by Victoria Bennett, Founder, Wild Women Press
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
lift up my skirts
and run free.
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.