I wrote this poem in 1986, aged 17. Listen to me reading the poem, overlaying my recorded voice in 1987 and 20 years later (2007).

I found it an interesting experiment to recognise the changing timbre of my voice.

So, Eve, the premier wife and home-builder, lost her ‘Paradise’,
Gave up her four-bedroomed detached, with garden front and back.
She found life wasn’t just a bed of roses;
Fragranced floor-cleaner and soap powder make a shrewd woman puke.
So, she bit back at the hand of her provider,
Found something juicier and with gritted teeth got out.
No more days of servitude chained to the kitchen sink,
She took what she wanted and satisfied her hungers
To serve no-one but herself. Dues of worship disgusted her.
She can laugh and leave him to the fallen world;
She has had her fling, and spits out pips to remind him
How easily claiming an identity made bleak man’s future.
He, on checking the mess, finds there is a rib missing
Paradise lost: Man unwhole. Woman free.

© Nicki Hastie
Date of original poem: August 1986