Bliss Fool

21st Century Scribe

2008-10-28T08:54:00.003Z

This is my first attempt in QR Code poetry...I think it is rather cool...download the reader for your mobile phone at:

http://reader.kaywa.com

migration

2008-09-15T20:55:00.001Z

Click to Play

A very quick but beautiful poem film from the common people

Gift

2008-03-08T15:22:00.005Z

Django sleeps for a moment. The sun shines. I take valuable sleep time to write poems. Ah well, that is the way...

here is today's offering. Number 157 in my growing collection...

Poem 157

I have stood to the line and said
For this I will die.
I will rip myself apart to give you life.
I will give more than I knew
my heart contained only hours ago.
For this, I will give and give and give:

The strange dawn peace of your face
as sleep steals you, takes you to the land
of dreams you have yet to discover,
cloud-racing across your eyelids;
your fists as they ball and let go;
your barely audible breath of life
that I shouted into you.

You took my heart in that first bloodied kiss
when I cried out with exhaustion:

I did this – my god, I did this.

(c. Victoria Bennett, 2008)

Mother-love

2008-02-24T12:12:00.002Z

Well, there is little time for poetry, less time for sleep and meals tend to be cooked and eaten one handed and in record speed. Life is unrecognisable but through my gorgeous son I am learning by demand to live in the moment. For most of the last 6 weeks I have felt like there is not enough time to do the basic things of life, let alone the 'other stuff' (though I do class creativity as basic!) but then, one day it dawned on me as I spent 2 hours lying on the bed next to Django burbling and smiling in response to his chatting away, and about 12 hours breastfeeding and a good few hours rocking and bouncing him and a few more washing and soaking poo and changing nappies - well, it occurred to me that in each action, there was completeness, in each act, a root of love - and in that moment, I realised that he was teaching me how to live in the moment and how to live in that moment completely held in the hand of love. And if that sounds mother-loved up, well...can you blame me with this lovely soul to share my hours with?

Coincidental creativity

2008-02-21T15:56:00.003Z

As seen on Gill's blog

Here is what you do...

Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages)

Open the book to page 123

Find the 5th Sentence.

Post the next 3 sentences.

Here is what I got...

"For 6 weeks, write a haiku each day. This neatly circumscribed task induces the required concentration and presence, but any form of poetry will suffice..."

One Continuous Mistake by Gail Sher

Okey dokey...

By the seaside...

2008-02-19T19:09:00.003Z

Click to Play

Adam has written below about our experience of the HG10 camera this month. I have to say it won me over for ease of use and general gorgeousness of shot quality - even I could use it one handed whilst jiggling baby - but didn't have much chance to, to be honest. However, I did live with the camera present every moment just about - which, as Adam says below, caused a few annoyed comments from me when tired!

Anyway - this little film captures the joy of the last week when, with a surprise week of free time in Adam's full diary, we got to enjoy time as a family in this glorious and unusual Spring weather. This film is of an outing to Morecambe Bay. The three of us went last week after Django had to go to the Maxillo Facial Unit to have his tongue tie 'released' - a very upsetting affair for me as we had to leave him to the surgeon. But in the end, he is happier for it and able to eat more. Which is how this little film ends - me feeding him, sitting in the fading sun of Morecambe Bay...blissfool.

When Django is older he will wonder why it was only the first month of his is life was recorded with such beautiful image quality...

now - if someone somewhere has a car they would like us to try out as a family...do send it along!

Here is what Adam has to say...bit more technical...

Our months trial of the HG10 is finally up and I have hardly posted a fraction of the footage we have ... The Semanal Project thankfully gives me the perfect excuse to try and put the footage together ... So with my son sleeping in one arm and using a pen and tablet to edit iMovie08 in the other I have put together a little walk about we had along Morecambe beach.

The great thing we liked about the HG10 - especially for what I do - is its super fast focus and zoom- it is great for capturing that visual moment - Vik did tell me off because I have been glued to the view finder ... whispering "nice" and "Yes" sad and I can imagine annoying. Still we got some excellent shots that I will be sharing with you in the next few weeks (yes the hard drive is packed) Which reminds me if you do get this camera .. and I am saving for one right now ... get a 1TB external firewire drive too ... you will need it.

When words are all we have...

2008-02-19T09:24:00.003Z

Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti

I have always felt that the power of poetry lies in its ability to span generations, continents, cultures, societies and find a way of connecting the individual voice across these divides. Because it speaks from the heart, it reached into the heart.

Recently, I have received the details of the Cruse (Tyneside) Poetry Competition, inviting people to submit poems on the subject of Loss and Bereavement. This competition is to raise money for the services of Cruse, who offer free counselling and support for those affected by grief and loss. The judge of the competition is Linda France, a beautiful poet and wonderful woman, from whom I received the invaluable benefit of mentoring in the very early stages of my journey as a 'professional poet'.

I first found out about the competition when I wrote to Linda to tell her about the loss of my sister and to share with her my own difficulties in putting into words the feelings of grief that overwhelm at such times. Her reply was, as always, gentle and guiding.

Over the last few months since my sister died, I have tried to find the words for my own loss and feelings of confusion. At first, all I could write was "Sue is dead" over and over, as if by writing this bold statement, I would come to understand why. It is still a statement that runs through my head every day when I wake and throughout the day, even in this busy time with Django.

I didn't write with the intention of writing poetry, but with the need to try and find meaning and sense in the journey. Now I find myself re-reading these words and finding poems in them - in itself an important part of the healing process.

So, for those of you who are interested, do visit Linda France's website and download a form for the competition. Publication is the prize, no cash value but your entrance fee supports the valuable work that this group does, and the poems that are included in the final publication will hopefully help others to feel less alone with their own loss, to feel as though their own very individual and lonely journey of grief is, at least, shared in some way.

Sunday Afternoon with Django

2008-02-02T13:02:00.001Z

Click to Play

Thanks to Holly at Canon Camera Buzz we get to play with a Canon HG10 for a month.

Well - Adam does...

anyway, here is Django's first commonpeople vlog, filmed at Simon's one wintery afternoon... Awwww...

(Music "I can't give you anything but love" by his namesake, Django Reinhardt)

Discovering the heart

2008-02-02T12:08:00.000Z

Nourishing new life - Django - minutes old...

Django is 1 month old today and just as it snowed the night before he was born, it snowed again yesterday. This last month as gone so quickly, and yet it also seems as though our life as parents has been forever. Django has a strong personality and plenty to say. He is curious and gentle and wonderful and demanding. It has been a strange few weeks, in which I have come to terms with the fact that everything has changed in my life. My body, my perception of myself, my lifestyle, my communications...at first this felt like a grief but slowly I am coming to get to know this new woman (though I am finding it hard to appreciate the burning nipples that come with breastfeeding).

Poem 132

I stand midpoint along the mother-line,
held by the whispering thread.
The sun continues to shine.
Time slips by and in between
I breathe the life that connects
this mother-daughter-mother bind.

(C. Victoria Bennett, from The Eternal Note)

I am very tired and sometimes, all I feel like doing is running away and hiding in a very quiet space but then, I look at Django and he looks so beautiful and perfect and open. He trusts me to make his world safe. I know sadly from experience that you can't always protect your children and I know that sometimes terrible and tragic things happen and we lose them. But the desire to protect him, to comfort and reassure and keep his world soft and calm and warm for as long as possible - well, that wins the conflict every time.

I think perhaps that this is the most exhausting part of it. Not the sleepless nights or the breastfeeding every hour, nor the bounce bounce bounce of night-time winding...but the constant sense of giving of myself, of my heart and love, as well as of my own body, because even when I am tired, he still needs that love. And even though, if I do my role right, he will feel safe to explore the world and reach for new horizons where I can't protect him, my job is to help him to find that security within himself to feel safe, wherever he is, safe enough to dream and to adventure. Not by hiding my feelings, but by discovering just how deep and wide and wonderful the heart is. And occasionally, by finding the strength to get up and love, even when I am weary and sad.

It reminds me of the line from The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer...

"...It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children..."

So far, I can do it. And in that, I discover new horizons within my heart.

He's arrived!

2008-01-19T17:17:00.000Z

WELCOME

DJANGO MOSES KIM

5th January 2008

7 lbs 5 oz

Django - a Romany name meaning to awaken - and also after Django Reinhart - our baby used to dance to his records in the womb!

Moses - born from the water, and also destined for great things and spiritual leader

Kim - golden - chosen because it was my sister Sue's middle name and I wanted to honour the connections between her life and our son

Short post, long nights. As we moved into 2008, snow fell in Cumbria, creating a magical winter land and, in this blissful quiet, our birth journey began. It was frightening and wonderful, long (48 hrs), challenging and ultimately triumphant. In the company of my beloved Adam, my sister Sal, Helen, Simon, my niece Sita and our midwives Christine and Julie, our beautiful baby boy was born at 12.20am on 5th January 2008, naturally and at home. I caught him in my hands as he emerged into this world. My son. Amazing.

I will write again when I have more energy - for now these quiet moments are for rest and recuperation! He is beautiful, gentle and strong willed and sometimes the love that I feel for him terrifies me to tears...this adventure is just beginning and already it has taken me to places within myself deeper than I have known before. it is as though in giving birth, I somehow simultaneously am born and die away...

Still...is it really possible to love someone this much?

Be willing to be a beginner every single morning.--Meister Eckhart

2007-12-31T15:07:00.000Z

Well, the end of 2007 comes to a close. Our beautiful baby is wriggling around but resolutely remaining inside so it looks as though 2008 will be our birth year. We are huddled in, wrapped in the warmth of the fire and of love, counting the many blessings in life.

This has been a hard and an incredible year, bringing the greatest of joys and the deepest of sadnesses. Through that journey, my heart has grown deeper in Love and found a certain peace in the quiet moments.

Poem, November 27th

There is a certain peace
that falls with grief:
the first hush of snow,
still life before the cold.
It strips us bare,
wraps us in its fold
singing whispers.

(Victoria Bennett, 2007)

And so, on these eve of turning points within our lives, I send to all of you a greeting of love and a wish that your coming days bless you with love, joy and the peace of knowing the truth of your own heart, and may the wonder of life continue to stop you in your daily routine and make you look again and rejoice, even when the heart is wounded.

I'll finish now with a well known Irish blessing - one that speaks to me of all we can wish for each other...

May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
The rain fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

“Patience is not passive; on the contrary, it is active; it is concentrated strength” (E.G. Bulwer Lytton)

2007-12-28T11:16:00.000Z

Adam and I, in front of the Christmas tree, December 28th 2007...baby still on the inside!

As you can see from this picture, the little soul within me has decided not to show just yet. Like me, it doesn't like to be hurried and has made it quite clear it will arrive in its own good time. The weather is frightful anyway, so who can blame it? Much nicer to be wrapped up warm and cosy in your own private womb. It is strange though - after so many months of fearing the baby arriving early and willing it to 'stay in', we now wait on edge for the signs of its awakening and whisper words of encouragement in the dark of the night.

Meanwhile, we are discovering new aspects to patience...which will certainly come in handy on those long nights to come.

The Eve of Christmas

2007-12-24T13:37:00.000Z

Well, it is the eve of Christmas and the tree is up. I spent yesterday in the company of my family, treating my Mum and sisters to a day of pampering by Helen Bebbington (doula, homeopath, aromatherapist, masseuse, holistic hair stylist & beautician, producer of organic ethical beauty products, founder of Humanum holistic charity...and only 27 - is there no stopping her???). It was a fun day and it was good to see everyone laughing together. It is a strange time at the moment. We all miss Sue terribly and it feels difficult to enter the 'festive spirit' but at the same time, it feels important to celebrate the love and connections between us, and to celebrate the wonder and joy of life as well, made all the more clear by the impending birth of our baby.

