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A strong sense of place seeps through Sandra Bunting’s first full poetry collection, originally published in Galway in 2004. This second edition of Identified in Trees is also published by Marram Press, using the new eBook and POD technology.

Cyberscribe was able to advise on the process, re-design the book’s interior, provide e-Book conversion.  For the cover, the fonts were emphasized so as to make the title and biline suitable for online viewing, without compromising the stunning cover image, an original painting by artist Hazel Walker.

To purchase in paperback and e-Book formats, see Sandra’s author page at:   Amazon.com  or also see:   Amazon.co.uk or  Amazon.ca

Identified In Trees has been described by Irish poet Philip Casey as:  “intriguing, impressionistic poems, often about family … moving into more fully-fledged meditations on love, life and death set in countries as diverse as Canada, Ireland, France and Morocco. Always technically sure, her poems are often arresting and rise into a timeless beauty.”

Sandra Bunting has been described by Canadian poet David Adams Richards as:  “a poet of wisdom, charm and insight, and I read her poems with pleasure and gratitude.”

 

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Sande Bunting  is a poetry and fiction writer who grew up on the east coast of Canada.  She is a member of the Quebec Writers’ Federation, Elan, the Montreal Press Club and the Galway Writers’ Workshop. After being awarded a BA in Radio and Television Arts from Ryerson in Toronto, she worked for CBC News, Toronto, before moving to Europe where she received an MA in Writing from NUI, Galway in Ireland.  Sandra is currently on the editorial board of the Galway-based literary magazine, Crannóg , and is has established her own independent publishing endeavour, Gaelóg Press.

For more about Sande, see her own website:  www.sandbunting.com

FROM “IDENTIFIED IN TREES”:

Turbulence-Tree-CS

Introduction to Woods

Burnt Church, New Brunswick

I want you to feel the wildness

of a Canadian forest

that frightened your father.

The fear of getting lost,

the fear of feral animals and of trees.

No trees in Connemara,

not like these!

Dry twigs snap underfoot

Over-grown paths scratch,

branches whip back as you walk quietly,

listening to the forest.

We make our way

to the turbulent brook,

careful, once there, to hold onto something

as we lower our feet into icy water to be tickled,

massage by quicksand.

On the way back,

a stop to eat berries

and examine moose tracks in the dirt

while mosquitoes get high on untainted blood.

I watch the wildness take hold,

the power of the untamed catch.

Sandra Bunting