PAUL SOCKETT

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  • PAUL SOCKETT

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  • PAUL SOCKETT

    She sings to ME

    A poem to the warrior She

    I wrote a poem for Angie. It’s dedicated to her.

    It is also for all and any women who don’t feel seen; who do not feel or have not felt witnessed, honoured, cherished, desired. I know, unfortunately, that is true for a lot of women, which makes me sad; it also makes me feel inspired and curious about how I can use my love of words (and love of playing with words) to show up and offer some sources of acknowledgement, celebration, allyship and awe of the power, softness and elemental connection I witness. I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to share with anyone you think might like to receive them.

    She sings to me

                 words of the warrior

    She hums of Her 

                 the other-worldly earthen one

    The lineage: vulvic ululation draws from deep

    Soul deep

                 cathedrals vaulted catch exultant praise

    and capsule breath

                 to add to swelling voices raised.

    She sings to me

                 words of the warrior

    She hums for we

                 A lullaby of cradling ice

    The tune: efficient gliding coils writhing; wringing hands

    release 

    Glorious scales ripple-slip, attune

                 and split my forking tongue

                              of need and desire;

    resonance slinks; synks through my defence archaic.

    Mighty She, carrier of the sword

    received from elders past the charges, crys, heraldic calls that summon peace and power as one

    A battlecry

                 A lullaby

                              A bonding song

                                           Apology

     

    A eulogy

     

    A call to arms

     

    A campfire howl 

    She sings to me

                 words of the warrior

    She hums for Shes

                 Each step adds to the thrum of all who’ve walked the truth before.

                 As I witness her I feel the war of stories old, the battles stored, raw

     

    (and repeating) 

    The pelt cloak she dons holds energy of lithe carnal muscle, of survival, of basic, pure needs met;

    an aura still and still raging - an aurora, storm and order 

                 as la cantadora calls to us of lore

                              Your core, tis all

                                         Tissue; worn and torn, generations of repaired wearings

                                                      as the beasts beats thrum within the skin

    she bears

    It’s worn by Hers and Shes for spells of time for spells for rhymes

    Incantadora calling forth the fortitude of predecessors’ earthly turns

    She wears a wiccan mantle, this mantle this handle to the animal

    Throwing off the chains of shaped, taught thought

     

    pulled taut, her fibres flex, her pulse releases need for every word to tap so lightly at the timpani just like initial trickle gathers high and like a sigh it wakes will ripple syllables the building-swelling-coursing-licking-lapping-grabbing at each slipping flowing blows; staccato spray, the spittle of all bated breath is swallowed hard berated lately, aid belated once deflated now serrated, hardened, plated; armoured charges wait till morning next but now She waits

     Shush like night’s tides lets breath

                                                                                                                                    Shush like night’s tide

    She lets the cycling air cradle her, she calls the churning eddys now to rest.

    For She - warrior, witness, sage knows learned 

    the flame without will always wait

    for Her

    to let deep sleep feed

    the fire within.

    Much ginger love

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