When Tethera was in full swing, our performances at Celtic festivals tended to include question and answer sessions, because, well, we have an small, interesting and interested group of fans. A question we got several times was: “What sort of creation myth did the Celts have.” And the three of us would explain that while the characters are in place, there is no extant creation myth in any of the existing sources, though the invasion myths abound. And then I’d joke about maybe, one day, when I’d built up enough hubris, I’d write one myself.
And then I did just that—making sure to include enough signposts to make it clear that this is new work rather than a translation of an ancient text. I haven’t been struck dead yet, so I guess that’s enough of an approval from whatever pantheon is holding on. Here it is, particularly suited to Equinoxes, both because of the balance between feminine and masculine and old and new, but also the pairing of humor and sex. They are partners. I wish I was telling it to you—it’s truly a performance piece, and I love telling it.
Sun came first.
This much we know.
Many many years ago
Vibrant Lugh sparked the light
That burned, one spot,
In blackest night
Brazen Lugh, an ember burning
Emblazoned on the raven orb
Recognized his wondrous rising,
As, well, something he’d not done before.
He cocked his head and puffed his chest
And crowed out to the formless dust
That he was all, and muckle, and much,
Creator of the blah blah blah and such.
—Not a poet yet, was Lugh, first met.
Arianrhod, bright wheel shining,
She so lithe and fulsome sweet
Glowed in the gloom, slowly turning
From fecund curve to ankle neat
Luscious rump to whittled waist
Sickle to orb, wrist to breast—yes
Pearly she and her snowy bed
Were there ere Lugh lit up his head.
She could not abide such prideful muck
Even spewing forth from such rich lips,
So bright a brow above them now
And shoulders broad and down below . . .
Where was I, yes, she had to go
And set him right,
That gorgeous thing that rose that night.
Creatrix, She, rose ages past,
Then slumbered much,
Finding Self-birth was a formidable task,
So close on the heels of self-conception.
“Don’t even get me started about being pregnant with my own divine ass.”
Such work demanded rest on a snowy bed
Whereupon she dreamed a ruddy stag
And he to mount an argent doe
oh, oh
And so,
She turned to him and gleamed
A mirror for his scorching beam
And thus her gaze redoubled their light
Those two who shone in endless night
She gave him chills, and he enflamed her
He warmed her through, she quenched his fever
And they came together then, those two
Whose rising warmed the black to blue
As those two Gods twined and twinned
And loved and fought, did this begin—
Earth came
Water came
Air and land, stone and moss
Time and tide, and love and loss
And all they did gave us our place
Here below what once was waste
At least, so I dreamed it
on my snowy bed
one night, ere Lugh lit up his head
And chased away fair Arianrhod
His mother and lover, his shining God
© 2011 Amy Ripton
