Over on Poets on the Page, the wonderfully creative Morgan Dragonwillow posted a prompt that caught my fancy. The theme is “Wild Self,” and includes a passage from one of my favorite books, WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes:

“The doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.”

The poem I’m sharing today is an old one, written in 2012 after I first read WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES and was learning to listen with my wild Self. Given how the chaos in my life has overwhelmed and choked off my creative output, the central message continues to resonate.

white door (Photo credit: lamont_cranston)

“Recalled to Life”

I.
a wild woman beats at my door
(connect, she says)
i ignore the call
    too busy too rational too damned busy to listen
       theory beckons
       there's a thesis to write
       nothing left over for her.

(come to me, she cries)
i refuse
    too much grading too many emails too much reading to give in
       academia devours and when it doesn't
       friends need healing
          happy hour therapy sessions
       nothing left over for her.

II. 
a wild woman wails at my door
(do you know what you have become?)
i bury myself in objectivity
    waste away shrivel up bones dry as dust
       all the water in the world can't save me
       nothing left over for her, nothing left for anyone.

(listen to me!
    hear me!)
i am hollow
    no defenses no barriers no strength to resist
       the empty dark is all i know
       a sightless soul my only companion.

III.
a wild woman breaks down my door
(i have never been polite)
i cannot turn away
    she surrounds me overpowers me illuminates every shadow with light
       no longer the socially awkward academic
       a lividly beautiful goddess is all that remains

(look at what you really are!)
for once i see
    the reflection is true:
       winds and water at my command, elemental fury
       creation and order birthed from inhuman acts of chaos
       pen wielded as scepter and sword, rod and staff.

(remember this, she whispers)
i listen.
i follow.
i write.

—

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