After 9 months of journeying together, I feel ready. Not only has the nest been feathered and spruced up by Adam and Simon, but I have had the opportunity to rest, to be within myself and to prepare for this new life. People have said 'I bet you are impatient to get it out now!' but that is not the case. It has been an amazing journey that I have taken with this little soul - one that has taught me so much about love - through joy and through pain. It has taught me about vulnerability, about strength and opened my heart wider than I thought possible. And now we take the next part of the journey - where my baby and I journey through birth, through transition from togetherness to walking side by side. It scares me, yes. Sometimes recently I have woken with this terrible feeling that I am not pregnant any more, that somehow there will be no baby - a side effect of losing our last child in pregnancy, and also, perhaps, a way of preparing me for 'letting go'.

But mostly, I feel a calm sense of saying goodbye and giving thanks for the gift of the journey so far, and welcoming this strange voyage of coming into being through birth. The birth pool is filled, the candles lit and the car full of fuel to get me to the hospital if it comes now and there are no midwives!

Which given my online tarot today found in my Inbox...

The Eight of Wands

This card suggests that my power today lies in climax. It has all led up to this moment of anticipation and "there ain't no stopping it now."

well, who knows? Look out for the star...

and whatever you are doing this Christmas, light a candle and let the love in your heart connect to the love around the world. It can be a cruel and strange world at times, and it can hurt like hell, but it is full of magic and wonder too, that is tied into the human spirit.

Merry Christmas...

love Vik, Adam and the baby B

A very Jungle Book Christmas Baby

2007-12-19T18:09:00.001Z

Click to Play

Yes It looks like Vik will give birth to a human baby any day now. I am checking the sky's for a stork hoping that this is really how it happens and the birth pool is just a place to keep the storks favorite food safe - like frogs and insects and apparently small mammals. But I know that the scans have shown a very human mammal wriggling inside Vik tum and the pronounce bump was hard to miss.

Have a Happy Christmas everyone and see you on the other side of the new year.

In Memory

2007-11-14T13:40:00.000Z

My Sister Sue

"...Life is life and love is love and we cannot be part of either
without risking also the pain of loss...".

I wrote this on my blog entry a couple of weeks ago, when I shared with you the joy of our discovery at being pregnant, expecting our baby at Christmas. These words have become painfully relevant in my life and it leaves me confused and splintered. On 19th October 2007, my eldest sister Sue died, suddenly and shockingly in an accident. She was 47.

All my life, Sue has been there - sometimes at the forefront and sometimes in the background, but always present. When I was a little girl, she seemed magical to me - always making things, creating things, singing, playing music, dancing - a real free spirit. As a young girl of 9, I visited her in London and she took my midnight swimming, for a moonlight picnic and to an all night party! She introduced me to feminism and showed me how not to be afraid of breaking the rules. Wacky, wonderful and a total original, she could be hopelessly annoying at times, but still, the love never ran out.

Over the last few years we had struggled to find time in our lives for each other, each of us busy with our passions. Sue was always turning up late and saying "I've been meaning to call - I'll get in touch soon"...now she never will.

Sue was part of me, part of who I am. She helped form the way I see the world. So much of the woman I am now, the woman I am proud to be, has grown from the seeds Sue planted and nourished in me. Her spirit is in the very breath and bone of who I am – so much so that I never imagined her not being in my physical world.

I still can’t comprehend her absence - the hugeness of the space she has left is filled with such a bright light that at the moment, it hurts to see it, but in time, I trust that it will soften and glow like the autumn sunlight, adding beauty to all our lives, reminding us of the magic and wonder and precious gift of life and love, as Sue constantly reminded us to see. She made the world we live in a more beautiful place to be, and now she becomes part of that beauty.

As for me, and for all those who loved Sue and were loved by her, our days continue. Most days it seems the world moves much too fast as we try to come to terms with the loss. The part of me that is grieving wants to curl up and hide and not come out until I feel whole again.

But the part of me that is a mother, that is expecting a child, has to continue. This baby is here, within me and is coming. Initially, the shock brought on contractions and complications, and I found myself being rushed to the delivery suite at Lancaster. Luckily, modern magic has its place and labour was diverted with drugs. As I lay in the maternity ward, babies being born all around, my breasts producing milk and my tears streaming down in grief and shock for the loss of my sister, I acknowledged the brutal and beautiful reality of life, death and birth, of our mortality and transience, and of what is truly important in life - the love and the moments we have on this earth. Even if I cannot feel it now, I know there is a gift in this life moment.

I am back home now. I am on bed rest and awaiting an appointment with the consultant to see if they feel it is necessary to induce an early delivery, as there are some complications with my kidneys. I am also disabled by chronic Symphasis Pubis Dysfunction, which causes constant physical pain and means I am very dependent on the help of those close. I am reminded daily of the importance of good friends and loving family. I watch as those I love try to pick up and paste together the pieces of their hearts and make sense of life. We all grieve for Sue, for the loss and try to recover from the shock of the randomness. The only word to describe the feeling is SAD, which seems too small but is the right word ( I have noticed recently that so many of our biggest emotional experiences come packaged in the smallest words). Not sad as in how you feel when you don't get your own way, but a heartfelt, deep sadness that seems endless. Within this, every moment brings with it a different emotion to ride.

Grief and birth strip away the many illusions of life, and I am left looking at my life with new and often painful eyes, but as I sit in the late Autumn sunshine, feeling the baby kick, I know that there is a certain peacefulness that comes with grief, when the monkey mind stops and we are placed in the moment of our sadness, and in this moment, though the heart is broken, it is also opened to a deeper, wider, stronger love.

I wish I still had my sister on this earth with me. But I don't and the world is less for that loss. But if I had never known her, I would not mourn her leaving now, and so I know in the heart of it, the gift is the joy of love, and that is really the only thing we need to remember in life.

My baby will come when he or she is ready and when they do, I am ready to receive them in love, and to share with them the love Sue had within her.

My sister was a beautiful woman and I will always love her.

Love’s Wild Angels

These angels are not for staying.
They will never gather dust
Or watch their hair grow thin
In spider-webs of grey and gold.

One day, long before we see
The shadow approaching,
They will know, begin
To scribble long into
The ink-well night,
Leave us messages
On static-crackle
Answer-phones,
Spend hours
Watching

Aware, at last, of a sudden memory –
A place they were meant to be leaving.

Let them go.
They were never meant for staying
And the weight of earth-clod love
Binds them back to the soil below.
So, hush your heart and listen:

That sound you hear between the sounds
Is the whisper of one departing.
Let them go.

Copyright. Victoria Bennett

The Road to Whitehaven

2007-10-09T21:16:00.001Z

Click to Play

Adam and I go over the top of the Wrynose and Hardknot passes that lead to Whitehaven - quite an adventure! The last invasion of the British Mainland occurred in Whitehaven in 1778 when John Paul Jones, father of the American Navy, invaded the port

http://www.rediscoverwhitehaven.com/interesting-facts.htm

As we travelled over, I told Adam about my grandfather. I don't know much about my extended family, as my Dad doesn't talk about them - but I do know that he used to work in the Lowther mines near where they lived in Frizington. When the mines were closed down, the family had no money to eat and no work so, being a bit canny, my grandfather used to walk up the Pass and stand in all weathers to open the gates for the landed gentry as they passed by, earning a tip as they went. Not much and in the end, not enough to support a family on. Eventually, the family relocated to Tilbury Docks, where he took up work.

Hence why I was born a southerner. But in the end, we started drifting back. First a couple of my sisters, then my parents, then myself and Adam. 6 (nearly 7!) of my father's grandchildren have been born in Cumbria too, despite his working all his life to 'escape it' (it held little but memories of extreme poverty for him, something he wished to spare us!)...

funny thing is - when I came up here in 1997, I remember thinking very clearly "oh, here is where I am from - people look like me" - and I had never had that before, having spent a life travelling around.

So - in a way, this is the road home!

Lumiere - The Field (re post)

2007-09-28T07:48:00.001Z

Click to Play

I just reposted this because it got stuck in some servers craw and wouldn't work.

ho hum - start again.

I made this in late summer and have only just found the time to post it up, I have really enjoyed other peoples videos using these rules and obstructions.

Lumiere Rules

60 seconds max.
Fixed camera
No audio
No zoom
No edit
No effects
Read manifesto Â»

Forensic

2007-09-19T10:05:00.001Z

Click to Play

This is a little experiment I did yesterday. Not feeling much like going out in the cold weather, I decided to see what I could create using text from a recent poem, found vlog clips from the commonpeople trashcan and an hour or so exploring garageband. I have long been fascinated by the relationship between poetry and film, and I am quite pleased with this initial creation. Plus, usually I have Adam on hand for technical guidance but this time, I tried it out solo. Which seeing as my techie-ness goes about as far as a pen and paper, was a challenge in having the confidence in simply letting myself explore, make and play. Hope you enjoy the result.

The poem is part of a larger body of work, exploring the idea of erotic imprints - how our sensual memory is 'written in the skin'', and how a lover becomes part of our own body ... here is the poem text in its original form for you to read, if you want to.

Forensic

Some mornings, I wake with the taste of you
knitted into my skin, echoing through cells
until I am clawing at this body, tearing
to reach you, my eyes flashing silver
panning the reflection for yours.

Everything spells out your name.
Like the wind, my fingers seek you,
each tip alight, electrified, following
the earth of your body, the slow, hot
softness of your kiss, the dig of nails
as they paint blood effigies in the dark.

Before seizure they say you can smell
something different in the air: nutmeg,
aniseed, amber, thyme
and something bittersweet –
cardamon and heat, blood;
my own need.

In the dark I have dreamt you
and here, in the dawn light
my body convulses with sleep-drawn desire.

c. Victoria Bennett

In the quiet breath

2007-09-09T12:31:00.000Z

It has been a while since my last blog on Blissfool. Time has been doing strange things of late, partly because of my altered state. I haven't wanted to write here for a while - feeling increasingly introverted, but today I thought I would return and put down a few words.

After the last few years of journeying through grief and the painful dissolution that comes with all 'enlightenment', I finally reached a place of peace within myself, in which I began to come to accept the possibility of not being a mother in my lifetime. Unexpectedly, I found myself able to understand the loss of my baby in a different way. Nothing could take away the love, but I realised that I no longer felt like the victim anymore, no longer viewed it as what had been taken from me, but sensed it in terms of what I have received through the experience. Through the loss, I have come to understand myself on a much deeper level, and come to understand love and the nature of life in a more connected way. I also realised I had something I could give in turn to others, through words and through understanding. With this new acceptance came new peace. It didn't mean I wanted a child any less, or that the loss was less, I just knew in my heart, I had finally healed from the grief. It took 4 years.

The next month, I had a strange metallic taste in my mouth, and I let myself think that perhaps, just perhaps...but my period started on time, so life went on.

A while later, I had a dream in which a small girl appeared and said, quite matter of factly, "Hello, I'm Beatrice".

That week, when I was in Boots with my husband, I pondered over tampons, as we were about to start swimming. He asked me quizzically "Why do you need those?" and I replied "Because I am not sure if my period might start"...normally, I am regular so Adam looked at me and then said, pointing at the pregnancy tests, "well, do you think maybe we ought to be getting one of those instead?" I didn't really think it was necessary, but I did and I did a test.

It came up positive.
So I did another test. Which also came up positive.
So I did another test. Which also came up positive.
So I went to the Doctor. Who confirmed it.

At first, I could not believe this. Each day I woke up, went to the toilet and checked I was not bleeding. And I mean, every single day. At 6 weeks, I did this and discovered blood. My friends, Ruth and Gill, were here with me that day - we were celebrating the start of summer and enjoying the ripeness of it all. Happily, I went to the toilet and my world started to dissolve. I howled from a place deep within, my heart wrenching at the thought of losing this tiny life. For the first time since finding out, I let myself acknowledge how much I wanted this baby to hold on.

We went to the hospital for the scan. Holding my husband's hand, we watched together as the radiographer pressed the ultrasound scanner onto my belly. I don't think we were breathing. And there it was...a tiny heartbeat, so fragile but still beating. It was all so reminiscent of the last time and we left the room both reassured and tentative. They booked us in for another appointment.

