Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

Ode to the Fig

Swollen womb, impregnated
by the sun, green, deep purple,
or almost black, I violate your
perfection, breaking you open
with cruel fingers only to marvel at a red galaxy
that tricks my eyes into believing
that a thousand seeds are moving
in a viscous, sweet placenta.

The big hands of your tree in my face,
I reach for the fruit that has attained perfect
ripeness before going to rot.
But the wasps have discovered it
too and vie with me for the spoils,
calling dibs on the one up there
that is difficult to reach but is the right
fig to complete my breakfast.

Fruit of many legends, of Solomon’s song,
sacred haunt of fairies and spirits,
portals to their realms.

And Buddha found enlightenment
in your shade.

Ode to the Herring

Oh. My. God. (Yes, the herring is a gift from whomever
created us and it and them, and all that swims
in vinegar, wine, spices, sugar. They smoke, split,
and salt you for a delicious British Breakfast,
you are the rotten, pungent herring they love so much
in Sweden’s north.

I am partial to Hollandse Nieuwe, fresh herring you
can eat in The Netherlands from street vendors
in May and June. Lift it up by the tail, open your mouth,
let it slide in, there is almost no need to chew.
It dissolves on your tongue. Full of a gentle flavour.
Shut your eyes.

Pickled, marinated, salted, fried, pan-seared or grilled,
cooked in a tomato sauce, with wine and onions.
They call you Matjes, Bismarck, and Rollmops in Germany,
Surströmming in Sweden, there is Kipper and Smoked Bloater
in England, Bokking In Holland, Solomon Gundy in Jamaica,
Dag Maluach in Israel…

And that’s not all. Their versatility is endless
and deserves a book, not just a poem.

The humble, amazing herring started its journey
to the table of the elite in the smokers and vats of the poor.
They were plentiful and easy to catch, easy to preserve,
nutritious and healthy. And, like cheap housing,
over time they were ‘gentrified’, gained gourmet status.
They became socially acceptable.