Rose Mary Boehm- Three Poems

Bio:A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a full-length poetry collection (TANGENTS) published in 2011 in the UK, her work has been widely published in US poetry reviews (online and print). One of her poems was chosen for Diane Lockward’s 'The Crafty Poet'. She won third price in in the 2009 'Margaret Reid Poetry Contest for Traditional Verse' (US), was semi-finalist in the 'Naugatuck Poetry Contest' 2012/13 and has been a finalist in several Goodreads poetry contests, winning it twice: in October 2014 and January 2016; a new poetry collection is in pre-production for publication in the US in about May/June.

Another ordinary story

Spring, it seems, has changed

its mind. Like a disenchanted lover.

Pink, white, purple and tender greens

encased in winter-hardened water

topped with powdered sugar.

Fulgent in that white winter sun.

One harsh spring morning you

turned. No last glistening glory,

no last display of what

could have been.

Opposite feet

Lima, Peru,

antipodean to

Bangkok, Thailand.

Lima. Gentle girls.

Invisible.

They find you.

Mi amor. Mi rey.

Want to be happy?

A tunnel would be leading

from Lima’s Plaza de Armas

down, down, long maa

straight to Bangkok.

To Pat Phong and the girl

who can blow.

Smoke rings down under.

Dollars, dollars.

Want to be happy?

In America everything

so big, no?

Oh my! pút-tôh!

​

The only constant

The east wind brings cold

from the Russian steppes

just as Djingis Khan once drove

all before him. The white sharp

veil of the mountain ridge

lifts and moves at speed

towards me. Meets with the white

below. Its long white arms

don't reach. Newspapers

stuffed into my brother’s boots

warm my feet. The rest of me

leans into the cold. I call

it as the torero calls the bull,

Hey, hey, toro! and move towards it

defiantly, seducing icy air into loving me

or I shall break.

Head bent towards my chest

I move against the harshness

of the break between, the violence

of icicle hands finding purchase

under my threadbare coat.

That winter I learned

that everything must change.​