She Sings to Me — A poem

Paul Sockett
3 min readJun 14, 2021
Photo by Catalin Pop on Unsplash

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

She Sings to Me

She sings to me
words of the warrior
She hums of Her
the other-worldly earthen one
The lineage: vulvic ululation draws from deep
Soul deep
cathedrals vaulted catch exultant praise
and capsule breath
to add to swelling voices raised.

She sings to me
words of the warrior
She hums for we
A lullaby of cradling ice
The tune: efficient gliding coils writhing; wringing hands
Glorious scales ripple-slip, attune
and split my forking tongue
of need and desire;
resonance slinks; synks through my defence archaic.

Mighty She, carrier of the sword
received from elders gone before all the charges, cries, heraldic calls that summon peace and power as one
A battlecry
A lullaby
A bonding song
A eulogy
A call to arms
A campfire howl

She sings to me
words of the warrior
She hums for Shes
Each step adds to the thrum of all who’ve walked the truth before
As I witness her I feel the war of stories old, the battles stored, raw
(and repeating)
The pelt cloak she dons holds energy of lithe carnal muscle, of survival, of basic, pure needs met
An aura still and still raging — an aurora, storm and order
as la cantadora calls to us of lore.
Your core, tis all.
Tissue; worn and torn, generations of repaired wearings
as the beasts beats thrum within the skin
she bears

It’s worn by Hers and Shes for spells of time for spells for rhymes
Incantadora calling forth the fortitude of predecessors’ earthly turns
She wears a wiccan mantle, this mantle this handle to the animal
Throwing off the chains of shaped, taught thought
pulled taut, her fibres flex, her pulse releases need for every word to tap so lightly at the timpani just like initial trickle gathers high and like a sigh it wakes, will ripple syllables the building-swelling-coursing-licking-lapping-grabbing at each slipping flow and blow; staccato spray, the spittle of all bated breath is swallowed hard - berated lately, aid belated, once deflated now serrated, hardened, plated; armoured charges wait till morning next
but now

She waits

lets breath shush like night’s tide
She lets the cycling air cradle her, she calls the churning eddys now

to rest.

For She — warrior, witness, sage
knows. Learned
the flame without will always wait
for Her
to let deep sleep feed
the fire within.



Paul Sockett

A silly & sensitive storyteller; a word reframer. I am a fierce advocate for Shame- & Scarcity-free choice. 🍦 inspires me: