from BARDO

The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.

Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made

is star-stuff too?

– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –

dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.

Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.

Roselle Angwin

Thursday, 4 February 2016

prose poems from guest contributors: 1 Geraldine Green

I'm delighted to post here, to begin the month of prose poems, some offered by Geraldine Green from her new as-yet unpublished collection. Geraldine is based in Cumbria, and facilitates workshops alongside being a writer. In her work, the intertwining of her love of place, the natural world and the imaginal nature comes through clearly.

Always the flight

The song of freedom hangs in the air 
above skylarks and bracken. Migrating curlews pass through, land briefly to overwinter from moorland to coast and back again. Always movement of quicksilvered sand and changing seasons

shapeshifting from black to white, red to brown 
to yellow to August, September to April. Always 
the movement of gulls swift acting, nose diving. Always the pattern of possibilities, changing shape and skin. 
Autumn to winter, spring to summer and 
back again.

Shrill call of terns defending their territory. Flying of red kites over fell and estuary. Puncturing of clouds, thundering tides, movement of birds and humans. Red 
to white, black and gold, silver and red, tawny skinned, wrinkled, smooth. Flesh of old. Flesh of young.  Bright and dying.

Juniper, Crag Head

I'd like to sleep beneath this ancient Juniper, twisted as it is, bent low by prevailing Westerlies, blown in from the Irish Sea. Bivvy for one night only, or perhaps more, if I were brave enough. If I were underneath this old tree's sanctuary, this evergreen that cattle have trodden round, keeper of flame, this incense tree, maker of gin and dreams and love that has seen many winters.

I'd like to sleep underneath its twisted protectiveness, wake to see morning gold or fog ridden. Wake to look across and see the Old Man of Coniston. To wake, after sleep beneath this ancient Juniper, twisted as it is, breathe in its incense.

Light, Grisedale Forest

Today I became snagged on light. Not only light, the way it reflects on water and leaves – these leaves, I mean, on the bridge, snagged on light, like me, like stone, cold, unsobered, alive with spitting, splitting, alight with leaves, wet leaves, the one in the centre of this bridge here, leaves alive, bristled and veined, coppered and alight, on a stone cold sobering bridge, somewhere, maybe in a forest, today maybe, maybe Grisedale.

Samhain: A Door

Oak, Eycott, Hag and Hecate, Aiket and Druid, Reflector of Names, Old Golden Bough, Apple of Samhain, Old Woman of Knowledge, Oak, Eycott, Aiket, Dryad, Oak Apple

Blossom of Youth, Keeper of Secrets, Aiket Gate, Eycott Hill, Bough of the Golden, Oak Apple Dew, Dryad and Aiket, Eycott, Druid, Holder of Secrets, Golden Bough, Old Woman, Oak Appled Blossom

Hidden in Folds of Fellsides and Coppice, Oak Apple, Golden Cheeked, Maiden of Apple, Bringer of Knowledge, Oak Appled Spinner, Hidden in Spider, Insect Weaver, Woven of Mysteries, Eycott, Aiket, Oak and Druid, Dwr

Weint Watter, Weaver of Lakes, Winder of Sapping, Makar of Steel, Dwr and Duir, Drear and Dryad, Aiketgate, Eycott, Oak Leaved Watter, Oak Twigs for Fuel, Acorns for Fodder, Split Open the Acorn, Door to the Future.

© Geraldine Green
from Passing Through – working title of new collection, unpublished

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