Five Sublime Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

A white sheet of paper

 

I contemplate

the white rectangle

of paper on which

nothing is written.

It is in abeyance.

 

There shall be no

budding of words,

no binding

of seeds to what seems

their future.

 

Free

 

to shift essence,

gather resonances.

 

Wraiths born

remain

untold.

 

A white sheet of paper.

A gateway.

 

Another Mermaid Story

 

A small, brown village
on the Cornish coast.
Ruby married Fred.
She’d had enough of filing
in the ‘Museum for Fishing and Smuggling’.
Fred liked Ruby because she was round
and sleek as a seal.

A slight scent of ocean
hovered over her skin.

Ravenous triplets sucked her dry.
In the supermarket she pushed
a tank with three activated
missiles from aisle to aisle.

Ruby soon neglected them.
Preferred to watch
the silvery catches
in the harbour.

Fred hired a nanny. Took to her.
Ruby took to the fishermen.
Both grew into the comfortable
co-existence of mutual dislike.

Ruby disappeared.
Fred drank her health.
In the bar that night a fisherman
mentioned that he’d seen a selky
swim out into the Celtic Sea.

 

 

Compostela was once called the Field of Stars

 

Starting in St. Jean de Pied

we walked about 20 km, with 780 km

to go. To the center of the greater

pilgrimages.

 

St. James of Compostela, legend

and shard of transcendent truths.

Take the route of the Milky Way,

he said to Charlemagne.

 

Occasional sharp morning light

flows over us under the tall trees

of the Pyrenees. Our pace slows.

Pass the water bottles. The cheerless

 

dirt roads along open fields

seem relentless. 40 more days

at this pace. I hoped it would, but

the hand of God hovers nowhere.

 

 

Evensong

 

When I met you that day between the tall building

at the corner of Argensola and Santa Barbara

I marvelled at your beauty.

Your ebony hair danced on the evening breeze.

Your back curved away from the blue silk

that tried to follow its seaward line.

 

We walked at your rhythm,

dreading separation we pressed on through the crowds

in the old part of town... in calle de León we found

a table for one-and-a-half, and the odour

of your skin was stronger than the clouds

of black tobacco lingering blue against the yellow lights.

 

You wanted only to dance. Life didn’t suit you.

You said you hadn’t asked for it so why

had it chosen you?

Your hands touched mine.

 

My love’s back curves convex, her hips’ hinges rusted.

I smile at the white wisps of remaining curl.

She hadn’t wanted a job in admin,

but she made sure I always had clean shirts.

 

 

Letters from Paris: 1958 

I

My first week in Paris. Damn it,

my French stayed behind somewhere

between college and Walburg, Hesselberger

& Frankenveldt. At least

I remembered how to call a porter

when I got off the Express from Düsseldorf

at seven in the morning.

 

Wonder if Mum’s over the shock

that I'd prefer this cauldron of sin

over a secure typing job

at the local lawyers. She’s like a chicken

that’s hatched a duck’s egg:

hysterically running up and down

the lake shore watching the chick swim.

 

II

In the Gare St. Lazare where I have to take

the train to the Banlieue (the suburbs

for you and me) this pretty Arab boy

was trying to chat me up.

Here I am, Elfriede from Werter Street,

crossing Pont Neuf, looking up at Notre Dame,

walking around Place de la Concorde,

sitting in Les Deux Magots.

If they could see me now.

 

Went to the movies. One of the double

bill was ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’ in English.

French subtitles. No English, no French.

Had to make up the dialogue.

Elizabeth Taylor was gorgeous, as always.

Paul Newman angry most of the time

or sulking. He probably said to her:

‘You piss me off no end’. And she:

‘Get rid of that stick and I show you.’

Then Big Daddy might have

wanted to have a go.

What do I know.

 

III

Somebody tried to sell

the Tours Eiffel. I have no-one

to talk to, mon Dieu.

But I’m breathing the same air –

give or take a few car exhausts –

as Talleyrand, Cardinal Richelieu

and Les Trois Mousquetaires.

On the Champs Elysées

I passed some handsome flics

who whistled when I went by.

Mother wrote. She’s coming Monday

to take me home.

 

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 fifth poetry collection, DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS, has just been snapped up by Kelsay Books for publication May/June 2022. Her website: https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/