Time passed and we shared our nervous joy each day, not daring to think beyond that. At 12 weeks, we went to the hospital for our scan and there, infront of us, was our tiny little baby, wriggling around - arms, legs, head and a strong little heartbeat. We both let out that breath and walked around the rest of the day, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.

Together, we have shared that joy with a few of our close friends. Together we have watched in awe as my body changes. Together we have felt the first kicks and wiggles. Every day I am amazed at this miracle, and scared too by the love that I feel, how besotted I am with this little spirit within me. Who has changed my life, even without 'meeting'.

Some days, I find myself crying when I think of our last little baby who didn't grow - we both acknowledge that loss, which is important, alongside celebrating this amazing gift.

At 20 weeks, we had another scan and again, we held our breath. I think really it will be like this every day. Gradually, I am starting to allow myself to imagine the future, though it is still with resistance. I am though, able to enjoy the days we are sharing now, and I am surprised daily by the peaceful love that I feel.

I don't know if this being is a girl, or a boy, or if the dream was connected, or simply a premonitory instinct...We are almost two thirds through the pregnancy now. I know that things can still go wrong. Life is life and love is love and we cannot be part of either without risking also the pain of loss, because all life is transient, and none more so than the fragile life of life emerging. I am glad that I am able to take each day as it comes, to be here, in the present moment, held in this union.

I am blissfoolly in love...

Brittany, September 2007

Poem 24.5.07

Life is created in the moments
between time,

in the quiet breath of sleep

and dark, in the rhythmic rise

and fall of the heart.

I hide it
beneath my swelling breast
and sing, sing, sing...

c.Victoria Bennett (In the Quiet Breath)

When will they ever learn...

2007-07-02T16:36:00.000Z

I followed this link from Gill Hand's blog, because I couldn't quite believe what I was reading. Alas, it is true...the Rt Rev Graham Dow, Bishop of Carlisle - our local bigot - oops, sorry, I mean bishop - has declared that the floods are not just a result of a lack of respect for the planet, but also a judgment on society's moral decadence...(he continues)

"This is a strong and definite judgment because the world has been arrogant in going its own way...We are reaping the consequences of our moral degradation, as well as the environmental damage that we have caused...We are in serious moral trouble because every type of lifestyle is now regarded as legitimate...In the Bible, institutional power is referred to as 'the beast', which sets itself up to control people and their morals. Our government has been playing the role of God in saying that people are free to act as they want...The sexual orientation regulations [which give greater rights to gays] are part of a general scene of permissiveness. We are in a situation where we are liable for God's judgment, which is intended to call us to repentance."

Having had the pleasure of getting to know many wonderful people from the Franciscan religious communities over the last year, and having had the chance to talk deeply about the nature of God and the Spirit, I am appalled by such judgment from a man who declares himself a religious leader. It reinforces my dislike of Religion per se - but this kind of attitude has no place spoken for God. If there is any truth in the words of the scriptures, it is Love - that god is Love, that we are equal and connected. The notion of a condemning God can only increase the risks of fundamentalism. And we wonder why we live in a time of 'terror'.

So - Bishop of Carlisle - I may not be a Christian. I may not be baptised or go to Church. I may believe in freedom of choice and in self-responsibility and in Love. I may support the flourishing of multi-dimensional relationships and sexualities, so long as they are loving and consensual, but I can tell you this: your judgment has nothing to do with God or God's Love. I suggest you go back and read your Scriptures. And whilst you are at it, maybe read some information on climate change and a little bit of historical data on the wealth of the Church. Our willingness to blame 'another' detracts us from acknowledging our own responsibility for the care and welfare of our environment and for the promotion of social justice and the fair distribution of wealth. Acceptance and tolerance and open-mindedness and love do not cause floods...

And if you want to read more on this, you can go to the article in The Daily Telegraph on http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2007/07/01/nflood201.xml&CMP=ILC-mostviewedbox

Wild Women, Wild Birth...pass the howl on!

2007-06-22T13:25:00.001Z

Wild Women

Creative Pregnancy Courses

Creative Pregnancy Course for Women
A course of 10 Saturday workshops, plus 1 weekend
July –Dec 2007

Make space in your life to celebrate your pregnancy and connect with other women sharing this amazing journey!

Pregnancy is an intensely creative and intuitive time. Through gentle guidance and supportive inspiration, this is an opportunity for women who are pregnant to explore and celebrate their natural creativity, as well as learn more about natural pregnancy and prepare for birth. Held in the South Lakes, this is a Women-only course, lead by Victoria Bennett (poet, creative guide and founder of Wild Women), Helen Bebbington, (holistic therapist and birth Doula) and guest wild guides. Course includes:

Connecting to the Wild Creator – using various creative approaches (journaling, artmaking, movement, dream-work) you will be guided and encouraged to connect your wild woman in pregnancy;

Holistic Pregnancy & Birth Support – learn more about holistic therapies and their uses (Aromatherapy, Massage, Homeopathy, Natural Remedies) as well as discovering more about Doula childbirth support and other non-invasive approaches;

Times/Dates: 10 – 3pm on Saturdays: Jul 14th, 28th; Sept 8th, 22nd; Oct 6th, 20th; Nov 3rd, 17th; Dec 1st, 15th 2007 plus 1 Weekend: Sat/Sun August 18th/19th 2007.

Price: £360 Full Rate; £240 conc.
(we may have places available at further reductions for those unable to meet this cost due to personal circumstances – please discuss)

Natural Pregnancy Course

A course for women and their birth partners
A 2 part course, 5 evenings each, Summer & Autumn 2007

Through gentle guidance and supportive tuition, this is an opportunity for pregnant women and their pregnancy support partners to creatively explore and learn more about natural pregnancy and birth. Held in South Lakes, this course is open to women and men and will be lead by Victoria Bennett (poet, creative guide and founder of Wild Women), Helen Bebbington, (holistic therapist and birth Doula) and guest guides. Complete course includes 2 x 5 workshops – can be booked separately:

Creative Connection – using various creative approaches you will be guided and encouraged to connect with your shared pregnancy journey;

Holistic Pregnancy & Birth Support – learn more about holistic therapies and their uses in pregnancy (Aromatherapy, Massage, Homeopathy, Natural Remedies) as well how to prepare for a natural birth using non-invasive approaches;

Times/Dates:
Weds 7 – 9pm

Part 1: suitable for those in early/mid pregnancy
(July 11th, 18th, 25th; Aug 1st, Aug 8th 2007)
Part 2: suitable for those in the last trimester of pregnancy
(Nov 14th, 21st, 28th; Dec 5th, 12th)

Price: £100/£75/£50 per course for woman and partner includes Basic Remedies Kit
Total Cost for Part 1 & 2: £200/£150/£100

Enquiries for all courses contact: vik@wildwomenpress.com

Acquire the courage...

2007-06-18T10:43:00.000Z

And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud
was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

Anais Nin, Danish diarist

I am reminded today of this truth. That there comes a time, I believe, in every person's life, where the risk of staying safely wrapped in that bud is much more than the risk of letting go of the control and discovering the truth of who you really are. When I was a small child, I remember seeing a sadness that surrounded most adults - a kind of suffocation that settled on their spirit, behind their eyes, that said "This is life, this is all I can expect". Even then, I knew this was not the way I wanted to walk my life.

A child asks "Why can't I?" to most obstacles he or she meets. And slowly, we are taught, all to often, the answer "Because..." But the real truth is that there are no limitations to the depth of one's true spirit and this journey always leads to expansion, not restriction.

Sometimes, life can hurt. I know this. My last real hurt came when I lost my child in 2003, and my relationship hit the hellish lows. At the time, I could only see what I had lost, what had been 'taken from me' in my life. And for the second real time in my life, I doubted the truth of the above quote, of the Fool's Path. When life hurt this much, why open your shirt to the sword? It took a long path of night, good friends, Love, courage and the willingness to listen to the spirit beyond what we see, for me to get to the place where I woke up and found myself feeling in the pain the abundance of what had been given to me.

If someone had told me when I sat with my heart breaking that this was a gift, I probably would've given them a bloody nose, yet something inside me, even then, knew that I could not, would not give up, that I would keep walking the path.

Yesterday, sat atop of Garsdale Head with Adam and Simon, eating banana and yoghurt, the only sound the birds crying around the hills, we fell into laughter so deep and silly it made me weep. A simple, beautiful thing. And something I thought I would never feel again.

I would rather live a thousand times of tears to feel the true bubble of joy that comes with love, that comes with being within my own skin, in my own life, walking my true path, than live always safe, neither hurt nor happy.

My mother always said "save me from a grey life" - for years I thought that meant it had to be dramatic. It doesn't. It can be as soft and small as sharing stupid laughter in the silence of a Sunday picnic. And that moment can burst into life in a myriad of colours, because at its heart is love, and truth and freedom.

"Acquire the courage to believe in yourself.
Many of the things that you have been taught were at one time the radical ideas of individuals who had the courage to believe what their own hearts and minds
told them was true, rather than accept the common beliefs of their day."

Ching Ning Chu

there are signs...

2007-06-15T20:48:00.000Z

Is this a sign of the strange things to come?

Welcome to the real 'wall of weird'...next will be the bird-headed man, as predicted by Gill Hands...

Story courtesy of:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/somerset/3534361.stm

We can't stop here. This is Wild Women country.

2007-06-14T17:34:00.000Z

Inspired by the wonderful Dark Blonde (aka Gill Hands) I thought I would waste some of my own rainy day time on playing with the quote gadget she found...here are a few of my favourite Wild Women lines...

They're here already! You're Wild Women! You're Wild Women!

Which movie was this quote from?

Of all the Wild Women joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

Which movie was this quote from?

With great power comes great Wild Women.

Which movie was this quote from?

Go on - have a go yourself - you know you want to...

and here are a few more of my favourite ones...some sound spookily true...

ahh, blissfool day of rainy day play...

Love means never having to say you're Wild Women.
Here's looking at Wild Women, kid.
I've got a feeling we're not in Wild Women anymore.
It is too late, my Wild Women is in your veins.
The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world Wild Women didn't exist.
All work and no Wild Women makes Jack a dull boy.
When there's no more room in hell, the Wild Women will walk the earth.
They may take away our Wild Women, but they'll never take our freedom!
We are indeed drifting into the arena of the Wild Women.
Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty Wild Women.
You've got Wild Women on you.
Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the Wild Women Room!

Beautiful people, they go the same direction as you do...

2007-06-13T11:52:00.000Z

Byron's first outing on the tube...capturing the art in action! (Melanie & John)

All that talk about London reminded me that back in April, Gill and I had a wonderful jaunt to the city to share our poetry at Loose Muse, a monthly women's writing event hosted by the fabulous Agnes Meadows. The evening was really interesting, and the audience attentive and interested, and the hostess full of energy and warmth. Only women read, but men are welcome in the audience - go along if you get the chance. It is held at the Poetry Cafe, 22 Betterton St, London - details usually found on their site.

Gill, perfecting the 'poetic gaze' at the nearby pub as we take in our liquid refreshments...

Poetic gorgeousness in the form of Inua Ellams and John Challis...
who came along to support our London debut!

Anyway - like I said, we were invited down to read our poetry and talk a bit about Wild Women Press. What was fascinating was that in our audience, there were 5 women who had originally lived in Cumbria, but who had moved to London for work or because, at the time, they had felt there was no support for women writers up here - a situation they were glad to see had changed with the spirit of Wild Women Press!

We also got a chance to catch up with some fellow wild friends and enjoy the good old poetic connection - what better life is there than that of the BlissFool? The money may be little but the love is immense!

John shows us how he has sold his soul to the Devil at the Crossroads...
naughty boy, his soul was ours!

In an english country garden...

2007-06-12T10:31:00.000Z

Rural Art?

