INDIGO DREAMS

PUBLISHING LTD

 

Creative writing tutor and associate editor of Poetry Bay, UK poet Geraldine Green has two full collections The Other Side of the Bridge and Salt Road, both published by Indigo Dreams Publishing, and four pamphlet collections.

 

Geraldine is an experienced freelance creative writing tutor, mentor, editor and published poet. She was the first writer-in-residence at Brantwood Coniston Cumbria, where she regularly tutors residential creative writing courses.  Co-tutors include Graham Mort, Penelope Shuttle, Pippa Little and George Wallace.

 

She was also the first writer-in-residence at Swarthmoor Hall Ulverston.  As part of her residency at the Hall she tutored creative writing workshops titled ‘Living Words, an exploration into creativity, spirituality and the land.’

 

In September 2011 she gained a PhD in creative writing titled: ‘An Exploration of Identity and Environment through Poetry’ from Lancaster University.  In 2005 she gained an MA in Creative Writing Poetry (Dist.) also from Lancaster University.

 

A frequent visitor to North America, she has read widely there and in the UK,

Italy and Greece.

 

Geraldine has performed alongside many poets and musicians in these countries, including musician David Amram at The Woody Guthrie Festival Okemah Oklahoma, Beat poet Michael McClure in Oakland California,

Carol-Ann Duffy at Poetry on the Lake Festival Orta Italy, Penelope Shuttle in Cornwall, Italy, North America and Cumbria. Geraldine has also frequently performed alongside New York poet George Wallace on a variety of poetry reading tours in America. Her work has been translated into German and Romanian.

 

Recipient of special commendation at the 2005 Poetry on the Lake Festival, Orta, Italy, her work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry

 

138 x 216mm

 

66 pages

 

£8.99 + P&P UK

 

ISBN 978-1-910834-79-4

 

PUB: 04/06/2018

 

 

ORDER HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

Geraldine Green

 

Passing Through

 

 

Siblings

After Joe Brainard

 

I remember the first time I went to Kendal, how far is it?

I asked, 25 miles there and 25 miles back. 50 miles. I wanted

to travel further.

 

I remember Kendal Mint Cake and K shoes. I remember

my sister flooded out of her flat when the Kent overtopped

its bank one winter.

 

I remember the first time I went to Appleby Horse Fair

paddled among Piebalds and Skewbalds in the River Eden

savouring the words: pie bald, skew bald.

 

I don’t remember that the coat of arms for Westmorland

is two red bars, a golden apple tree (for Appleby) a ram’s head

and a shearsman hook.

 

I do remember that the Helm Wind is the only named wind

in Britain, blows in on north easterlies over Cross Fell, is called

Helm, wears a helmet of clouds, is fierce and blows for days.

 

I remember seeing tatty plastic bags tangled in branches along

the River Lune just below the Radical Steps, Kirkby Lonsdale.

 

I remember being amazed at the audacity of a man, a stranger,

who climbed a rock on Firbank Fell, gazed down onto a chapel

beneath him, listened to the preacher in the steeple-house below.

 

I remember Westmorland, sibling to the Furness Peninsula,

was once called Lancashire North of the Sands.

 

Sibling too, to Cumberland the wild, dark country beyond

Black Combe.

 

 

 

Can you tell me the full moon names?

 

Wolf moon, Snow moon, Worm and Pink.

And can you tell me again

the names of the moon at its full?

Pink, Flower, Strawberry and Buck

and when is the Sturgeon, Harvest

and Hunter? August, September

October when fields have been reaped

and harvest is over.

 

November, the Beaver

before swamps freeze land and water,

frosty and cold before December

when long nights set in,

this moon before Yule

and always an extra moon

is needed.

 

The blue moon,

the fourth moon.

 

My moon is red-grained and Green Corn.

Yours is the Worm moon when ice is melting

and the cawing of crows calls spring to its table  

when time is ripe for tapping the maple.

 

But out of the blue

light will soon lengthen,

when Wolf moon is howling

 

 

 

I recall our walk in Burns Beck Moss

 

the softness of ground, the softness of feet, the hush of bodies, the quiet chat and the moss cushioning us, our feet, our chat, our bodies, our thoughts, the frogs’ stretched balletic legs, their crouched sanctuary among the sphagnum, speeding away from boots and trainers, our feet on cushioned silence, crushing their territory.

Stone Renga

 

What do I know of stones?

Flat, mud-grey ones

 

on Foulney Island. Layer upon layer

heaped up for feet to scramble and slide on.

 

What do I know of stones?

Those at Aldingham, dark grey

 

round as a bird’s egg

shot through with milky quartz

 

in circles and crosses that lie

warm and smooth in my palm.

 

What do I know of stones?

Limestone dragons on Birkrigg

 

dinosaur-shapes glint white

fissures on ancient pavements.

 

What do I know of stones, their secret

of fossils: ammonites, ferns, feathers

 

spiralled, whorled worlds imprinted within them

ready  to take flight

 

when their old stone-bodies

crack open

 

 

 

Pond near Lake Bank

 

Crouched

on the edge

of the pond

feet pressed

on sphagnum moss

the toads I watch

gaze back at me

already alerted

to my coming

by heavy treads

felt yards away

 

I gaze into water.

 

Small, black translucent balls of light

threaded onto invisible filaments float out on strings

below the pond’s dark surface

 

 

 

Above my head in the Dogrose

        Near Eskdale Green

 

is a wren, chit chattering. Scolding us for being so close to her

nest beneath the garage eaves.

 

On the third day she became used to our presence, sat on the

branch of a slender ash tree branch and chittered.

 

Silhouetted against the morning sun her tail cocked and flickering

her small body alight and alive in amber light.

 

Each note fine-tuned and aimed at us. Intruders

near her dwelling.

‘Movement is the essence of Geraldine Green's poetry: the cadence of language evoking then becoming experience in poems that are motile under the skin of place and memory. This is a sensual and rich

collection from a poet who pierces the membrane between self and subject

with shape-shifting energy.’

Graham Mort

 

‘In her ‘love letter to Cumbria’, Geraldine Green weaves together strands of auto-biography, landscape and inward journeying… This is writing that re-interprets modern pastoral, elemental and contemporary in all its facets.  Using language that is nuanced and open enables this poet to catch, as if on the wing, glimpse after heart-glad glimpse of her part of this beautiful vulnerable planet.’ Penelope Shuttle

 

‘This is a collection embedded in Green’s native landscape, Her creative use of forms, inventive rhythms and repetition show thoughtfulness and care for both place

and craft. A delight.’

Elizabeth Rimmer

IMG_8072 amend 9781910834794

Passing Through is a journey, through poetry and prose, of one person’s love and celebration of the land, of Cumbria, its flora and fauna, a place where the writer was born, grew up and still lives.

 

Taken together the collection forms a love letter to Cumbria, mainly in response to the south and west of the county, some poetry and prose ventures farther afield. They are also, in part, a celebration of the writer’s year as writer-in-residence at Brantwood, Coniston, Cumbria, former home of John Ruskin.

 

In the poet’s words: “They swoop and dive back and forth as walking daily along familiar paths and shores shakes this writer’s memory.”