Four Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

 

Advent

 

During the War, we made a wreath

with fresh pine twigs. Four candles.

We always had candles because

the lights failed often, a power station

bombed perhaps. You never knew.

 

For the Advent wreath we needed

fat red ones, but white ones would do.

And I was allowed to light each one,

one every Advent Sunday, until

there were four, and Christmas

was only a second away.

 

I had an old Advent calendar from ‘before’,

before I was even born. Some of the little

paper doors had already given in to use.

I knew the pictures behind them

by heart and yet looked forward to seeing

them again. Old friends. A promise

of wonders to come.

 

And there was little Baby Jesus, and his mum,

and the donkeys, camels, sheep,

the shepherds and the star.

My uncle had whittled a crib for me.

 

One day the miracle became a story

like any other.

 

 

Crossing Illegally from Germany into Germany

 

At seven I walked that long road

past farmer Bauer’s geese, left at the church,

left again at the brook, over the small bridge,

past the school caretaker with his scary grin

to take my seat

with the local kids.

I, the refugee.

I, the one with the strange accent.

‘Heil Hitler’!

 

My teacher had hairy legs

and big calf muscles that went in and out,

up and down as she biked along the school path.

I stared.

 

Under the bridge, by the brook,

I found my friend the frog and stroked

his slimy head, his whole little body seeming

to breathe in and out fast and in panic,

but it stayed, hypnotized

by my gentle finger.

 

The cockerel waited by the shed. I tucked him

in under the tiny blanket of my dolls’ pram.

I covered his comb with a little blue hat

my mother had crocheted

for my doll,

his wattles fell to one side,

his protective membrane closed.

 

The street names changed

to Marx, Engels, Lenin…

I received the coveted blue scarf,

became a Young Pioneer.

The teacher with the big, yellow teeth

taught me Russian.

Mother decided that this was enough.

 

In the train chugging towards the border

my attention was on Mother,

I looked at my brother.

In the wooded copse I rested my head

on the backpack I’d dropped

onto a patch of woodruff.

It also smelled of ceps.

I thought of Grandpa.

I sensed danger when Mother said

to wait for darkness.

 

The soldiers unfolded from the night,

standing on the higher ground, silhouetted against

the starry night sky.

The clicks of their safety catches.

Even though my brother had finally

given me his Teddy, I peed myself.

 

Feierabend

 

in English is something like ‘closing time’. A welcome relief.

After a raucous afternoon and evening, the pub’s bell

 

finally rings, and everyone trickles out, often somewhat reluctantly.

And there is cleaning to be done, the wet beer rings

 

to be wiped off the wooden tables, the glasses stowed away,

the cash counted and the books kept. The stuff no-one

 

has the time to do when it’s all loud voices, friendly and less

friendly ribbing, the odd overflow, hopefully in the bathroom,

 

the rounds generously bought, and the free beers shamefully

accepted. My grandfather, heavy boots, coming home

 

from the paper mill, looked forward to his ‘Feierabend’,

his closing time. My mother was tired, ready to shut shop.

 

My brother, tired of pain, just wanted to go home.

Father was convinced the glory awaited him after hours.

 

Recently I felt I was ready for a ‘closing time’, sitting down,

kicking off my shoes, relaxing and letting someone else make supper.

 

 

Guilt

 

They said, "We are going to meet a friend.

Sad story, her family died in a Concentration Camp."

 

"Are you nuts?" I said. ‘You want her

to meet me, your German friend?"

 

"We’ll ask," they said.

They asked. "Yes," she said.

 

It was a Sunday.

It was in Holland.

It was in the big old hotel.

Huge columns of old marble

that looked like freshly cut meatloaf.

 

A small, old woman, slightly bent, white hair,

her legs forming an inverted triangle.

 

She is slowly walking towards us, looking at me.

She stretches out her arms, her hands open.

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as seven poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her latest: DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS? (Kelsay Books July 2022), WHISTLING IN THE DARK (Cyberwit July 2022), and SAUDADE (December 2022) are available on Amazon. 

https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCR9fygcz_kL4LGuYcvmC8lQ