December 2021
Bio Note: I thought recently that I had shut the door to poetry (or that it had been shut for me). I felt barren and abandoned. This probably had to do with an extra long Lima winter which is not that cold, but unpleasant, grey on grey, and houses don't have central heating. Not sure why this is, two things come to mind: a) the illusion that, since we are subtropical, we don't need it or b) we are on the 'ring of fire' and it can be expensive to make sure it's earthquake proof. In any case, we often wear eiderdown jackets at home, and I get despondent. Spring is back, and so is my poetry.
The Book
Indeed, no password necessary.
It doesn’t need plugging in,
you don’t run out of juice. Access
by opening the cover and then turning pages.
Rewarding in its simplicity—pure magic
wafts from the white pages:
letters that make words, words
make sentences, sentences make
paragraphs and the paragraphs make
stories. Damsels in distress, dwarves, elves,
hardship and redemption, love and hatred,
lost and found, pain, confessions, sins…
Creating worlds of laughter and adventure,
taking you to exotic places outside
and inside of yourself.
A book, by any other name is still a book,
and you ride on its waves of witchcraft on paper.
COVID Times
Another ZOOM call. My friends’ sadness.
They long to hold their dads, their mums, siblings—
some of them dead.
Remembering the good times,
hugs, good will, hot dogs, love.
Netflix feel-good stuff: the festive family table,
cozy lunches, suppers (or somewhat acrimonious ones).
They made up. Of course.
Coloured photos that tear you up.
Most memories don’t serve you well.
She’d freed herself from family bonds, making friends
where she found them.
She never before missed her family.
She misses not missing them.
Hanging the Washing
Mother had the cloth pegs in that huge apron pocket.
She looked like a pregnant kangaroo – had I known
then what a kangaroo was, let alone a pregnant one.
Much later I met a joey made from wood, moved by strings,
in a wandering puppet theatre ran by people who lived
in painted carriages. The neighbours: “They steal the washing
from the lines, quick, ladies.”
Worried about the birds. Playing hide-and-seek among
those bedsheets. ‘Hiding’ was a double-sided word.
Our mothers couldn’t get the birds, but they did
have carpet beaters at hand.
Lying in grass so high it made me disappear, watching
the beetles doing their acrobatics on the thinnest
stems that bent under their weight, September already
threatening its imminent arrival; the first swifts gathered,
discussing their travel plans in agitated voices.
Looking up into a sky lined by yellows, purples, pinks,
the world was framed, manageable and magical, and occasionally
one of these empty clothes would stroke my face.
Leaving angel dust. Of course.
I don't need Madeleines. My childhood opens its doors wide
remembering the smell of summer sun, dry heat, freshly cut grass
and that whiff of blue, that cutting transparency approaching
from the mountains, weaving its magic into the dancing, incorporeal
sheets on lines made from old string.
Originally published in publication
©2021 Rose Mary Boehm
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