Jane Mary Wilde

Jane Mary Wilde spent her early childhood in India. She studied music, and later took a degree in German from University College London. She lived in Germany with her husband the musician David Wilde, and has translated many books from German into English. They moved to Scotland in 2000, and since then Jane Mary has won a Diploma from the Scottish International Poetry Competition, the Sonnet prize from the Edinburgh Writers' Club, and third prize in a Christian Poetry Competition. Her first collection of poems, "Entertaining Angels Unawares" with illustrations by her sister Priscilla Sorapure, was published in 2006.

Jane's poetry is eloquently worded, profound and wise. But the quality that grips me, keeps me reading, is always "How is it going to end?"  More than most contemporary poets, Jane Mary Wilde's poems are making a point - and it is one that needs to be heard.
Shirley du Boulay

Memory is a wonderful source and Jane Mary Wilde draws on it generously. The poet moves between India, Scotland, Germany, England and Croatia, evoking potent atmosphere. There’s an unusually wide range of voices too: we share not only the author’s first person viewpoint but many others. There’s the point of view of an ‘untouchable’ in India, a pony who calls its owner a ‘Traitor’, a group of marauding monkeys, the Green Man, the Green Woman, the spirits of the dead, Dr Victor Sorapure. So there’s plenty of variety. This is a genuinely interesting set of poems.

Helena Nelson, Sphinx 13

Reviews:

Three reviews from Sphinx Issue 13

 

Sample poem:

BONE WOMAN
After a legend of the Pueblo Indians
 
 
The forest was full of sound,
whispers, crack of branches,
shifts in the undergrowth,
lope of wolf, lion or cat.
At night the mountains and the stars
sang with insects,
fragrant water was rich with fish.
 
 
Now the forest is full of silence,
only the trees move, dying slowly.
In the undergrowth insects and frogs dwindle,
wolves leave no trace,
the lion and the cat are hunted out,
the water tainted, fish dead.
 
 
The woman looks in river beds for bones,
let’s say a wolf’s bones;
patiently over long, endlessly long years,
scouring, rummaging deserts, scrub, forests and plains,
she bonds together
the framework of a wolf.
 
 
She lights a fire and sings over the bones,
long song that stirs the sky, disturbs the earth.
And the bones are slowly fleshed, furred,
Fire and song flame out,
the wolf breathes.
 
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