Cynthia Greenwood

Biography

I was born in Yorkshire but have lived all my life near Manchester. I have recently retired from full-time work as a librarian in Further Education but still work part-time. I've recently done an MA in creatrive writing at Bolton University and have had a few poems and one short story published in small magazines.I enjoy reading my work and have read a few of my poems in public at various libraries and at Bolton University.I'm interested in the literature of World War One and have, with a colleague, directed, written and performed a work dealing with the life and letters of Wilfred Owen. which was performed in Manchester Cathedral, Oswestry and Shrewsbury. The themes of my poems are varied but often include, time, history, art and the supernatural. As well as writing I am also very interested in theatre and art.

Samples

REFUGEE CENTRE Going down to the refugee centre you pick your way among bricks pink as skin some smooth as sand others shattered like wounded faces, earthquake bricks. Is something being pulled down or built? Looking past the centre are capricious curls and fronds on grey buildings set like firm mouths the colour of soot and money, blood and bones in the corners of their rooms. The centre appears assertive red in sunlight, “Methodist Mission” on the wall. It is a woman with plump, folded arms, It will bustle and do, it will organise and tidy, it can be converted quickly to any public need. The room is waiting-room yellow, cheerful, tablecloths of sun on the floor, dark shapes Cynthia Greenwood 6 Church Green Radcliffe Macnhester M26 2QA Tel : 0161 724 9220 e-mail : cynthia.greenwood@tiscali.co.uk play pool or table tennis lining up the shiny balls on a taut wire of tension. A sudden shout. Sometimes the eyes are dead but there is a smile, a handshake. White helpers flutter, butterflies among the men, talking to some who stare ahead, dusty roads behind their eyes. Volunteers scoop yellow rice into plates handing it out with smiles, they wash the cups slowly with laughter, they scrub the floor thoughtfully trying to cover shadows of blood and bones in corners of the room. The refugees are floating above roads, bridges, cities. The road they want is an image in their heads. They are trying to hold onto it like their mobile ‘phones. Up the stairs they go out across broken bricks round frowning statues of worthy men in the Town Hall square, past stately buildings that do not notice them, then back to the room. They float up to the ceiling fascinated by the line of yellow wall expecting armed men. Driving home the roads are sun-drenched, leaves pouring over fences, brown and yellow squares of fields laid out as if eternal, a confident smile behind it all. Above the road, against blue sky and puff ball clouds the refugees’ heads float as if severed. TICKET FOR “THREE SISTERS” The theatre’s mouth a yawn on the street, its steps like teeth – doors locked, waiting for the jump of the clock’s finger the grey time of passing feet - soon they will open -cheap tickets will be sold. And so I’ll wait. The play’s “Three Sisters” – posters show the sisters lean and sigh. Bolted doors. Footsteps on the snow. Train out of sight. More people come- their words warmed over plastic coffee cups, so they shiver on the steps the Steppes – snow ink-blotted with black trees – feet shuffling away from lighted windows, sigh of a retreating train. I’ll sit – my anorak stained, no time to shave, this bag an abscess on my side containing all my world – bags and bedding. Russian trains , black cloaks and hoods peppered with flakes. Stamping boots, staring anxious along the track-.Why don’t they open? At last – a man smiling like a god haloed in yellow foyer lights comes clattering his keys. Entrance or exit? On the other side is it the parlour? Floral curtains, perpetual circling of the samovar or is it the unlocked door , footprints in dark snow to the station with its one light, its one star. The others are coming up the steps. I buy my ticket, small green square in my hand, after the play I’ll leave, pass into the night, try to find the station.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.