Five Stunning Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

 

Beware of the Death Tree

The Yew was here before us, it’ll still be here
after we’re gone. Found in Triassic era fossils
from 200,000,000 years ago, the Yew survived
our planet’s great climatic changes.
Shamans inhaled its resinous vapor.
The magical Yew connects to those who went before.

Spears, spikes, staves, hunting bows and long bows,
sacred carvings, magic wands. Arrows tipped
with Yew poison.

Sacred to Hecate,
aspect of the Triple Goddess.
Druid’s groves.
Symbol of the afterlife.
Marking blind springs.

The most potent protection against evil, the Yew
is the bringer of dreams and otherworld journeys.
Symbol of the old magic, the Yew is the source of stillness,
herald of death, of new beginnings, hope, transformation,
rebirth. The early Christians priests, although denying

the old knowledge, would build their churches

in the sacred circles.

 

Holy Branches

 

Pliant willow, wicker, wicca,

binding birch and ash

on witches’ brooms. Harp

notations cut into her trunk,

her resident spirit rebellious.

Wanted to know.

Needed to be reassured of life

in the death time of winter.

 

Willow, the first to leaf, the last

to lose. Death and resurrection.

Friend of the Moon Goddess, water seeker.

Earth’s raiment of green leaves,

worships nature’s bones of stone.

 

One primordial morning she

gave in to the collective memory

of the World Tree, the bridge

between two worlds. The sacred

hazel, invoked by fairies, poets

and seekers.

 

She asked for his presence

looked deep into his eyes

and beseeched him to be spared

the shedding.  He grew tired

of her begging, granted her wish.

And as she holds out her arms

in eternal desire, her magic was lost.

 

Imagine

 

If there were a sudden HALT!

Stopped in mid-step, arm oustretched

to reach for something

on the top shelf.

 

If the engines of cars ceased

turning, motorbikes parked themselves,

shops closed their doors,

neighbours no longer visited,

we’d wear masks to be safe behind them,

gloves to protect our hands from harm.

 

You would cut your own toenails.

The roots of your hair would grow out,

your natural beauty prevail.

 

The skies would fall silent, roads empty,

bars dark, only TVs would flicker

behind drawn curtains.

 

The park would be abandoned, the sea turquoise,

the sun sparkle on gentle waves,

no car horn would break the peace,

only the birds would sing again.

 

Like my city friend on rural holidays

you would wake with dark rings under our eyes.

What’s wrong?

--The fucking birds make such a racket.

 

 

Planctology

 

Plankter, a word that’s hardly ever used.

You’ll never find just one. Any organism

living in the water column, says Wikipedia,

and incapable of swimming

against a current

is a plankter.

Plankton.

Food supply for fish and whales.

Even sharks like them as appetizers.

 

In the Big-Bang scheme of things, a human

must appear quite small. Depending

on your distance, and how powerful

your binoculars are.

30,000 feet is still not high enough.

We are talking a couple of light years.

At least.

Do you see humans swim against the currents?

They gather on this side of the current barrier.

You spy some rapidly opening mouths.

 

By plankton’s standard, jellyfish are giants.

Still, they must stay put.

But even the ones capable

of independent movement,

the errant knights,

can’t do other than vertical.

The ‘diel vertical migration’.

Look it up.

(Relatively) young and upwardly mobile.

I heard that somewhere.

Movement determined by the surrounding

currents. Come shark, come eat.

 

The current trends are all there is. Even

fashionable currents in philosophy, economics,

history and other legends. Thinking in general

perhaps. But the delusion of independent movement

remains complete. Delusion, illusion…

My fellow plankton, I honor you.

 

 

The Cretan Witch

Zene was born on Crete. The sailor
Dimitris had brought her to Cyprus, his earth.
In the village they all recognized her for what she was.
Had she not plucked Phokas’ son from certain death?

Next, she’d danced. An offering to the old gods.
When young Yorgos made eyes at her daughter,
Zene had looked at him. When he died of the fever,
she had picked up a chicken by the neck, sliced off
its head with the knife she always carried
in her apron’s pocket, and bathed her
wooden doorstep in the gushing blood.
Soon Zene's beautiful daughter just faded away.

Today she wears the big black dress made from silk
for the holy day when they remember
the dead. Tables bend under the weight
of kolifa, haloumi and black olives.
Today is the day of All Souls.

 

 

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her fourth poetry collection, THE RAIN GIRL, was published by Chaffinch Press in 2020. Want to find out more? https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

Rosmarie Epaminondas (Rose Mary Boehm)

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