I recently discovered that there are still people from that there city of London who think of us poor rural folk as being a bit backward, a bit slow on the old uptake an' all...so I thought it be fitting to say something on this here tinternet about how I feels about their comments.

The other day, I unwittingly subjected myself to 2 hours of pomposity of the highest degree, in the form of Nightwaves, the Radio 3 "arts and ideas" programme. The live debate was around the question:

Is the countryside more English than the city? Where is the heart of English culture?

I suppose I should have known by the question what to expect. That, and the fact that the only actual 'rural' person on the panel also happened to be the only person from Cumbria, and the only woman. And the other 4 panelists had made long careers from the male-dominated arena of reviewing, editing and criticism (though some were now authors), whereas the one woman, rural Cumbrian was a practising artist. I also noticed that, throughout the discussion, every time Matthew Sweet (the presenter) turned a question to Sarah Hall, he jabbed his finger accusingly at her - a physical gesture that was absent when he addressed any other of the panel members. Now, why was this? Of course, being radio, listeners will not see this - but I found it fascinating and a little bit alarming.

However, in I went, bravely going where no wild woman should stray. And luckily, in the company of fellow wild woman, Gill Hands (who has also written on this in her blog, should you wish to read more!).

What followed was a very confusing debate about Art, art, Culture and culture...with little clarity given to exactly what was being spoken of. But I won't spoil the debate for you here - you can listen in on Thursday night, Radio 3, around 9.45 pm I think.

Now, I am a reasonably erudite woman, but I found myself thinking, in broad Cumbrian, "eh?"
listening to a lot of what was said, which amounted to not very much, in my opinion. What really got my goat, (or should I say sheep, being Cumbrian?) was the comment made by a certain Tim Lott, who obviously has a phobic distrust of anything not London. Namely, that there has been no real or significant art to come out of the countryside in the last 100 years, and his reasoning for this was that the artists are simply 'not good enough', that they lack the 'competition and conflict' of urban artists that is, in his opinion, necessary to create "Good Art", and that, at best, all rural artists are happy amateurs, knitting doilies for toilet rolls.

The panel, it appeared, collectively hinted towards a feeling that whilst rural art contained some talented 'folk art' and 'craft-makers', the "real art' of social significance came only from the city.

...because obviously we in the countryside are too narrow-minded and inward-looking to ever consider the wider social, political, cultural, sexual or economic implications of our existence, or our art, not to mention ever fall in love, break hearts, get ill, experience grief, feel isolated or be prey to any of the other many shared connecting experiences of being human. We can, at best, knit well and write about nature.

Only urban artists can make ART.

At which point, I really wanted to shout "WHAT A LOAD OF BOLLOCKS!" and leave.

But I manged not to do this. I did however, wonder what we were debating, since it seemed to be straying away from the original question.

Thing is, I know of a lot of rural based artists of all disciplines, who are challenging, intelligent, controversial, political, fresh....and I know of a lot of urban artists who are hackneyed, over-influenced, over-intellectualised and exhausted. And of course, I can happily acknowledge the opposite too, before anyone accuses me of being 'anti-urban'.

Surely, together, our collective experiences make up the 'art' and 'culture' of this country and English-ness is about diversity and connection, instead of division and prejudice?

There are some things though that maybe, just maybe, play a part in the reason rural artists are not so widely known (to Mr Lott). Perhaps it is because:

a) the urban (london) centric media thinks, rather like Mr Lott, and as Gill said at the time, that if it doesn't happen in London, it doesn't happen;

b) whilst people in rural areas are more likely to go to London and other urban areas to experience art, how many urban based artists come to rural Cumbria, or other rural areas, to do the same? A person in Cumbria is likely to travel up to 150 miles on average to take part in art, whereas when I lived in London (yes, I did, for a short while!), I often found that people would rather sit in and watch telly than go the extra tube stop to see and exhibition/listen to poetry etc - which in effect means that we experience a wider diversity of art and culture than the average city dweller;

c) rural based artists are getting on with getting on with the art, instead of talking about it...

d) many rural born and raised artists move to the city believing the claptrap that the only way they are going to 'make it' is by living in an urban sprawl - thus, they get labelled 'urban artists'...if there was more support from funding and media for rural based artists and art networks, they wouldn't feel this need...

Of course, with the increase of citizen journalism, none of this will matter in 10 eyars...viva la revolution! And for the record, this is my potted Cumbria history...

My father's family were many generation Cumberlanders but moved to London during the Depression to find work. At this time, with the mines shut down, their area of rural Cumbria starved, literally. I grew up in rural Oxfordshire, but also lived in my adult years in various cities, including London. I chose to move to Cumbria in 1997 because I felt that there would be greater freedom to create up here. I was right.

Anyway, we are now busy collating a list of rural artists to have come about in the last 100 years, just for Mr Lott...more soon on this.

Right, best get back to my crocheting now...

We can be heroes, just for one day...

2007-06-12T10:10:00.000Z

Recently, Gill Hands and Ruth Snowden nominated me for an Art 07 Award. The awards aim to recognise the contribution an individual, project or organisation has made to the arts in the NW region, and fall into 4 categories. My lovely wild sisters put my name forward for nomination in the "Unsung Heroes" category, in recognition of those who have worked behind the scene to make something possible. They put me forward for the work I have done with Wild Women and Wild Women Press. On Friday 8th, I found out that I had been selected as one of the 4 finalists for this award.

I was really thrilled to find myself chosen, especially as I am the only Cumbrian based finalist out of 14 in total. It feels somehow fitting to be in this category, as the journey of Wild Women has felt more of a quest that an art project, with its shared journeys of discovery, bizarre twists and turns, fellow adventurers and magical talismans. Of course, it ought to be Unsung Heroine, but there you go.

When I decided to set up Wild Women in 1999, I did so based on an intuitive hunch, a thread of a scent that told me this was what I needed to do. For the few years before, I had suffered with depression and anxiety, so the setting up of a group was a challenge, but as soon as I made the decision, people came along to support me, and pretty soon, I was standing infront of 12 other women, encouraging them to release their wild woman! And 10 weeks later, when I read the poems written by these wonderful courageous women, I said to Adam "We need to publish these" and so, with his help, we set up Wild Women Press, even though neither of us had ever published anything before.

That was 8 years ago, and it has been a wild and wacky journey, and a great success too. The point is...it began, literally, with a dream, and a willingness to follow that dream. Through it, I have met so many amazing women, and men, and have had the honour of sharing the journey with many of those original Wild Women. However hard things have got, and they have been hard (as life can be when you live it without artifice!), the Wild Women, and I include myself in this, have kept creating, kept loving, kept courageous and often, kept laughing. As much as I have given inspiration, I have received it.

So, I just want to say thanks to all the wild women, and men, along the way, for being brave enough to follow their bliss - and a big thanks especially to Gill and Ruth, for putting my name forward for this award. A big Wild Woman howl for you!

http://www.wildwomenpress.com

And if you want to see the announcements, you can go to:

http://commonpeople.blip.tv

Art Strike 07!

2007-06-12T09:44:00.000Z

On June 8th, I took part in the Art Strike at the Art 07 Day in Kendal, Cumbria. I was there with fellow poet, Gill Hands, taking part in Art Strike - where I got to wave banners and encourage people to deface naff art in the name of action. Actually, it had a serious message - namely that artists receive no support for their work, and do a great deal of work for no pay. I have often wondered this - especially when reading governmental brochures about how fantastic this country is artistically - what exactly would happen if all the artists in the UK stopped doing all the stuff they do for no payment? There would be a hell of a lot less grassroots activity, for one. Which would mean a lot less variety and a lot less community access to creative participation. And huge sections of our society under-represented, stripped of a voice...Of course, we wouldn't stop creating, because in the end, as an artist you get faced with a choice: to create or not to create. I for one, always choose creation, because I am an activist. So, big publishing houses do not represent poetry or women's real voices enough...my response is to rally around other wild women and set up our own press. I look at my community and I think: there needs to be a space where women can feel free to create and feel supported in that...so I set one up. That is the way I am, I guess. That is also why last year I worked for an average pay of £1.73 per hour, instead of the minimum wage of £5.52, and why my bank manager does not like me.

I believe in being the change I want to see in the world, as Ghandi once said. But that doesn't mean that I don't feel that this society is poor in its recognition and support of the contribution that art and artists make to our culture, and it doesn't mean that I don't believe that there should be adequate social security support, accessible funding, pension schemes, low cost insurance etc etc etc.

The french are very good at revolution. When the government tried to cut the social security support it offers to working artists (yes, you can sign on there in between paid jobs without having to declare yourself unemployed, and without having to go and clean toilets), all the artists got together and actually went on strike. They closed down the National Opera. They closed down Avignon Festival. They cost the government millions in tourist revenue. They got their complaint listened to and answered.

Whereas on Friday, I was surprised to find that people actually shouted at us "well, who do you expect to pay for it?" and "why should everyone pay for poetry when it is only for the chattering classes?" and so on and so forth...

urm...well, for starters, what about the billions the government spends on war? Trident? Government official expenses? The Olympics?

After all...without art and creativity, the world would be a very, very strange place indeed. Without war, well...I think I could do without mass killing, don't you?

Anyway...that was what I did in the daytime...you can see some of the strike art videos if you follow this link, including the ones The Common People (myself, adam) made...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vxy3vwsVrIE

For now... here something to consider next time someone says

"But you do it for the love of it…"

Man kicking ball about on a field:
average annual UK salary
£676,000.

Author writing to enrich our world:
average annual UK salary
£4,000

Poet writing poems that save lives:
average annual UK salary
£… too small to be listed.

Support the strike!
Vik Bennett 07

One Simple Act of Love

2007-05-20T15:09:00.000Z

Sal and I cheer on the other women at the finish line, having completed the race...

(Picture from left to right: me, Helen & Jane from Humanum.org.uk Free Homeopathic Cancer Care Clinic, Sal - we did the race!)

Today my sister Sal and I ran the Race for Life. Well, my sister ran and did it in 35 minutes. As for me, I came in 10 minutes later, complete with gloves, pink brolly and 1950's rockerbilly skirt. Well, you have to make the effort, darlink! I have done this race before, and I am always struck by how moving it is. As I went around, I passed women who were running in memory of their children, parents, siblings, friends, partners and everyone who ran had a smile to share. And a few tears. I couldn't help but think how amazing women are - the way they come together and take action to make change happen for the better. How powerful that is, and how uplifting. Just think, if every woman turned out on the street to race against the war and conflict and greed and tyranny and abuse happening in the world today - each single person, united, could change the world for better. Right now.

We didn't have to run far. We didn't have to race fast. The person coming in first and the person coming in last were equal. Some raised 1000's of pounds for Cancer Research, some raised £10. Women of 80+ and children as young as 6 months took part. Oh, and a dog that seemed to know where the finishing line was and promptly collapsed and wouldn't be moved!

So - how about it? Race to heal the earth. Today is International World Peace Day. The sun is shining. And I know for certain each one of us has the power to change this world to love. It is worth more than a passing thought.

Thanks to all those who sponsored us - we have raised £230. Our target was £300. But we are pleased with our contribution. Today, 1050 women raised awareness of the need for adequate cancer care, and we also raised £120,000. So, all of you who sponsored us helped make that possible. And if anyone wants to sponsor us online now, and help us reach our target - we just need another £70 - just go to:

http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/wildwomenpress

Thank you xx

Converging Streams

2007-05-11T12:32:00.000Z

Recently, I have been engaging in an on-line creative dialogue with a film artist, Jenny McCabe. I first met Jenny when working as a poet in residence at Beaumont College, Lancaster. Whilst I am not working on that residency anymore, I have continued to enter into this 'visual conversation'. The premise is simple. We give each other a quote or question, relating to a creative thought, and we create short videoblogs in response. We called it Confluence, because it seemed to us that it was the merging of two creative processes. What is fascinating is that as a visual artist, Jenny is having to respond to a written statement, and as a word-artist, I am having to respond in a visual format. Anyway, I think it is interesting to see what is developing, and what it is revealing about two women artist and their divergent and convergent practices.

