My Wild Woman...

by Victoria Bennett, Founder, Wild Women Press

When I founded Wild Women, back in 1999, I didn't really have a plan, or an agenda, other than a firm belief that if we allow ourselves to be the wild women we truly are, then amazing journeys unfold. I had a willingness to trust that I was not alone, that if I called loud enough, I would be joined by my clan. I gathered the support of a few close friends and family and with their help, I found out how to set up a group, filled in the paperwork, raised some funds and made the call-out.

Two weeks later, a group of women aged from our 20's to 70's, sat around the fire. We took a deep breath, believed in the inspiration and began.

"Introduce yourself. Start with my wild woman..."

We still meet.Together, we have had many adventures. We write, dance, make, and create. Over the two decades of following our wild paths, we have shared a lot of laughter, many tears, and way too many delicious meals. We are clan. We are the Wild Women.

My Wild Woman...

  • My wild woman dances on tabletops in bars

    full of smoke and won't come down 'til morning.

    Her flesh is so soft it makes armies lay down their guns

    and cry for their mothers -- a long forgotten innocence.

    My wild woman makes love with every inch of her body,

    just the sight of her toes would make a grown man beg.

    She sings full-fat blues songs from deep in her belly.

    She knows the time to go, catches the midnight train.

    My wild woman speaks the truth about what she knows

    and knows that she is always learning.

    She howls at the sight of her children mutilated

    and is strong enough to weep at a butterfly.

    My wild woman knows the meaning of life

    and knows that it is a simple thing.

  • My Wild Woman weaves stories from the rich yarns of her life,

    scattering pain and humour like jewels amongst the threads.

    My Wild Woman dances through her life, happy to share 

    the music of her soul, or spin in solitude.

    My Wild Woman thinks sex is more fun than aerobics

    and doesn't care who knows it.

    She cooks with passion and eats with grace.

    My Wild Woman thinks her bum is big and sexy

    and shows it off whenever she can.

    My Wild Woman can't remember the last time she watched TV.

    My Wiild Woman is an alchemist; a crucible

    in which the sacred flame of spirit is fanned into life

    by the roaring winds of passion.

    She visits only rarely, when the love of friends,

    the scent of summer or the throb of the beat

    can coax her out of her hiding place,

    deep in my belly, behind my heart.


  • 1.

    My Wild Woman is dead.

    She used to be a poet once,

    but I've forgetten where she lived.

    She sat too long by the silent telephone,

    waiting for crumbs of your love.

    Swallowed up by longong for your arms,

    the endless prison of grief.

    Trampled by publishers,

    scorned by editors and agents.
    Worn down by gas bills,

    weighted by wet washing;

    the endless peeling of potatoes.

    Going it alone at parents' evenings,

    lugging shopping with aching arms,

    searching for odd socks;

    shivering in the empty bed.

    Rejected, torn apart, battered, thrown away.
    Putting on a smile to tell the world she was over you.

    Everybody thought she had been made strong,

    while inside she was dying, dying, falling forever.

  • 2.

    My Wild Woman is alive.

    She is a poet

    and she lives in my house.

    She switches off the phone

    and tells you to sod off.

    She's as free as a bird.

    Adored by publishers,

    praised by editors and agents.

    She has oodles of money.

    All her washing is dry;

    the kids peel the potatoes.

    Admirers surround her at parents' evenings,

    she has a hunk to carry her shopping.

    Her socks are all in pairs

    and a red-hot lover shares her bed.

    Loved, appreciated, renewed, treasured,

    smiling to tell the world she is over you.

    Everybody knows she has been made strong,

    they can see she is living, living, soaring free.

Wild Women Weekend 2017 - Our 18th Birthday Party!

  • The Wild Woman in me dances and wishes

    she could dance always as she can dance alone.

    The looseness of the body, the supple feel

    of movement, the bliss of music

    lapping you and taking you over,

    making you move and feel and travel.

    In the kitchen I am the most brilliant dancer ever.

    It takes a while to loosen up elsewhere.

    No-one is looking, no-one really bothers about you...

    but I am obviously not wild enough not to bother.

  • The wild woman in me will not keep smiling

    when others are hurtful,

    she will spit back fire instead.

    She will run up a mountain,

    dive naked into a crystal pool,

    then bask on the rocks like a lizard

    soaking up the sun.

    The wild woman in me will buy a huge canvas

    and make a bold abstract painting,

    flinging on colour, rolling in it, becoming

    a part of the painting.

    The wild woman in me will hold on to her power

    and never, never give it away to anybody else,

    however much she loves them.

    She knows her power and strength,

    even if she never shows them.

    They will just be there.

    She will be at peace with herself

    and the world.


  • My Wild Woman runs free and dances in the moonlight,

    her face washed by rain. Naked and proud

    she jumps over the flames of life.

    She is loving and gentle. She is a lioness

    in defence of her precious cubs.

    My Wild Woman loves life but she knows

    the dark times too, when she crawls away

    to lie and recover until she is ready

    to face life again.

    My Wild Woman is every woman in the world.

    There is no bar to whatever she may want to do

    or wherever she may want to go.

    My Wild Woman knows quiet

    but sings out loud in the sunshine.

    She loves to feel the wind in her hair

    and sand beneath her feet.
    She plunges into the white-topped waves

    and swims with dolphins, laughing with them.

    My Wild Woman is ageless.

    She is the tiny new born babe

    at her mother's breast.

    She is that mother

    and the wise woman.

  • My Wild Woman is born today.

    Out she comes, outrageous, confident.

    I'm sick of being kept down.
    Let me scream, howl, shout.

    Gone are the days of shyness

    that held me back.

    I'm buggered if I want those days again.

    Shout Hallelujah!

    lift up my skirts

    and run free.


#CommonUnity Award 2018

Wild Women Press is one of "100 Communities" chosen by the Post Office (UK) to receive the 2018 #CommonUnity Award. As a grassroots community group founded almost 20 years ago, we’re very proud that Wild Women continues to be a space of celebration.