Five Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

 

Even Though My Eyes Can’t See

 

 

1)

I smell

the hay-like and vanilla aroma of sweet woodruff,

the earthy scent of rotting wood,

moss, mushrooms,

the cloying lilacs on a late spring morning,

the stench of manure in the pigsty,

chicken warmth when I stick my nose into their coop,

the fur of a baby goat when I hold it close,

the mustiness of old books I cannot read.

 

2)

I hear

the cows’ content lowing in the field,

the pigs’ grunting and snuffling,

the cockerel in his favourite spot, proudly

announcing yet another day, sounding

as though he just made it,

the skylark’s song,

the rattling of poppy seeds in their pods,

the low droning of the bombers

and the deafening explosions

soon after.

Someone singing off key.

 

3)

I feel

the warm finger of the sun reaching for my face,

the raised dots of braille under

my fingers, the soft feathers of my budgie,

my mother’s rough hand stroking

me gently, my fat down-filled duvet enclosing

my small, shivering body, the mosquito sting

and the welt it leaves,

my stomach churning on empty,

the heat from the kitchen stove,

the warm roundness of a just laid egg,

the cold, wet, slimy skin of a frog

my brother put into my hand.

 

4)

I taste

the sharp tang of sorrel leaves,

the crust of freshly baked bread,

the cold, watery nothing of an icicle,

the not-quite-sweetness of gooseberries

Mother gives me before she makes jam,

the gooey, familiar lushness when I lick

the spoon full of leftover batter,

repulsive milk from our landlord’s goat,

the crisp flesh of an apple stolen

for me by my cousin from farmer

Bauer’s garden.

 

 

I wonder sometimes what colours

are, and butterflies, and how I could

travel to Mongolia. But my world is full,

and I have much to think about.

Looking Deep into the Early Universe

 

The gods held an orgy

that sparked the birth of the universe.

This is the true meaning

of the term “the big bang”.

Ethan Goffman

 

 

Now we go back to spy on the Universe’s infancy,
the toddler at Cosmic Dawn, an infinite child
that played big after the fog.

Approximately one billion years later,
the child had used the ramekins
and a magic wand to create gigantic
galaxies, surprisingly bright and colourful,
elliptical and spiral galaxies, bright eyes
in endless space. And the child saw
that it was good.

And so, here I am, encouraged by the impossible,
thinking that I could learn to vibrate at the same
rate as my kitchen wall and pass
right through it.

Roadkill

 

The girl had meant to go see the moles.

A car stopped with squealing tyres.

A man stepped out onto the verge,

his face brutish— or so she thought—

unshaven, heavy jowls, small eyes.

His hands large, with fingers familiar to the girl,

she knew them from the illustration in her fairytales

as those of the gnarled giant wood goblin.

Despite the heat he wore a long, leather jacket.

He bent towards the mole hill.

It happened too quickly—

the next thing she saw

was this huge hand beating the little mole’s head

against the milestone by the road.

There wasn’t much blood.

 

 

The Sinkhole

 

the need gotta be / so deep words can't / answer simple questions
Yusef Komunyakaa

 

Depth.

Stones that build grief.

 

Grief dancing in

our bodies

that sing in the caves, making echoes.

 

More.

 

Falling. Falling. Falling.

 

Yesterday I saw the geese. From cold North.

Honking. Honking. Honking.

 

Cars stacking up in straight lines until

the sandstorm covers the world,

until the termites build homes.

 

No answer will ever satisfy

those who do not question.

The Teacher

 

You think of the immense universe, exoplanets,

ice and water planets, blue Martian sunsets,

thinking one billion years, ellipitcal and spiral galaxies

surprisingly bright and colourful, shining eyes

in endless space.

 

You are awed by what you just read: that we can

go back in time to the ‘Extreme Outer Galaxy’,

the outskirts of our own Milky Way, more than

58,000 light years from our galactic centre.

 

You can’t wait to share the wonder and recreate

the magic for tomorrow’s class, and for a moment you fear

that they won’t even look up once

from their small, electronic worlds.

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and ‘Best of Net’. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new MS is in the works. 

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