My favourite self-made videoblog was in response to the question: Sensationalist or sensualist? I loved making this film and I feel that it really does capture the spirit behind my creativity and my life view. I love to play. For me, that is the heart of creativity.

You can watch it if you want, and others, by going to:

http://confluence.blip.tv/file/180223/

I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning to sail my ship. (Louisa M Alcott)

2007-05-11T10:58:00.000Z

"I am an artist and a political being as well. My aim has been to forge these two concerns into an integrity which affirms language, art, craft, form, beauty, tragedy, and audacity with the needs and vision of women, as part of an emerging new culture which could enrich us all".

(Robin Morgan, poet, activist, woman)

I have been enjoying some illustrious company of late. Thanks to the funding of the Women's Arts International Festival 2007, Cumbria has been paying host to artists and thinkers such as Germaine Greer, Jo Brand, Marianne Faithful, Stella Vine, newcomers Bat for Lashes and my all time favourite, Patti Smith, as well as many more famous and emerging women artists. I am glad this is happening. It cannot help but be inspirational to all the women, and men visiting the festival. Such energy is the instigator of change.

But ask yourself, why is it so unusual to see so many women artists in one place?

Five years ago, when I approached funders with the idea for a Wild Women Festival, I was met with stony disregard. At the time, I had a vision for an international celebration of women artists, in recognition of the amazing energy, passion, talent and inspiration women all over the world are giving to our communities. This was very much in line with the Wild Women ethos. So, 5 years on, I am glad to see it happening, and I am enjoying the experience without having to be the one who organised it!

I was very disappointed at first to have not been included in the month-long celebrations. I believe that Wild Women, as a DIY collective, has contributed much to our area through our art and through bringing women artists from around the world into our community. Over the last 8 years, I have worked creatively with over 1500 women, published 11 collections of new poetry, set up many creative projects, taken the work of Wild Women out into the world and brought over 40 women artists into rural Cumbria, to inspire and instigate change. In additon, the group has always been about celebrating and supporting all creative acts - whether that be the act of baking bread, singing songs, having sex, writing poems or building houses. Every act is creative. And we have done all this from my living room.

One of the reasons given for our absence was that the festival did not have a feminist or activist agenda. Which struck me as odd, given the line up!

At first, I was angry and then sad, but later, sitting in the audience of a panel discussion with Germaine Greer and Stella Vine, it occurred to me - why is 'feminism' a dirty word now? I am proud to be a woman artist, and the words are definitely in that order. I do not see that I can remove the political from my creative action. I choose to DIY my work because I choose to have freedom of voice away from the cultural patriachy. I believe in direct creative action to create positive change. I am happy to call myself a feminist - because I wonder how it is possible to be 'woman' and not feminist? I find increasingly that there is this desire to coat in saccharine, make palatable, the political edge of women artists. A kind of 'now, why do you need to keep going on about that for?' attitude. I agree that the days of anger are replaced by celebration - Wild Women has always been about celebrating our creative voices and spirits, rather than apologising.

Is it possible to remove the political from the very act of standing up and speaking out? And should we even try? I don't think so, myself. The most powerful act of revolution is to celebrate in the face of any oppression. But that is not to ignore the still present under-representation of women artists in the mainstream, or the inequality of pay, opportunities, social status etc etc etc. Nor to cover up the very present stereotypical media representation of 'woman artist' - words like 'mad' or 'selfish' come to mind, and I am being polite. One only has to look at the media willingness to brand me, during last years BBC2 documentary The Convent, as "lunatically free spirited", and "out sleeping with different men every week, whilst her poor husband is at home, heartbroken" (which, incidentally, is not true!), or "self-obsessed".

Anyway, I raised the point and was approached by the director of the Festival (a man) and told that the reason they have put in their own publicity that the festival is has 'no political agenda' was because they wanted to make it 'accessible' to everyone, and that some artists, and audience would not come if it was overtly referred to as 'feminist'. Which seems strange, not just to me, but to the many men and women who have supported the 'feminist agenda' of Wild Women Press over the years. Yes, that is right, men can be feminists too (i.e. the advocate the equality of women and men)

Hmmm. I wonder who it was then who did not want to be sullied by the 'f' word? Or who it was who was afraid of all those political women? I can't imagine Germaine Greer, or Patti Smith saying that, can you?

Which reminds me. Germaine asked

"What does it take for a woman to declare herself an artist?"

For me, it has been the willingness to be an outsider at times, to struggle with the notion that I can either be 'artist' or 'woman' - woman being the person able to have a relationship, family, home. It has taken the strength to assert my own voice and perception and creative vision into the world and to say "this is valuable and valued". It has taken embracing the women who have gone before me - the ancestors who sang the songs and wove the wools, and the women like Germaine Greer and Patti Smith, who stood up and said "hey, this is the way I see the world, and express it, and that is something you will listen to!" It has been about finding and building a creative community - something women do well I find. And finally, it is about celebrating my creativity, my power and my woman-ness. I do not want to be a 'man' artist. I am very happy to be a woman artist. It is something I have fought for the right to declare, and my sexuality and creativity cannot be divided, because they are expressions of each other. I wrestled for years with the label of 'mad' because I was creative, because I would not 'fit in' or conform. The turning point was when I woke up one morning and said "I am not mad woman, I am wild woman!"

So, here it is: I am wild woman. I am artist. I am feminist. And I am proud to be all these things, and much, much more.

Run for your life!

2007-04-14T13:17:00.000Z

Like many women across the UK, I have decided to take part in the Race for Life in aid of Cancer Research into cancers affecting women. Over the last 10 years, myself and the other Wild Women have lost too many relatives, friends and creative colleagues to breast cancer and other cancers, as well as seen others struggle and win their battles. All these women have shown great courage and spirit and creative fire in their journeys and it is both an inspiration and a great loss for the world at large to witness such strength and beauty.

Because of this, my sister Sal and I have put our names down to run the race on May 20th in the Lakes. 5km may not seem much to others, but to me it is a LONG WAY!

So - if you can support us on our Wild Women Howl for Life pledge to this race, please do! Help us to help them make a difference, and raise awareness too of the gross unnecessary loss of life to cancers that are detectable, treatable and curable, if only the research, treatments and a more holistic way of healing were supported by the government and the hugely wealthy industries behind our 'health system'...

Thank you so much for your support - I will keep you updated!

Keeping the stillness...

2007-03-12T13:00:00.000Z

The Un-Becoming

It is strange, the way the ground
disappears under your feet,
becomes open space, prairie land,
the grey swill of all unknowing.

Here, we are alone,
born again
into our true becoming,
all paths leading into one.

Here, it is terrifying, the way
the calling haunts the shadows.
O – there are a hundred ways to flee,
to take the spectral hand and leave.

Give in, give in – they whisper
and it seems easy just to leave
it all behind, your heart so tired
after all that trying, all this walking

and for what, for this? Turn back.

Yes, yes, the harpies hiss
and hesitating, you almost do
but wait – listen to what sings
within the shroud of mist;

this too will pass, and this and this
and all that is the un-becoming
will exist anew, and all that will remain
is the beautiful, becoming you.

(From Book of Days, a life's work in progress)

"Hers is the mystery of rooms..." (Murray Bodo, OFM)

2007-03-12T12:20:00.000Z

The troubadour tells the story of the bliss and the letting go. It is the union of spirit and body, of divine and being. The troubadour wanders the world free of fetters, singing their song.

I am no singer, but my song can reach around the world. I slip-slide around because every time I think to myself: I have this journey to tell – I hear a harpie in my head saying: why would anyone be interested in you?

And of course, that could be true. Maybe that is why I tentatively embrace the blogsphere – because it claims the right to tell the daily story across the world? But what is the story told? What do I include, and what do I cut out? How truthful is truthful, and how much is protection.

My story is about me, yes, but also about the not-me. It is about the journey towards the magic. Ah, the beauty and frustration of reaching the gate of impasse!

(it is never too late to step through the gate)

So – the last few years have felt like a stripping away. And once everything gets stripped away, I am left clinging on to the habits I have accumulated – a strange and not to comfortable feeling of being empty of purpose, absent of personality – like shells on the beach, picked clean of inhabitants. Thus becomes the duel of automaton v. free-thought creativity – a kind of repetitive malfunction of idea and fall, idea and fall.

Yet, even though I recognise where I am, the idea of letting go of those habits is terrifying, because all around is a grey mist, swirling, thick as glue and wild as thunder – and most of the time, you don’t know if you are on solid ground or suspended in mid-air. If you let go, you might find there is only space to swallow you up. But let go I must, and I am scared to let go, and scared again not to.

I understand that this is where I am to meet myself walking – this space of dreams and freedom. At this time, I allow that small breath of belief to surface, the breath that speaks the name of all that supports and guides me. I open my arms to embrace the destiny that is my own. I chose the Fool’s Path and now I am being asked to jump into it, and to do that, I must believe in the magic, because that is what follows the jump – even (and this is the trick) even if I land flat on my face and get bruised. I feel like I could do with someone creeping up and saying BOO! when I least expect it, so I jump without thinking. A bit like the turn away and rip it off technique of removing an elastoplast!

Truth is, I am afraid. Last time I took that risk, I hurt so badly. The learning that I am about to jump into might hurt just as bad, might be just as difficult to live within, and that scares me.

Yet, somewhere inside, I hear this small voice whisper it might be beautiful…

and that is the point of the leap of faith – you don’t know.

If I want to follow my bliss, then right here and now, I need courage to jump, and discipline to change. If I aspire to create a world I wish to be part of, then I need to first create that world within my own life. I aspire to the Fool’s way: love, expression, magic, freedom. We each have the wonderful capacity to love, laugh, share joy, pleasure, expression, to experience such emotions as to astound us. That is beautiful. There is no restriction on that – not truly. I aspire to a world that is one of Love, peace, honesty, integrity, connection, awareness, beauty…I want to connect to myself and to others, to life, to the spirit. There is too much disconnectedness in this world. Too much fear and shame.

I want to be unashamed of who I am, and express my being fully in this world. Yet, that brings me back to the first question about honesty. There have been times when, to protect or care for others, I have mediated my sexual expression and along the way, it has got twisted up, caused a split and is where I feel most confused.

How do I experience and express love, sensuality, sexuality in the world?

I have always believed there to be an intrinsic union between the

SPIRITUAL SEXUAL CREATIVE

and that this is the experience of the ecstatic spirit, and the union of all 3 aspects sets us free into our natural divinity. A note here though – the sexual ecstatic does not, I have come to understand, necessarily mean sexual activity, but can be a completeness of expression of sexuality, but an empowered choice of celibacy (odd, I know…still working on that one!)

For me, I understand this trinity as being the key to divinity, this balanced union, this integrated whole. Ah – to have the courage and discipline to lead a balanced life! It is not that we have to be perfect, just that to play an instrument to its full beauty, it must be in tune, that is all. First, I had too much in the sexual ecstatic – discovering this release and magic first. Then, I had too much in the spiritual ecstatic, and I became disconnected from my sexual power centre, my wild woman. Now, I am discovering the path to harmony.

March 2007

I am still looking
for that certain place
where all becomes
the ecstatic kiss,
the lift of the divine
that carries us to bliss.
Still waiting, yes,
beside the river fall,
whispering
yes, yes, yes…

(from Book of Days, a life-work in progress, V Bennett)

"Those, too, who love, gather for you: they are the poets of a transient hour" (Rilke)

2007-02-17T13:51:00.000Z

My life is changing again, and though it feels unsettling, I know it is just another unfolding into who I am...but today it is a beautiful day today. The sky is a perfect blue, the crocus heads have opened to the Spring sunshine, and I have a whole day to spend in quiet reflection. Which is good, because recently life has been full and there has been little time to simply be.

