Geraldine Green is Cumbrian-born, with Irish roots and European sensibility.
Her two collections – The Skin and Passio – were published by Flarestack. She published un anthology titled Is a Religious Poem Possible in the 21st century? , her work has appeared in many magazines und she develops workshops in therapeutic writing. The poet is an Associate Editor of www.poetrybay.com and is represented on www.poetryvlog.com.
Quelle: poetry p f
Painting
In a room full of collage and music hung a painting. Pale smoke, the lemon of winter night, arctic blue in the light of snow. Deep orange burnt into slim oblong, a tree on fire. Indigo, the eyes of a cormorant seen in Madras.
Beneath, or somehow below the shadows of trees, I caught a glimpse of horizons burning
and beyond the horizons burning I caught a chill breathing, full and slow. I could feel the mist pour from the mouth of a polar bear as she made ready to plunge into an ocean.
In the harbour at the side of the painting, where the pale lemon light shone, I saw a woman. She was carrying a fishing net filled with tangerines and mackerel which she threw into the sky. And I saw the sun rise.
Beside her a man playing an ocarina, was sitting under a baobab tree. It was filled with monkeys and bears and stars and black apes and singing African elephants. And hot snakes bellied across the sand.
It was a marvel. Green and grey and lemon and burnt orange mangroves fell from his music, the woman danced as the sun rose and the man laughed and it was good.
All the instruments of sound born from stones flew towards them, circling like great fruit bats. I woke with a grain of sand in my palm.
in collection, Passio, 2006, FlarestackISBN 1 900397 90 0
previously published, poetry bay
Her two collections – The Skin and Passio – were published by Flarestack. She published un anthology titled Is a Religious Poem Possible in the 21st century? , her work has appeared in many magazines und she develops workshops in therapeutic writing. The poet is an Associate Editor of www.poetrybay.com and is represented on www.poetryvlog.com.
Quelle: poetry p f
Painting
In a room full of collage and music hung a painting. Pale smoke, the lemon of winter night, arctic blue in the light of snow. Deep orange burnt into slim oblong, a tree on fire. Indigo, the eyes of a cormorant seen in Madras.
Beneath, or somehow below the shadows of trees, I caught a glimpse of horizons burning
and beyond the horizons burning I caught a chill breathing, full and slow. I could feel the mist pour from the mouth of a polar bear as she made ready to plunge into an ocean.
In the harbour at the side of the painting, where the pale lemon light shone, I saw a woman. She was carrying a fishing net filled with tangerines and mackerel which she threw into the sky. And I saw the sun rise.
Beside her a man playing an ocarina, was sitting under a baobab tree. It was filled with monkeys and bears and stars and black apes and singing African elephants. And hot snakes bellied across the sand.
It was a marvel. Green and grey and lemon and burnt orange mangroves fell from his music, the woman danced as the sun rose and the man laughed and it was good.
All the instruments of sound born from stones flew towards them, circling like great fruit bats. I woke with a grain of sand in my palm.
in collection, Passio, 2006, FlarestackISBN 1 900397 90 0
previously published, poetry bay
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