Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

Just Imagine….  YES

The PhD I didn’t present. Perhaps
a learned treatise about ‘The Meaning of Time’
in the works of Thomas Mann,
or ‘The Consequences of the Theory
of Existentialism’ in the works of Sartre.
Teaching philosophy at one
of the most respected universities.

All the songs I didn’t sing, divine
celebrations of clear-glass cling,
sounds to break an angel’s heart,
penetrating the underworld
with the wonder of voice.

The piano concerts I would never give,
the ones with the greatest maestros,
with works by the greatest composers.
Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Prokoviev…
Acclaim, standing ovations,
headlines in in the serious papers,
the critics falling over each other
in praise, even though I was a woman.

The pots I didn’t mold,
the vases I didn’t pull up on the pottery wheel,
the porcelain plates I didn’t paint—
fit for Chinese Emperors—
coveted in up-market specialist shops
all over the world.

The paintings I never painted,
the colours I didn’t cede a place
on my large canvasses,
the lines I didn’t draw,
masterpieces sold in the poshest
galleries from London to Paris to New York.

All the books I didn’t write,
gamechangers, ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ makers,
words to wonder and to weave
around hearts and comfort the weary.
Still sought after by collectors
of first editions, and those who
simply missed reading them before.

Oh, and the dances I didn’t dance,
my body light as a feather, my pliés perfect,
my pirouettes penetrating even the most
provincial philistines, stopping their breath.
Or perhaps the flamenco, with my elegent
hands picking invisible flowers from the air,
stamping to the palmas in perfect rhythm,
throwing back my head in defiance,
moving my skirts to reveal the perfect leg.

Instead, I am running on air like Wile E Coyote.
Just don’t look down.

 

The Sound of Death. YES

The air-raid siren’s hysteric up-and-downing. It lords it over us
just opposite, on top of the schoolhouse. A sound from other planets.

If this sound contained all colours, it’s constant would have been a sharp
yellow. It wailed its shrill chill through every knife blade made of sound.

In the shelter, huddled in my blanket (I was running a fever),
I watch the others’ faces when we hear the droning,

the droning we heard so many times before. This ominous
deep-voiced threat: you might not escape this time.

A huge, fat bass constant. The giant bow never faltering.
I see and smell the fear. Soon there will be the ear-splitting bangs,

then that roaring sound of victory as the shock waves push out
windows, doors, ear drums, playgrounds, and children.

There is the takatakatak from the anti-aircraft guns, managed
by mere boys of around 18 or 20. Soon they fall silent.

And it’s just another night, just another night of survival.
And the chickens won’t lay, and the horses break the barn door.

Tomorrow we kids go and see what we can find.
Once we found a burned-out plane and a ripped-off leg.