On Valentine's Day, I hosted the Wild Women Love Fest - bringing together poets, musicians, dancers and dreamers in a celebration of love. And what a celebration it was. There was wonderful music from local young artists Rob Heron, Paddy Rogan and Jack Hartley, as well as sensual bellydance from Kara Steele, and the fabulous poetry of longtime Wild Woman and friend, Gill Hands. It was a whole evening of 'making love' the creative way and it refreshed the senses and spirit.

One of the guests at the event was the poet Inua Ellams. We met 2 years ago when we both performed at Glastonbury Festival (yep, in the MUD!) and at that time, his sheer force of passion and beauty blew me away, and I promised to find a way of getting him up here to share his poetry with the people of Cumbria. On Valentine's Night that wish came true. As I listened to him perform, and felt his words move me, I got to thinking about the way our lives cross with others, of how we grow and learn and love more through the connections we make, and how poetry, at least for me, is such an expression of that journey. And I realised again, how important it is to be willing to take the leap into the Fool's Path.

So - what is it I am trying to say? What is it I am trying to hear myself?

Follow your heart and take the adventures with joy. Like Rumi said, Kiss the ground in your own way and seek belonging within yourself, for all else is transient. As we are in many ways.

"I would love to live like a river flows,
carried by the surprise of its own unfolding"
(John Donahue)

Wherever they lead you will unfold something new. But do not get too trapped in the superficial glitter, it is all smoke and mirrors. Remember, imagination is the key to develop your sense of who you are. Give time for your relationship with your inner world, the true who of who you are...Let your own light shine, and fear nothing. Enter the mystery - the mystery that lights your own soul-fire, that brings together lovers, that places the pen on the paper and spills the heart onto the page. Never be afraid to love, never be restricted in your heart or conceal your own infinite beauty. Sometimes we must take the longest journey to arrive at what has been nearest all along - your self:-)

Once you stand on the true ground of who you are, nothing can shake you. I think Nelson Mandela said it so well, in his often quoted speech:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. Actually, who are you are not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us... as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." (Nelson Mandela)

I believe our paths cross as part of this - the unfolding of our ancient identity.

No one should negotiate their dreams. Dreams must be free to flee and fly high...(Jesse Jackson)

2007-02-05T13:29:00.000Z

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

—William Stafford

I want to thank William Stafford for writing this. I love it when I find a poem that gathers together my stray thoughts and places them all on a neat page. The paradox of my nature - a lover of chaos and freedom, and a fond admirer of the contained. There you have it. The poetic paradox. I try to write of freedom, but I seek to contain it within the poem. Somewhere in the desire to control the shape, space, silence, word within the poem, I am finding ways of setting free the spirit contained. Hmmmm...now that has just taken me somewhere else.

Sorry.

My head has been fevered for a long time now, and I have spent a lot of the last 6 weeks in bed, asleep, dreaming, or awake with a migraine. Literally, my head has been on fire. It has felt as though there was simply too much happening in there. Or there had been too much pouring in, and not enough outlet. Just a maelstrom of words and thoughts, emotions, images, dreams, fears, intuitions whooshing around. That or a case of something knocking but can't get in...

I always figure these things happen because they need to. And now, as I start to stir into the year, and the headache begins to release its grip, I find I am still holding the thread, the same thread I have held through my whole life, despite my losses and griefs over recent years. Sometimes I didn't realise I was still holding it. But I was, and now I am opening up to new and unknown possibilities, following that intuition, that thread of love.

I'll keep you posted as to where it leads!

For now, I just wanted to say hello, to wish everyone is Blissfool 2007 and to share with you the poem. Never let go of the thread. Dare to dream.

Stand up to the line and sing...

2006-11-21T15:17:00.000Z

"Poets know this moment
when it's too soon to scream yet
but too late to hold your tongue."

Ewa Lipska

I wrote once that the world needed a new heart, and I asked of myself - what can I do to help create that? Recently, I have gone through periods of despondency as I have witnessed the poets and fools of my world increasingly allowing their spirits to become caged in the dullest of lead cells. When this happens, we begin to sing the wrong language. Yes, I want comfort, the security of belonging, the warmth of a fireside and the safety of acceptance, but I would rather live with the rain in my face than sleep in a velvet-lined cage, for when we allow ourselves to become too dictated by our desire for accolade, approval, recognition, security, reward - we run the risk of missing the moment when it is 'too late to hold your tongue'.

But it is natural, yes, to seek legitimacy, to seek labels that make us feel 'worthy'. I had big low lately when I didn't get a job I had applied for. Why? Because I had wrapped up somewhere in the mix that this was a signal of my legitimacy as a poet. And why seek this coded legitimacy? Because it gives us a label against the 'mad', against the feeling of it being somehow a decadence to live this way. STOP!!!

The poet and Fool tells us the stories of what is is to live, to be human. In ancient days, the poet-shaman went out and told the stories, created magic to explain the existance of their world. The troubadours told of our capacity to love, of the struggle of the free-heart against a growing political and moral oppressive force. In the 20th Century, women and men began to tell their stories in poems, to speak their existence and break the silence. They stood up and shared the individual breath, and in that action, showed that in each single life, all humanity is held. The war poets broke the myth of the heroic bloodshed. Prisoners have sung the poetry of the oppressed. The silenced children have grown up and spoken of the tortures of hidden abuse. Poetry is not about earning the legitimacy of a label (am I a real poet now? a little voice asks), but is about the willingness to break silence. It is a passion for the telling of the human, and the shared, experience. It is about the act of connection, much as this act is. And it is there for everyone. We can all break down the silences.

And this is why I continue the Fool's Path, why I continue to want to sing my songs and why I am blessed to meet and share the journey with so many beautiful travellers! It is why, in the end, I suppose I cringe at the thought of being absorbed into the mainstream, of releasing my autonomy of expression, of creation. I choose freedom and all it entails, the good and bad.

Perhaps in time, the value of the poet and the Fool will come to be appreciated in monetary terms, though it would be an interesting society that rewarded subversion! But if it happened, maybe I might be able to pay my bills once in a while, which would be nice (I have noticed that big business does not accept poems as payment!) but meanwhile, well - rice is nice and the rain feels good.

Hey baby, baby it's a Wild World...

2006-11-20T14:54:00.000Z

WILD Living in a state of nature, not cultivated, stormy, furious, rash, extravagant, excited, unrestrained, tempestuous, eager, frantic, enthusiastic, random, feral, free, untamed, undomesticated, uncontrollable, turbulent, uninhibited, unfettered, delightfully enjoyable.

Wild Women Press, 2004

In 1999, I founded Wild Women and Wild Women Press. Together with other women from the original Wild Women collective, and my partner Adam, we publish our poetry and perform it at various venues across the UK. Recently, myself and fellow WW, Gill Hands, travelled to Sheffield to perform at their Literature Festival. It was a great night all in all, and I enjoyed sharing the new work from Byron Makes His Bed. It was a pleasure to be invited to read.

Last week, along with our payment, we received a feedback letter from our hosts, stating that:

"...whilst we enjoyed the performance we did feel that it was rather less 'wild' than we anticipated and did have a couple of comments from the audience to this effect..."

Whilst it is always good to receive feedback, this one got me thinking.

This isn't the first time such a comment has been made. The last time was at Stirling Poetry & Sexuality Conference, where an academic (male) came and said "...you're not very wild are you? You shouldn't call yourselves that...". At the time, I had the distinct desire to give him a Glasgow Kiss (headbutt) and ask if that was wild enough, but being non-violent and also tending to steer clear of confrontation, I tried explaining that the Wild was in the content of the poetry. Given that the other works dealt with sexual fantasies and the acting out of these, along with cross-dressing, sado-masachism and homoerotica, and in my case, on that occasion, a very tender account of a love affair, of sensual desire and of miscarriage (Fragile Bodies), it was a varied set and I wondered how he thought we should present it instead, how he thought we could 'make it wild enough'?

Over the years, I have encountered some interesting notions around the word WILD. Some, like the people above, obviously had pre-conceived ideas of what that meant. Often, it seems, this entails some kind of political ranting of radical feminism or alternatively, a fantasy mix of sexual depravity and dancing girls. Which of course, we could manifest, but that is not where the origin of the name Wild Women comes from.

I call myself a Wild Woman because I honour my innate self, my true self and I am determined to be that person, wherever I am, whoever I am with, whatever I am doing. I honour my creativity and my sexuality in my daily living, and as much as possible, I live close to the truth of the heart and express that in my actions and reactions in the world. When I started to think about it, I began to see what, in my own life, defined the WILD act, and I came up with the following...

the act of creating without limitations, of publishing my own work without intervention, of standing up and speaking out loud my lived experiences and perceptions;

the refusal to dismiss my creative life as secondary, and the rejection of usual capitalist, status-driven modes of living;

the ownership of my sexuality and my sexual desires, and my freedom to express this, in my life and in my work;

the active questionning of all experience, and the search for truth beyond the media-fed images and political saccharine of 21st Century global politics;

the creative act of establishing and nurturing a space where other women and men are encouraged to do the same;

the celebration of the beauty, magic and mystery of life, whatever it brings, however bloody hard, however full of ecstasy, through the creation of music, song, dance, love, food;

the willingness to get up every day and keep on the journey, to turn my life inside out when it becomes entrenched in crud, the willingness to face myself and my soul every damn day, however much it hurts and to keep smiling and keep believing;

to dance and not give a damn what people think or who is watching;

and to believe that my single existence can change the world for the better, just as is true for each of us.

The work of Wild Women is honest, real, often raw, beautiful, naked, sensual, unafraid of its spirituality, its eroticism, of challenging boundaries and asking questions. It speaks out on love, on loss, on sex and passion and nature and violence, on the body and its decay and glory, on divorce, parenting, friendship, food and everything that makes a human being part of humanity. It often speaks of the politics of being Woman and Poet, of the creative feminist, of the destruction of this planet, of attitudes towards what is feminine and the imbalance of power (still) towards a patriachal, moralistic society, but we do this within our words, within our living.

We get up and we speak our truth without shame, though oftentimes it feels terrifying. We howl, growl, play and say our words out loud, and we live our lives free. To me, that is what the Wild in Wild Women means. And you never know, next time this Blissfool puts on her Wild Women cape and joins her wild sisters in poetry, she might just surprise you!

To close, here is a little something from Byron's Bed...

Legacy

Doctor, what am I
if not wrong?

Wrong in the head and wrong in the heart,
wrong in the flesh and wrong from the start.

Am I not like my deadly playmates –
the other girls who grew into their lives
misshapen?

We know them by the little lives
they laid down in verse,
by the ways they calculated
the brief
and final full stop.

Oven-baked and drowned in a lake,
counting out pretty pills to take.

Am I shaped that way too?

I was spoon-fed on imagery,
given the world in words
then told it was not mine,
to let the old dogs lie
and lie some more.

Beyond this, the only choice -
they called me crazy whore:

sticks and stones can break my bones
but the words will surely hurt me.

But what am I,
what am I, Doctor,

if not this body,
if not
this errant voice?

Dr.Kaufman (2000) conducted two historiometric studies. The first study, which examined 1,629 writers, both male and female, showed that female poets were significantly more likely to suffer from mental illness than both other types of women writers (fiction writers, playwrights, and non-fiction writers) and male writers (fiction writers, poets, playwrights, and non-fiction writers). The second study, which examined 520 eminent women from various fields, showed that women poets were more likely to suffer from mental illness than journalists, politicians, actresses, and visual artists. This finding has been given the preliminary label the “Sylvia Plath Effect”.
(from Byron Makes His Bed, Wild Women Press, 2006)

These female runagates...

2006-10-27T16:51:00.000Z

Wild Women.

Those who go in for “women’s rights” and general topsyturvyism.
Some smoke cigars in the streets, some wear knickerbockers, some
stump the country as “screaming orators,” all try to be as much
like men as possible.

