Walking naked in the storm...

When we began the Wild Woman journey, we made a pact to keep it real and honest, and not to hide away from the source, even if it hurts. This can feel very exposing and often in workshops there were tears as people shared their poems. The important thing was that whatever the source, however painful, it was always shared through the act of positive creation. So, even the most painful exposure was in itself empowering. It is a case of owning one's own story, speaking in one's own tongue and saying "ok, from my life I create because that is my source and my power - I do not need external approval saying I am an artist, a poet, an author - I create because I am!"

Wild Women attracted people who were both published authors and those who had never written. When we first started performing, there were people, like myself, who had experience of public performance and those for whom this was a completely new experience. It was fundamental to my work in this group that no-one felt inhibited to create, that the poems and stories flowered naturally. Over time, I guided people in polishing their words but no judgment was offered on its 'value as Art' because it is all valuable. The quality is in the integrity of the poems and this is what makes them shine. These had a right to exist in the world at large, and I was determined that I would find a way for that to happen, to honour and celebrate the lives of each individual woman, each unique voice. Which is where Wild Women Press was born, but that is not this story just yet.

The story I want to share with you is about Pat, a woman who joined that very first series of workshops. Now, it was a few weeks into the workshops that Pat admitted to us that she had not known it was 'a poetry writing course' and that if she had done, she 'would not have joined'. Too late, I told her, we have you now! Pat stayed with the group beyond the duration of the workshops, and wrote wonderful and powerful poems, and got up there and performed them with gusto and grace, but still she said "I am not a real poet, not like the rest of you"...

Eventually, I decided to challenge Pat on this. During a weekend residential poetry workshop that I facilitated for the group, I set a number of exercises. I worked everyone hard to dig deep and discover - over dinner they complained I had turned them into the 'dry husks of poets' but by then, they were used to my technique - take no prisoners, but take them with love! Anyway, one of the exercises was to write a poem starting with a scent memory - a memory of something you could smell. I asked everyone to relax and remember a smell from their childhood and then write intuitively from that inspiration, using this as the basis for their crafted poem later. When we returned to craft the poems the next day, I tried a new approach, asking the group to read and critique each other's work, making suggestions for strengths and improvements. Pat tried to escape, saying that she was not a poet and did not want to take part in the editing workshop. Now, what we did next was, I admit, a bit unorthodox, but we had all known each a long time and we trusted each other. We barred her exit and told her she was not allowed to leave until she had written her poem! What is more, at the end of the workshop, I got everyone to enter the national Ottakars Poetry Competition. We each filled in our forms and submitted our poems, each with an equal chance of winning the local award. Poets and supposed 'non poets' alike.

Of course, you know what happened, don't you?

Pat won. I remember the day she called me to say that she had just heard that she had won the competition and that they had asked her to go and read at the prize giving ceremony. Not as part of Wild Women, but as a poet in her own right. What is more, she had accepted the challenge! I pointed out to her that she won, over and above us apparent 'real poets'. Even she had to admit a laugh at that point! It was a moment to be treasured and an achievement we celebrated.

The poem that Pat submitted was a deeply personal and courageous piece, and her decision to read it in public, in front of her two grown up sons, was a life-changing moment for her and one that showed enormous confidence, honesty and bravery. It was truly inspiring for all. And it was one of those moments where I am reminded of the importance of Wild Women and it makes all the work done over the years worthwhile. I am so proud of Pat, and of all of us.

Pat agreed to allow me to share this story and poem with you, and has written a few words about her journey with Wild Women. It gives me great pleasure to do so now.

Pat's Story

Pat celebrates the release of Howl at the Moon, September 1999

‘Taking part in the workshops being part of the Wild Women group allowed me to be strong enough to leave an unhappy marriage and have an independent life. The opportunity to write poetry, which as a complete beginner I found very scary at first, gave me the confidence to speak out and find my own voice. In 2003, I won the Ottakars Poetry Competition for my region, and went to Carlisle to read my poem. This was a significant moment in my life, as the poem dealt with a very personal experience. I hope that in my own small way, my strength to speak out helped others. It was such a thrill to win and made me realise how far I had developed since joining the group in 1999. I even discovered that I enjoy reading my work out aloud and that gave me a new confidence, creatively and personally. I am now blissfully happy with a wonderful new partner and we are shortly moving in together. I really believe that Wild Women happened at just the right time for me. It has been a wonderful enlightening journey, which I wouldn’t have missed for the world".

Pat July 2007

Swarfega

Slimy, frog spawn gel
Memories from childhood, memories from hell
He washed his hands in Swarfega
Cleaned off my blood, so I wouldn’t tell.

His taste of stale beer and pie
HP sauce, coffee, all a lie
Sweat, excitement, fear, alone
No one heard my body moan.

The touch of creeping fingers
Hands too big, for my small body
Prying, prizing, arousing, hell
All triggered off by Swarfega gel.

Trying not to wake up mother
In my bed, my mouth is smothered
“Do not shout or she will die”
So I gave in without a sigh.

Where were you mother in time of need?
Did your empty bed not plant a seed?
If only I had rung a warning bell
The memories unleashed by Swarfega gel.

(Copyright Pat Tolmie 18/9/2003)