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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