A Modern Celt by Mabh Savage

Hi stearzeebrerorothuysmar2007.

I really want to contact you however you have no option on your page for comments or messages. I’m a little upset that you have made a pdf of my book and are giving it away for free. Assuming that’s what this file actually is. If not, you are using my book to promote a link to something else entirely.

Like all writers, I worked very hard to produce something unique and of value, and according to the stats on this page you have stolen it from me 604 times. If these stats are fake/incorrect, again, you are misrepresenting my work for your own means.

Please, think about the impact your actions have on authors and also independent publishing companies. I’m contactable through all social media channels, which you could have found with a simple Google search; you could have asked me how I felt about my book being freely available, and we could have taken it from there. However you have chosen to steal and encourage others to steal my work, or you have used my work to front the link to something else.

Please remove this link, and any others to work that is current and available to buy from the publisher or its distributors. Any of my followers reading this, please do not follow the link given; I do not believe this is a genuine copy of my book and it may be dangerous to your computer. All the best, Mabh.

Taken from Notes from a Gentle Heart…

...is a wonderful review of my book, A Modern Celt: Seeking the Ancestors. Laura Perry tells us in her own words what she thought of it. Thanks Laura, glad you enjoyed it!

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Coming Home to Mouldy Guacamole

I almost wish it were
A metaphor for death; decay!
Instead you’ll be surprised
To hear me say
That coming home to
Mouldy guacamole
Holy moley!
Guacamole!
Is actually a measure
Of my happiness
My pleasure
Green and lumpy
Like it should be
Now it’s blue as well:
Oh hell!
But no drama
At this sight;
I shrug and in this moonlit night
In the bin I put the mess to bed
And have a lovely curry instead.

Hopelessly Tangled

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Whilst clearing out my handbag, amidst the tobacco dust and tissues were two of my favourite necklaces, tangled beyond recognition as two separate items. I pulled at the chains gently, but was unsure where to start.

‘This is my life’, I thought, depressively. Yes, tangled and snarled with no way to know which way to go without making the tangle worse. I may have sighed resignedly and put the necklace down, but a spark of determination lit a fire I had forgotten, and my deft fingers found a single chain longer than the others.

Following the links, untwisting and unwinding, I though about my own tangle; the things I want, the things I don’t want and the things I am forced to deal with. My illness, changing my mind into an ocean unnavigable. My ambitions, on hold while I pull at these tangles. So many chains, so many ropes, but each rope is a part of me.

I can be a tangle and still work just fine; I’m a mother, a writer, a singer, a musician, a friend, a lover, a sister, a daughter, a call centre worker, a gaming geek; each of these threads tangles into a ball that should not be daunting but delightful.

The twin tangles of chain are slowly parting, and I think of how I don’t want to feel tangled though; I don’t want to feel lost and tied up without the strong to follow through the labyrinth. The necklaces suddenly part, and I feel a sudden sense of freedom; any of the chains I follow will release me, as they are each a part of me.

Necklaces fixed, mind clearer, day brighter; the tangles are still here, but I think I can work them out.

Quiet Compere- Anything but quiet!

What an amazing night at Seven Arts last night. Ten poets plus our esteemed Quiet Compare herself, Sarah L Dixon. We had humour, music, dance, sorrow, love and gratitude in an atmosphere of pre-weekend anticipation shared with talented people.

It was truly a smorgasbord; a veritable vernacular buffet. From villanalles to violent outbursts of silent protest, and morris dancing to musings on current events, there was no end to the themes and styles wrought by stylus and pen this night.

In a mad, last minute change of set, I read an excerpt from my book, A Modern Celt, which is interspersed with poetry inspired by Celtic themes. I sandwiched my set between the two halves of Post Hill, a true story set among the gorgeous wilds of this local beauty spot.

There should be some photos up online soon so I’ll link to these as soon as they are available. If you have a Quiet Compere event near you, I highly recommend going along. Whatever your taste, you are bound to find something to whet your wordy appetite.

Friday 13th, Lucky for Some

Sweating stress from a heavy day at the office, as I walk into my garden there is that immediate relief of being enclosed by one’s hearth and home. My little boy is away at his father’s tonight, so there is an itchy emptiness, but the sense that this is my place, my haven is undeniable. As the front door closes the back one is opened, cats dancing delightedly into the sweet summer air. Washing trails lackadaisically in the stillness; rain threatens but the current heat is ideal for the never ending laundry loads. Blackbird, Lon Dubh, guardian at the gate; he calls to the world and the world answers with voice of magpie, blue tit and wren as they vie for dominance from aerials and chimneys. They rarely venture into my little postage stamp of green; the cats have seen to that. But their voices soothe, an avian symphony that connects me to the past; knowing my ancestors would have stopped their own evening chores to listen to the same song.

Once mundane tasks are over (laundry, cat tray and the never ending picking up of toys) I move to my other household tasks of making sure my chosen companions know they are appreciated. It’s a full moon, a time for things coming to fruition, celebrating goals achieved, harvesting both literally and metaphorically. I raise a glass and speak of gratitude for the wonders in my life: my son who amazes and changes me every day; who teaches me patience and understanding; who shows me that everything I do has a consequence and that we are shaped by our ancestors, both immediate and distant; who brings me joy beyond measure. My family and friends, who are more supportive than I could ever have hoped for. Darkness has threatened many times over the past few months, and there has always been someone holding out a torch. We are tribe.

I pour wine to the ground, and wish that the earth, and all of us who care to give back to the earth, may never hunger or thirst. This is a tiny ritual that I have picked up from my group work as part of a coven, but I find it reflects the old folk practice of leaving a portion of your meal out for the fae, or in England, the brownies or similar. In some ways, this is a way of saying ‘I accept that you share this space with us, so I will share my food with you’. In another way, it’s almost a piece of pride; a way of saying ‘I have been productive, and now I have food to spare’. It’s also an offering of friendship and respect.

In this same vein, I pour the vivid red into bowls and cups as offerings for my gods and ancestors. The Morrigan is thanked for the passions reignited in my life. Brigid is thanked for new beginnings and the blessings of family. My ancestors and descendants are honoured and thanked for their unquestionable impact on me; for helping make me the person I am today. Candles are lit and incense makes the air a little heavy, like a warm blanket. It’s time to call to say goodnight to my boy, and friends are arriving soon. This moment of stillness is a gift. I breathe, then move in time and space towards my loved ones.