“Let anyone commend to these female runagates
quietness, duty, home-staying, and the whole
cohort of wild women is like an angry beehive,
which a rough hand has disturbed.”
—Nineteenth Century, March, 1892, p. 463.

E. Cobham Brewer 1810–1897. Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 1898.

My question is this: why does it seem like such a either-or choice? If I am a cigar-smoking, knickerbocker-wearing Wild Woman, does that mean I cannot also want to nurture a home, cook on the hearth and love my family?

Today I am frustrated with this choice. I am all of these - the woman in the street, the angry beehive and the nourishing mother. For me, integrity is paramount in life. How do I go about integrating all these aspects of the woman I am, when even my own 'brain' tut-tuts at my desire to remain true to all aspects of my being?

This morning, I sat in a hospital room and was spoken at by a sharp-dressed man who prescribed me a drug to over-stimulate my ovaries, because for some reason, they are no longer working. When I tried to tell him about some of the difficulties I have had these last years, and the problems following my last failed pregnancy, he didn't look up. He continued to write his prescription and told me I could not blame the doctor for not noticing I was carrying around the debris of this pregnancy for 3 months - an oversight which led to infection and scarring. I wanted to shout at him that I bloody well did blame the doctor and why the hell was no one listening to me describe my own body. Instead, I burst into tears.

I burst into tears because deep down, I very much want to have a child, yet when I lost the last one, something inside me whispered "silly woman, to think you could have that life". It whispered it because part of my mind actually believes the bullshit, that I have to be a 'different kind of woman' to be a mother - not a wild woman, not a poet, not a free-wheeling dreamer. That to be a 'mother' means to be a 'good woman' who is quiet and dutiful and stays at home. That if I want to be A Mother, I have to give up being a poet.

Plath tried it. Sexton tried it.

How many more?

I am Wild Woman. I am Blissfool. I am a Lover. I don't want their drugs. I just want to embrace who I am and hope one day that I can also say "I am Mother".

Meanwhile, I have to go change into my knickerbockers . I am off to cheer on my good friend and fellow screaming orator, Gill Hands, as she performs poetry as part of the Apples & Snakes UK Exposed Tour. Now, wear did I leave that cigar?

Only in silence the word...(Ursula LeGuin)

2006-10-18T15:48:00.001Z

Day 43

A single, white feather
drifts in heat-ribbons
to the frozen ground,

lands amongst the blades
tipped with silver,

trembles;

waits for wings to fly.

(from my Book of Days, a work in life-progress)

Love is not consolation. It is light. (Nietzsche)

2006-10-18T15:48:00.000Z

End

These are the messages we leave:
paper feathers to the wind
that say in abbreviated code
all the things we cannot say.

I am having to learn our language,
these words of desire we press
upon finger and thumb, scan
with curious intimacy in public spaces
and return.

This is our touch, the body's union;
our sacred dance.

(taken from Byron Makes His Bed, my latest collection, released October 2006, available from Wild Women Press)

"A single word opens up infinite horizons to my soul" (St Therese of Lisieux)

2006-10-11T12:05:00.000Z

"Total unity goes beyond the sense and the intellect, and the greatest of poets is rendered silent by the inability to share the inexpressible."
(E.G. Melillo)

I have just returned home from my trip with Angela to Assisi. The city itself is more beautiful than ever imagined, wrapped in rose-blushed sunlight, glittering. The experience was deeper and greater than I could have planned or hoped for. I have so much inside that I am trying now to understand. It feels too soon to try and find the words to express the heart-journey taken. This morning I sat in bed and watched the rain fall in white-light sheets, turning the world a vibrational green, and I re-read though my journals of the last week. I feel like I have been gone a month!

During my stay, I had the privilege to meet with Murray Bodo, OFM - the poet and Franciscan priest who wrote the Foreword for my last book Fragments. We sat on the roof terrace as the sun sank down into the valley, and we talked of the Poet's Path. It was good to talk this way, without feeling the need to explain the sense of mystery, and it got me thinking about my own journey, in the past, the present moment, the future.

All I can do is make the single human effort to live my life with honesty, without artifice or fear, without shrouding myself in veils. Perhaps each moment of each day is the same journey. Within the simplicity of the poem, we are revealed the simplicity of Being, and in the end, I am starting out where I have always been (or always Being?) - trying to make the word capture, hold the spirit in the still moment.

But in that very action, I meet the paradox of poetry. Can the poem truly satisfy, or is it only ever a sneak transient peek at the essence? For the poet, the poetry is never complete, because each poem is a pathway; in the moment the sensation occurs of capturing the 'truth of Being', that 'truth, by its very nature, dies away and is reborn into another movement, another question, another step, another poem. And every sound uttered is only trying to find its way back to its root of silence.

At the stillpoint of the turning world - there the dance is...(TS Eliot)

2006-09-27T10:50:00.000Z

"Birth. Childhood. Puberty. Maturity. Death. The dance of life in five movements. Life is a work in progress, performance art, ritual theatre, an epic poem, and we're not called on to be only spectators and listeners but the artists of our own stories, the creator of our own lives. What role are you playing in your life? Why? Do you have a choice? Yes!"

(Gabrielle Roth, Maps to Ecstasy)

The hot desert winds have left me agitated. Something has got under my skin and is scratching from the inside to get out. Life is turning again, and I do not yet know where or how. I just know it is and I accept this, though it scares me.

This is always my most difficult time, the time when I struggle to know when to sit and be patient, and when to move and take action. I am aware something of deep significance in my life needs to be released, or taken hold of, that the choices I make now are important and not to be hurried by panic or lust. I sense that a change of shape is happening in my own being as I unfold into a new state. But I have no idea what that is, or where I am moving to.

That is the thing about living life in constant motion and discovery. There are no set destinations, no established conventions. Just the movement of the body, heart and spirit, expressed through my being, in this lifetime, as I journey to understand who I am, what this path is, and attempt to keep my eyes open to the magic that is all around. And I keep on dancing, because that is all there is.

September calls in all the year

2006-09-21T21:50:00.000Z

Next week I turn 35. I am wondering where the years went. The last three and a half years seem to have been swallowed in grief. In 2003, I lost the child I was carrying. Yet in the act of giving life and carrying death, I was connected to something much older, much deeper than any 'reality'. Before I knew I was pregnant, I started to dream my child. Before I knew the child was going to die, I dreamt the goodbye. Before I got to name my child in life, I knew my child was named Rowan, the tree of night and secret wishes. The poem below is one I wrote in my daily journal, 2 weeks before I 'knew' I was pregnant. I have continued to write a poem a day since this time.

That loss, and the subsequent trauma of health difficulties, left me exhausted. I shouted at the moon for this loss and wished it were different. Now, as I surface from the grief and feel myself re-entering the world, I know that the loss has left me forever changed but also grown. To love fully means to accept that we, as human beings, also lose. We must always let go. I still wish for that child, and do not know if I will ever have another, but the gift of that loss is the treasure of love. September is here, and I turn another year. A hot wind blows across Cumbria, from a distant and unknown land. It feels strange but right and as the new moon enters, I sense a new journey unfolding.

Poem 1 (3rd May)

In the warm of our bed, I give birth to giant turtles,
carve myself a coracle in which to sit,
my desperate attempt at foiling them.

I could be your mother, I whispered, knowing I lied
yet, even this hardened shall, this sharp
beak and claw can give food.
My black tongue darts in and out,
delivering green mucus, food of the slime gods.

Eat, my children, eat to grow strong,
so that you can swim and become invisible,
so you can become sea-invisible

as the half-light of morning makes this invisible,
eliminated by the kiss of the moon and sun.

As day rises, I slip away into the water,
hiding what I have become.

I'd rather live with rose-tinted spectacles...

2006-09-16T21:16:00.000Z

I found this poem today, a translation of the Sufi poet Hafiz. Recently, I have been following the scent of St. Francis and I find this instinct true - there are many resonances between Francis and the Sufi poet seers, and a number of words written on this subject. In the end though, it is not words that I feel, but the stirring of the heart, of Love. Where will it all lead? Wherever it leads, keep laughing!

Someone Should Start Laughing

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:

How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:

What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean

Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing –Now!

There are many name-robbers in the outer world...

2006-09-11T15:03:00.000Z

A State of Emergency

For this
I will risk
everything.

I will kill the despot in my head,
let my body riot for independence.
Before long my blood will break from its cells
and storm the walls of my heart.
Lights flash behind my eyes, warning ships
away from the needle-cliffs of my bones.

Wreckers strip these shores. They’ve looted
the stores, snatched words from silk pouches,
stolen the eyes of memory and left
the sweet smell of narcissi in the air.

People are frightened. They hide behind closed doors
whispering my name. They want to send in the police,
take charge before it becomes dangerous.
All those men and women, busy watching
from their window-boxes,
terrified of civil unrest.

I will do my best
to give them
what they expect.

(from Byron Makes His Bed by Victoria Bennett, due for release from Wild Women Press October 2006. First published Orbis Magazine, 2002)

Everything symbolic must begin with the literal...

2006-09-11T14:10:00.000Z

Even a fool knows you can't touch the stars, but it won't keep the wise from trying.
Harry Anderson

The Fool's Path is largely directed by the freedom of the wind. Recently, I found myself having to wave goodbye to a couple of wonderful and exciting opportunities, opportunities I had worked hard towards and imagined to be the next step in my journey. This was not the case and, like many times before, I found myself having to step back and accept that my idea of the right direction may differ wildly to the twists and turns of the path I am actually on. This did not cause me to feel too sad. Yes, I felt deflated, but underneath that, I sensed that something else was in the wings, something I had yet to envisage.

A short while later, I came across an old journal entry, from my time at Crossbush Convent an in it I had written down my wish to travel to Assisi - both the birthplace of St. Francis and also a central point for the Troubadours. I called up Angela Dickson, and we both agreed that if we could manage it on our incredibly small budget, we would go. We also remembered that we had said to Brother Andre, a visiting Friar at the time, that we would one day travel to Assisi and perhaps meet him there!

That was a week ago. Since then, a number of wonderful things have happened, from the accidental email contact with a property owner turned spiritual healer and writer, who happened to have the same surname as me, that took us to talking, that led us to find a fantastic place to stay with CEFID - a Franciscan run centre in Assisi. On top of that, the only dates we could get ridiculously low flights from Liverpool took us to Assisi on 3rd October. St Francis died on 3rd October, the day we arrive and the Feast of St Francis, a major event in Assisi and in the Franciscan calendar, happens on 3/4/5th October. Not only that, but we are staying in the town the same time as a pilgrimage is being led by Brother Andre Cirino and Brother Murray Bodo - who have both been wonderful support in the production of Fragments, and the subsequent experience of TV exposure.

As a confirmed opposer of organised religion and a serious questionner of the Catholic Church, it might seem strange to have my life path tied into the path of St Francis, but it does not seem so to me. There was something in the words of Murray Bodo OFM, in his book St. Francis: The Journey and The Dream, that struck me when I read them for the first time in January, though I have different ideas about God and all...

"Francis determined always to be on the outside what he was on the inside...some of his brothers felt he overdid this obsession with sincerity and wholeness but Francis feared duplicity and hypocrisy more that anything in the world...and Francis was sure Jesus would never speak harshly against anything unless it spoiled the human heart...he prayed that God would give all people the courage to be themselves instead of what others expected them to be..."

Just as I had once declared my path as a Troubadour, so I felt connected with this eccentric, obsessive and incredible man and as I read more, I began to understand why. His path and mine, though very different, share threads of Love. It is all part of the same unfolding.

Like I said, I don't know where this journey is taking me - or rather, the understanding or meaning is always obscured in advance and relies simply on trust. I trust that for some reason I am meant to be in Assisi, with Angela, and at that time. If I had secured the previous work offer I had so wanted the week before, I would not have the opportunity to go.

