Biography of Geraldine Connolly
Geraldine Connolly is the author of three poetry collections: The Red Room (Heatherstone Press), Food for the Winter (Purdue University Press) and Province of Fire (Iris Press). Her poems and reviews have appeared in Poetry, Chelsea, Shenandoah, The Georgia Review and The Gettysburg Review. She has been awarded a Maryland Arts Council fellowship as well as two poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts. She was the Margaret Bridgman fellow at the Breadloaf Writers Conference. Billy Collins selected one of her poems, “The Summer I Was Sixteen,” for the Library of Congress Poetry 180 Website: A Poem a Day for American High School Students. She won first place in the 2002 W.B. Yeats Society of New York poetry contest. Her work has appeared in eight anthologies including Boomer Girls: Poems by Women from the Baby Boom Generation (U. of Iowa) and Sweeping Beauty: Poems about Housework (U. of Iowa) and has been recorded and broadcast on WPFW Radio’s The Poet and the Poem and The Writer’s Almanac. She teaches at the University of Arizona Poetry Center and divides her time between Tucson and a home in the Rocky Mountain West.
Geraldine Connolly's Works:
The Red Room (Heatherstone Press)
Food for the Winter (Purdue University Press)
Province of Fire (Iris Press).
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Geraldine Connolly Poems
The Summer I Was Sixteen
The turquoise pool rose up to meet us, its slide a silver afterthought down which we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles. We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy.
Sent off to boarding school at twelve, with a pair of oxfords, a pair of patents, my sterling silver christening rosary
Praise the good-tempered summer and the red cardinal that jumps like a hot coal off the track.
The Entropy Of Pleasure
By the time you walk up to the ocean the wave has already disappeared, replaced by another wave, another sadness as in passion or the light dying at dusk
Why I Was Sent To Boarding School
to lengthen my hemlines and straighten my morals because I was difficult because my parents were tired
To A Joshua Tree
I watch you flare up from the Mojave backdrop, obstreperous, a lyric of exploding tar— bold and unpredictable after legions of vernacular, tawdry scrub pine. I am taken aback,
In Praise Of Dawn
You can keep afternoon and its dwindling mysteries, twilight with its seedy hauteur. You can have night with its phony neon and rented motel rooms. I prefer morning when the air is so quiet the rub
Out of their secret places in autumn, from under dark logs and smooth gravestones they come, black snakes,
Procession Of All Souls
Gnarled and blessed be the hour of autumn when spotted pears sink into wet sod, and blessed be
There was life before us my sister and I discovered looking at photographs we shouldn't have been looking at
Praise the good-tempered summer
and the red cardinal
like a hot coal off the track.
Praise the heavy leaves,
heroines of green, frosted
with silver. Praise the litter
of torn paper, mulch
and sticks, the spiny holly,