Women in Words | A Tribute to Female Poets for International Women’s Day

This poem speaks to humans but I think especially speaks to women and I believe our need to be perfect, embracing imperfection and rejecting the fear of mediocrity. It challenges the idea that we need to be exceptional to enjoy something, encouraging us to live fully despite (or even because of) our ordinariness. 

Sarah | Ecommerce

Phenomenal Woman |  Maya Angelou

"Now you understand 
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me."

I chose an excerpt from "Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou. The whole poem is amazing, I feel like it is a declaration of strength, self-confidence and quiet power. It embraces the weight women carry while owning everything they are—without apology and without arrogance.

Danielle | International Sales

A quote from Stasiland: Stories from Behind the Berlin Wall | Anna Funder

"She is brave and strong and broken all at once. As she speaks it is as if her existence is no longer real to her in itself, more like a living epitaph to a life that was."

I choose this poem as its duality resonates with me as it shows that strength and vulnerability can coexist. Having a hard childhood with vulnerabilities but continued to push forward into adulthood.

Cristina | Retail

A tribute to my tits | Catherine Alice Woods

"A tribute to my tits
May they rest in peace
Once
       pillowy perky twin peaks
                      Tatas bravas
                                 Small, but perfectly formed 

Now

      lifeless milk bags
There was a brief period with some BIG bazookas
(just before the mastitis scare)
Hello Pammy Anderson, mamas packing some juicy melons now

Then, those (giant) bubbles burst
And here we are
Lefty and loosey

 But
    Beautiful, none the less
               Life-sustaining golden globes
                           Breast friends to my baby girl

A tribute to my tits"   

My newfound understanding of the sacrifices of motherhood is best portrayed by this poem written by my partner during one of many midnight feedings. It’s another layer of womanhood requiring an unimaginable amount of strength, resilience, patience and love.

Julius | Supply Chain

 Flowering Jasmine | Sumana

"Walk through 
the mind
all day
and all night.

When you find
each thought
ending
right
where
it began
– here your circling ends."

I chose this poem because it perfectly captures the cyclical nature of thought. The repetition of movement—walking through the mind “all day and all night”—mirrors the way overthinking or deep reflection can feel endless. Yet, the final line offers a quiet resolution, as if acceptance is found in recognising the loop itself. Its simplicity holds depth, making a vast, intangible experience feel contained within just a few lines.

Casey | Digital Marketing

Still Life |  Sarah Winman

"Art versus humanity is not the question, Ulysses. One doesn’t exist without the other. Art is the antidote."

Love this authors ability to present almost cinematic views on the power of love and art, but in the small  hidden moments in the text you find little gems of a line like this. I’ve always felt aligned with her view here that art and humanity have to co-exist and art has the power to solve our deepest human challenges.’

Alex | Chief Commercial Officer

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing | Margaret Atwood

"The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn."

Its central themes are the objectification of women, the conflict between self and society, and reclamation of power and agency. Atwood gives voice and grit to a historical character, Helen of Troy, who has traditionally been written as an object around which or to which actions happen, rather than an entity capable of acting themselves.

- Cassie | Supply Chain 

This International Women’s Day, we’re taking action to support women in need. We’re proud to partner with Ella’s, an organisation that provides vital help to women recovering from trafficking and exploitation.

For every donation made at checkout, we’ll match your contribution, doubling the impact of your support. Together, we can help provide safe housing, long-term support, and a fresh start for women who need it most.

Join us in making a difference. Donate today, and we’ll match it.