the universe.
She is the mouth
of the Blackwater,
the secrets of the Alder,
the writing on the caves
and the shedder of light.
She is the blueprints
of the past,
the wishes of the unborn,
the spirit of the crops
and the heat of the sun
bursting on buds.
Shes the midges on the lough,
the guardian of the wells,
the bones of the earth
and the ties that bind
by spirit and blood.
Shes the songs sung so often
renewed on the lips of the young.
Her tongue fiery can cut like an axe
or sooth like a lullaby.
She is goddess of the people,
the fire on the hills.
Shes the shadow on the stones
glinting on river beds.
The breath of a new morning,
and a beacon in the night.
She is every woman.
She is Aine,
fire of the gaels.’

Fire of the Gaels is © Aine Mac Aodha, all rights reserved. The poem was first published in Argotistonline

Aine Mac Aodha lives in Omagh. Her work has been published internationally as well as locally, and in the UK. She is a Founder member of The Busheaneys Writers Group and The Derry Playhouse Writers. Her work has appeared in Luciole Press, The Glasgow Review, Irish Haiku, Pirene’s Fountain and Argotist online to name a few. She begins much of her writing at her Residencies at The Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Monaghan and is greatful to her time spent there.
Her poetry is plainly written, she is inspired by the Irish landscape and by poets Seamus Heaney, John Montague, Rumi, Basho and many of the modern poets today.

Related links

‘A Reflection on Blake’, by Teresa Edmond

A Reflection on Blake

“Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.” William Blake

“The dead doesn’t give a damn
Whether we tend to or tear apart their graves.
For the dead doesn’t give a damn about
What happens in
The Middle East,
Or to victims of Acts of God
Or even to its own children.
Or to themselves.
The dead know that
The futility of existence will one day
Trump the fertility of the harvest.
Why bother sowing and hoeing
The Garden
When God has driven mankind out of it
to fend for itself?
So go ahead – trample over the
Bones of the dead.
Plowing the plots
And grooming the gravestones
Will only put the dead more at rest.”

© Teresa Edmond

William Blake's grave
William Blake's grave (Photo credit: fabbio)

Teresa Edmond is a blogger and writer  of  poetry, I am adding her blog link here. This is the second in the series of New Poetry by women poets and bloggers. Nine, by Brittany Hill featured in February’s New Poetry on Poethead.