My Wild Woman...

Close up of front cover image Howl at the Moon by Victoria Bennett (copyright)

So - where have we got to? The journey so far:

We have made the decision to accept the quest;
We have gathered our clan together and packed our knapsacks with hearty provisions;
We have called on our guides and gathered our talismans and tools;
We have faced the first obstacle and cleared our creative river of sludge;
We have entered into deep listening and stillness, sharpening our wolf skills;
We have named and done battle with our first enemy - the shrieking harpies!

What comes next? The next stage in our journey was to begin to get to know the Wild Woman within each of us - to find out what she had to say, what her voice was like, who she was. I asked each participant to write intuitively for 10 minutes, beginning with "My Wild Woman..." and we then shared what was written. This was a writing practice that we built into each of our meetings, and through it we discovered the strength, vulnerability and beauty of our individual voices. With each writing down, we peeled back the layers and got closer and closer to the truth of our own journeys, discovering long buried dreams, passions, sensuality and power. It is my belief that this simple exercise built a foundation stone for the creative and personal transformations that followed, as each woman gave herself permission, even if only in that small space once a fortnight, to speak out loud her deepest desires, dreams, fears, angers, frustrations...

So, together we mined for our gold and together, we took the raw writing and polished the gold until it shone, finding the essence of what it was we wanted to say and how we wanted to say it. At the end of the 10 workshops, I asked each woman to choose a My Wild Woman poem to put into the anthology Howl at the Moon. The power and beauty in each piece still shines today. I remember the first time the group performed live - how incredibly empowering it was to stand up and speak out "My Wild Woman..."

We still get requests for these pieces, eight years on, and I still receive letters and emails from people, men and women, who say that this anthology, in particular, these poems and pieces of writing, stir something deep within them, bringing their own creative howl to life.

For your pleasure then, here are some of those poems - join us in a Wild Woman Howl and write your own (and for men, well, you choose - you could go for your inner woman, or your wild man!) ...


The Wild Woman Poems - A Selection


Hallelujah! (Pat)

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.



Wild Woman (Julie)
My Wild Woman has been away.
Put down, subdued, kept out of sight
lest she offend. But now she is back!
Peering cautiously at a world
where she thought sh did not belong -
and she is saying very clearly
that she won't be leaving again.
And every time she gets put down
she'll come back even stronger.
Soon she'll be indomitable!

There was once a time when
she wouldn't say boo to a goose.
Now she might say boo to a gosling
if the need arose.

It's a start!



My Wild Woman (Helen)

My Wild Woman is free to swim in clear waters
and lie under the blue sky, basking in golden sunshine.
She eats and drinks whatever she wants
and doesn't give a fuck what anyone thinks.
She dances in the rain and moonlight,
wears every colour of the rainbow,
laughs loudly and sings to music.
She has wisdom and strength,
gentleness and power,
magic and healing.



The Wild Woman in Me (Gill)

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 part of the painting.

The wild woman in me will hold onto her power and
never, never give it away to anybody else, however much
she loves them. She will know 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 (Rosemary)

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 Wild Woman is an alchemist; a crucible in which the
sacred flame of spirit is fanned into life by the roaring
wind 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 her belly,
behind my heart.



The Wild Woman in Me (Sue)

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.

I 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 obviously I'm not wild enough not to bother.



My Wild Woman (Ruth)

1.
My Wild Woman is dead.
She used to be apoet once,
but I've forgotten where she lived.
She sat too long by the telephone,
waiting for crumbs of your love.
Swallowed up by longing for your arms,
the endless prison of grief.
Trampled by publishers,
scorned by editors and agents.
Worn down by gas bills,
weighted down 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 ells you to sod off.
She is 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 forever.



My Wild Woman is Home (Sal)

My Wild Woman is at home now. No longer a caged
beast, frustrated and lonely, fighting to be free. My Wild
Woman cleans my river now, carrying away oozing
stagnant waste, leaving me as strong and magnificent as
she is. My Wild Woman is my companion now. We talk
and love each day. I am Wild Woman and she is me.