the Old Religion —
not dead but only sleeping
— the resurrection
of womanhood — the One True
Story nothing can prevent

This is a difficult poem to explain in a few words. Maybe it’s self-explanatory anyhow? Somewhere in the area of infinite darkness contained by the Freudian mother complex on the one hand, the Women’s Equality Party on the other — and thirdly the pagan goddess of Celtic pre-history which nobody seems entirely sure whether it (or she) ever actually constituted an organised religion — somewhere in this dark area resides the feminine deity I believe in. Oh, and don’t forget the Virgin Mary. She defines a fourth boundary to this darkness, this singularity. Maybe singularity would provide a better title, but I prefer the accessibility of feminine. My dreams last night were almost entirely forgotten, but included the idea of a threesome between me and Liz and another woman. This led me to start a poem about Ted Hughes, asking was he a sexual predator or a victim of the goddess he believed in. But I abandoned it as it became clear I needed all thirty-one syllables to do anywhere near justice to the barest mention of the goddess.


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