WILD WOMEN POETS

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.

  Victoria

• 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.

  Rosie

• 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.

  Ruth

• 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.

  Sue

• 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.

  Gill

• 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.

  Alison

• 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.

  Pat