Some people may regard this way of living as irresponsible, lacking committment, feckless. It is not. It requires a steady vision, trust, willingness to fall and fall again and get back up again, tenacity and a heart that is always willing to choose love over security, inspiration over acclaim, freedom over ownership. I do my best to live that way. Sometimes I manage it, sometimes I get caught up in being all too human.

The last few years have been tough to live through - and grief was thicker than the blood in my veins, but it is all part of the journey. It took going into a catholic Convent (bizarre! I wouldn't have predicted that one!) to accept again and celebrate my path as Blissfool. I have no idea where it will lead or why, but I trust that in releasing to that wind, that spirit and letting it flow, life unfolds as it is meant to, and all good surrounds.

All creative dreams become possible in such air.

The fool who persists in his folly will become wise (William Blake)

2006-08-22T10:39:00.000Z

The Fool embraces the unexpected delay as an unforeseen opportunity.

It didn't much feel that way earlier today though. I had readied myself to travel to Manchester for an interview with the Script Team at Shameless (shame on you if you haven't watched it - it has to be one of the most exciting, authentic programmes broadcast!) The preparation had been done, the outfit chosen, the spirit calmed and collected. Then I found out that infact we were meant to be there at 9.30, not 2.30 as we had been told - so interview postponed. As much as I accept all things as the flow of life, I must admit to growling down the telephone at the messenger of this news.

That is, until my fellow wild woman Ruth informed me that today was not an auspicious day anyway, especially for Fools, as this was the same day that Pope John XXII had ordered the inquisition at Carcassone to seize the property of witches, sorcerors , those who make wax images, and troubadours.

Follow the story if you will...

1) last night I had a dream and in the dream I was holding a piece of parchment, old and stained. On this I saw written in script the names of people and beside the names, titles such as God's Fool, Troubadour, Minstrel etc. The edges of this paper were burnt black;

2) when I was in the Convent, I met a Friar from New York who remarked that there was a link between the Troubadour and the Franciscan, with the poet being at the centre of this heart - a bolt shot through me as he said this. This I KNEW. Discovering and embracing my path as the Fool was the most profound experience;

3) the only thing I knew about St Francis when I entered the Convent was that he was called God's Fool (if you want to read more on him, try starting with The Journey and The Dream, by Murray Bodo);

4) 1 year ago, we were visited by the Troubadours of Divine Bliss from Kentucky - the result of me having emailed them a year before that, when stumbling on their site as I followed the scent of the Troubadour;

5) 2 years ago, I was offered the chance to stay in Carcassonne at a writing retreat - I was too ill to take the opportunity, but nevertheless...

6) 3 years ago, I declared one day, in the company of wild women, that I was a Troubadour, that I had been a Troubadour before...it came out the blue, but hit me with such clarity that I had to say it out loud;

7) at the same time, I was given a beautiful gift that now sits on my fireplace - a large silver spoon, and on it is engraved Troubadour - not his doing, but an old spoon, and an old engraving!

Part of the journey is recognising the scent and following it, wherever it goes. So, thanks Ruth for putting another piece in the puzzle. I don't quite know why the events of today happened, but I am renewed in my belief that there is a path unfolding that I must trust, even if I can't see it all clearly.

Templar Car

2006-08-22T10:32:00.000Z

Oh Lord, won't you give me a

Templar Sportette...

every wondered how God gets around so quick? Well, now you know...a handy little sports number for all your pastoral needs. 0 - eternity in only 7 lifetimes.

This little gem was found on a fascinating website:

http://www.ordotempli.org/the_templars_motor_car.htm

Fragments of a heart on fire...

2006-08-17T17:53:00.000Z

Day 22

I open the battered box.
In the dark, bright-eyed bats
circle the air, tangle notes
in the hair-strands of my thoughts;

these are the doubting times.
Nothing can be found, or good, in here.

A small light flickers,
glow-worm silk moth, firefly
against the night, bright wings
of sticky incandescence
beating, beating,
learning how to raise
its body from the ground.

I lift it up, hold it carefully
in the hole of my palm,
wait for the sun
to dry its wings,
help it fly.

(from Fragments - Victoria Bennett, Wild Women Press 2006)

FOOTNOTE: The poems collected in Fragments were written, one day at a time, during my stay of 40 days and nights at The Poor Clare Convent, Crossbush, UK. I joined 3 other female volunteers, the Sisters and the all-women crew from Tiger Aspect Productions. who documented our shared and individual experiences. The final cut of this journey was transmitted on BBC2 in June/July 2006. It was a unique adventure.

Thirteen Wild Ways

2006-08-14T15:37:00.000Z

I thought I would share with you my personal, daily guide to living 'wild', developed over the years as I have trodden the Fool's path. At last writing, the list seemed to find itself at 13 (the magical number of the goddess) but I am sure it will keep growing...Number One: step off.

The Blissfool personal guide to having cake and eating it...

1. Be...foolish
the fool is the adventurer who steps off the ledge. Be willing to take that first step - it teaches you how to fly! And we all know...without the fool, the journey cannot begin!

2. Be...OK
just do what you can do and forgive yourself the messy bits in between.

3. Be...happy
doing more of what gives you pleasure and love really does make you happy! So give up postponing happiness 'til tomorrow, or putting on that martyred yoke and enjoy life. Live it with boldness and beauty.

4. Be...honest
with yourself, with others, with life.

5. Be...generous
love increases the more you give it. Try not to hoard it, hide it or harangue it - the bigger your heart, the more love it can receive - same goes for money, pleasure, anything (remember to give yourself the same big love!)

6. Be...courageous
in loving, living and creating.

7. Be...expressive
creative and spontaneous expression unlocks the spirit. It helps us to understand who we are and what our own experience is all about. Do not hide your voice - each individual voice makes up the collective heartbeat of the earth.

8. Be...playful
who said growing up means giving up? Try to maintain that idealism and enthusiasm of innocence. Ok, so life can hurt like bloody hell at times but soul suicide is not the answer. The more you remember to play, the more you will be able to live and learn through the hard times.

9. Be...sexy
in your body, mind and spirit. Celebrate your sex, your voice, your dreams. Enjoy your body, the world around you, the beauty and sensuality of living. Celebrate yourself!

10. Be...powerful
power comes from taking charge of your own destiny, your own day-to-day, your own place in the world. So, don't say you can't do something because someone/thing says it is impossible. If you have a dream, take action and if you think the world is unfair, unkind etc. then take creative steps to change it now. Anything is possible!

11. Be...responsible
not advocating a Christ-like burden here but simply saying that if each of us takes positive responsibility for our own lives, things change for the better. You can't live your life martyred to another person, thing or cause (well, you can but...) but you can be responsible for ensuring that at least in your life you act as much as possible from a place of love and respect - for each other, yourself and the earth you live on. This world can be a better place just by you being in it.

12. Be... you
that is the wildest thing you can do. Don't wait for someone else to give you the seal of approval - give it to yourself.

13. Be...well, just be
there are a lot of people and things in this world that tell us to hurry up, push on, keep going. We soak up rules and regulations until we are so restricted we can't move. Try giving it up for a moment. Most things that feel impossible start to feel a whole lot easier when you relax. So next time you are run ragged, fearing failure, or simply saying it can't be done - sit back, listen to the birds, watch the clouds roll by...

A Life Documented

2006-08-11T11:07:00.000Z

"...for the artist, this sense that she is herself the text, means that there is little difference between her life and her art...the effect of a life experienced as an art or an art experienced as a kind of life..."

(Susan Gubar: The Blank Page and Female Creativity)

I have always documented my life - through journals, poetry, photography, film, music... Before I could document my own life, it was documented by my mother, through her visual art.

For the last year, I have collaborated with my partner in creating our own videoblog, thecommonpeople and now, I am creating this blog. More bizarrely, I was recently a participant in a television 'documentary' - an interesting, enlightening, challenging and not wholly pleasant experience. I did not take part in the TV programme for any stardom dreams. It was much more personal than that. I don't even own a TV - and never have! But it did present me with a fascinating experience as an artist. To engage in the process gave me an opportunity to be both aware of myself as observed and then to see that self edited, transformed in a creative process through film-making, and returned to me through the act of viewing a DVD. Thus becoming in that action, the observer and the mediated-observed.

In the initial contract, I had to agree to the 'reproduction of my physical likeness, in the known universe and unknown, in perpetuity' - (honestly - that was the wording!). In the documented life, this is exactly what it becomes - both me and not me. It is the creation of Me through art.

What is it to be both observer and observed? How does this connect with the 21st Century media obsession with 'reality television', the documentation of 'ordinary lives', or the increasing number of 'tv confessionals'? What about our obsession with documenting and sharing lives through this, the medium of Blogging?

I have a theory that in time, this exposure will eventually lead to a more connected, emotionally transparent world. That this reclaiming of media is infact a 'quiet revolution'. However, having recently just survived the weighty judgement of TV viewing folk, I can see that before we reach Utopia, we might just have to go through the increasing tendency to label, box and accept/reject with alarming speed that seems to also accompany such programmes.

Which takes me to an old favourite of mine, the bad-boy Byron (more on him later - he and I go way back!). This pretty boy made an artform of his life. He was, in effect, the first self-created celebrity, maintaining just enough haze of what was true and what was created as to intrigue the social gossips. Of course, he wrote his own downfall and received the all too familiar condemnation from his former fans. Not to be put down, he had a gilded coach made in a replica of Napoleon's, and left London on the day of his exile, in style and two-fingered glamour and went off to became a revolutionary hero, dying young and beautiful in some romantic location. On his death, his estate protectors burnt all his diaries, thus securing his fame for years to come. He created his 'observed image' to the extent that no-one knows the reality - and one is left wondering - did he?

What is the truth of a created life? What is the creation? The interior becomes exterior, the private is made public. By documenting our personal existence, we empower our self to be active in the creation of the past, the present, the future. Self-obsession becomes self-documented analysis becomes self-knowledge becomes recorded existence. In the end, I return to the belief I began with - that our greatest creative act is our lived experience.

"...Your life is the manifestation of your dream; it is an art. And you can change your life any time if you are not enjoying the dream. Dream masters create a masterpiece of life, they control the dream by making choices..."
(Don Miguel Ruiz)

A thousand forgotten nights

2006-08-10T16:05:00.000Z

"...In one creative thought
a thousand forgotten nights of love revive..." (Rilke)

Lillium

Fingering pollen-dusted fronds
I think of the last time we met,

of how your body opened to mine
like this flower, unashamed,
abandoned to the heat of our night's sun.

Delicate,
such raging extravagance
is not meant to last the summer.

(from Fragile Bodies, Wild Women Press 2004)

...at night, I spin lines from my desire, heat-ribbons left out for you to find...

You too were for rapture strung

2006-08-10T12:49:00.000Z

"...the only courage that is demanded of us: to have the courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter..." (Rilke)

Dictionary interpretation of the Fool: from the latin follis translating as 'bellows, windbag or empty-headed person'; fools rush in where angels fear to tread - a person without good judgement will have no hesitation tackling a situation that even the wisest person would avoid...

STOP!

The Fool is:

the creative spark, the new beginning, the inspirational step.
the sponaneous heart, the innocent adventurer, the unconventional, ecstatic lover.
the first step to wild living, to Being.

According to Joseph Cambell, there are three terms or words in the ancient language of Sanskrit that refer to 'the jumping-off place to the ocean of transcendence'. These are:

Sat = being
Chit = consciousness
Ananda = rapture

(Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth, pp. 113, 120)

Creative living is the refusal to see any dream as beyond the envisioning and the willingness to always step out off the ledge. Even when the force of disapproval lands heavy in its blow...

Step out, step out!

'...Something to my heart replies
You too were for rapture strung.
Why else the dreams that rise
round you when the year is young.'
(Arnaut Daniel, 12thC Troubadour)

Speak of ecstasies beyond the telling

2006-08-09T17:24:00.000Z

This body is for making love.
It burns, creates
heat-shimmer in my eyes;

leaves out mirages
so almost-real,
I can feel their touch.

(from Book of Days - a work in life-progress)