Ulverston poet Dr Geraldine Green has two poetry collections, The Skin 2003 and Passio, 2006, both published by Flarestack Pubs. Poems of a Mole Catcher’s Daughter, under pseudonym Katie A Coyle, was published in 2009 by Palores Publications.


Her work has been widely anthologised and appears in poetry magazines in the UK, USA and Italy, including Orbis, Tears in the Fence, Envoi, Smoke, Seventh Quarry, Poetry Cornwall, Citizen 32, Rain Dog, Obsessed with Pipework, Hortus Conclusus, Primal Sanities – A Tribute to Walt Whitman (Allbook Books), On a Bat’s Wing (Five Leaves Press), Simply Connect (Cinnamon Press).


She’s read widely in the UK and North America from Scotland to Cornwall and New Hampshire to New Mexico and also Italy and Greece, including: The Dylan Thomas Centre, Swansea, Woody Guthrie Festival Okemah, Oklahoma, Walt Whitman Birthplace Long Island, Laurel Bookstore, Oakland California, the International Women’s Arts Festival, Kendal, The CatStrand Dumfries & Galloway, Bowery Poetry Club New York City, Poetry on the Lake, Orta Italy, Skiathos Rooftop Celebration and the Wordsworth Trust, Grasmere. Workshop exercises are included in: Writing Works, A Resource Handbook for Therapeutic Writing Workshops & Activities Jessica Kingsley Pubs. 2006.



In February 2009 she was invited by the South West Texas Popular Culture Committee to give a talk at their Conference in Albuquerque on ‘Ecopoetics: An Exploration of the Work by Aldo Leopold and John Clare.’


Geraldine is a Visiting Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Cumbria, works as a freelance tutor and mentor and is an Associate Editor of online magazine Poetry Bay





ISBN 978-1-907401-86-2


Indigo Dreams Publishing


Publication 02 /07/ 2012






138 x 216mm




£7.99 U.K












“Inside this volume are poems of connection but also poems of great tenderness and moment -- urging us to bend a knee, like Whitman, ‘to better understand the blades of grass.’ If fierceness and tenderness are two faces of the same coin, then the poems in The Other Side Of The Bridge are works of rare coinage.”

George Wallace, Writer in Residence, Walt Whitman Birthplace.


“These are poems of vivid and compelling energy. Nature is a living presence throughout these poems, which are spontaneous, alert, and rich in transformations. Landscape is this poet's muse, be it her native Cumbria or Long Island or the Mid West. Memory is also a rich seam for this poet.”

Penelope Shuttle


"These are poems brimming with deep generosity. Although a faithful chronicler of Northern life, she holds out her arms to people across the world. She is a listener, a storyteller, working carefully with language to find the colours of reality. Giving voice to those who often go unheard, she widens our knowledge and engages our imagination.”

Rose Flint


"Geraldine Green delights with poems that travel from the Lake District to Greece to a Sac and Fox powwow in Oklahoma. She sees the world as lush and does not skimp in invoking its magic, mystery and myths. This is a volume to be read and re-read.”

Carol Hamilton, former Poet Laureate, Oklahoma




Journey to the edge

– in memory of Nazim Hikmet ‘On Living’


Today feels like the last day of the world.

It‘s unusually warm, the November sun lights

the underbelly of a buzzard's wings


ringed with dark feathers.  

In each field cows appear, skins

fresh, like black and white satin.


I remember some lines from On Living

‘This earth will grow cold/a star among stars’

- it’s hard to imagine.


The day’s warm and I want to

make love to lean-muscled beeches

feel their hardness press against me


my hair will sizzle like gold leaves

burst with fire sweeter

than caramelised toffee.


This morning the first moment

was born on ‘one of the smallest stars

a gilded mote on blue velvet’.



Amazon tributary


The small girl lay on the river bank

alongside the large fish.

His long whiskers touched the tips

of her hair.


His eyes, looking this way and that,

held amazement -

to find her there after so many years.


The small girl stroked his body.

Her palms and limbs slowly became

armoured in scales.


First her left shoulder, then her right

until her body was wholly silver

his stiff whiskers caught in her hair.


When she turned to kiss him she found

he had slipped back

into his river.

Linden trees do grow in Spain


She mentioned this to him

several times that day

in the grounds of the

Palace del Alhambra

its tiles hot underfoot

the day she noticed

the way his hair curled

the way bees filled the throat

of the courtyard

a thousand monks chanting

a thousand mantras

announcing morning.


She remembered his kiss

on the nape of her neck

the sting of it, the subtle,

sweet venom of his lips.


Last night candlelight

crimped the edge

of their table -

its plainsong of linen

its burnished cuticles

of lip-marked glass.


They'd held hands

worn the wrong shoes

stumbled down a track

sown with moonlight

milk-blue as cooling iron.


Cases already packed

their tickets pressed inside

a book of photographs

showed the Alhambra

showed the linden trees

escaping down slopes

where dawn would wake them.


Next year they'll untangle

the sound of bees

find their steps

between fountains

taste the lost tremor

of their lips

the untamed hours




Clock ticks on the mantel.

A woman bends low

smoors hearth with

bundle of twigs


hand on hip

back aching

from planting

row after row of

seed potatoes.


Seagulls raise their young

on clifftop ledges.

Puffins strut their stuff

beaks full of herrings.


Sun ruffles the island awake

before those on the mainland

have buttoned up coats donned

shoes scarves gloves, raced

for bus or train.


Clock ticks

rings alarm

for day to waken.


Woman turns her back

smoors hearth.

9781907401862 P2020001REV 9781907401862