Rose Mary Boehm

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The secret of creation

Last night I designed a large forest with many strange beasts.
I snapped my fingers and it changed before my eyes
into an army (each soldier a waking tree), flat tanks,
and a fat general who rolled a howitzer
into position. He indicated I should stand aside.
I didn’t wait around to see what would happen next.
Instead I floated, feather-light and misty,
into a garden filled with butterflies powdered a metallic
hue of blue. They rose as I landed, looking at me with
astonished eyes while pulling up their undercarriages.
Passengers in each one of them. A goat ate the grass roof
of my house. No longer sure who I was so I invented you
to confirm that I exist.

Young and not yet perfectly formed

The poem digs in. I try
to have it come out
into the open.
It sneers.

Its swagger lascivious.
Licks the marigolds.
Brings the ants
out of sorts.
Folds its arms in

I try to reason.
It moves towards
the high grasses
by the bank of
our very own
gurgling stream.
Dives into
the small rapids.
Is carried towards
the wide river where
it’ll be exposed
as a fraud.

The Man in Avenida Miraflores

Old and bent and tired, the man walked
wishing he could use a car.
A bus would do.
Even a bicycle.
There was nothing in his pockets.
Not even a handkerchief.

For a moment the man rested
on a bench under the flame tree.
His chin fell on to his chest.
On the lowest branches
he saw two transparent angels.
In their invisible hands they
weighed colours.
With their invisible wings
they fanned the man.

The man spat.
Do something useful, carry me, he said.


A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and three poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). Her latest full-length MS, the Rain Girl, has been accepted for publishing in the UK in June by Blue Nib.