Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

 

My Answer to Sor Juana’s Sonnet as Translated Into English by Rhina Espaillat

Sor Juana’s Sonnet:
Today, my treasure, when I said my part,
since in your face and gestures I perceived
that all my words, though true, were not believed,
I longed to let you see my naked heart;
and Love, who lent assistance to my art,
what seemed at first impossible achieved:
for as the tears flowed more the more I grieved,
my heart dissolved away and oozed apart.
No more of all this anger, love, no more:
let every doubt that troubles you be banned—
those phantom fears that wound you to the core,
those lying signs that your suspicions fanned—
since you have seen and felt the liquid pour
in which my heart has run into your hand.

My Answer:
So much you had to say about my part.
If you would let me voice what I perceived
then I am sure, dear friend, though scarce believed,
you’d understand with love my naked heart,
see my abject devotion to my art,
that only in my love for you achieved
its true completion, tore my Self apart.
You are my inspiration. And the more I grieved
the more I grew. Vexation is no more.
And thus I order anger to be banned,
no wounds, no pain that pierces to the core,
those ghosts that once suspicions fanned
transferred their power, and —as liquid— pour
clear love into my heart, into my hand.

 

The World of the Painter

Can you prove you are who you say you are?
I see a two-headed bird.

Animal, mineral or plant. remember that game?
When I paint you, when I see the snake,
the flying fish, the horned dog, the airborne house,
I remember paradise lost. Or gained perhaps.
I see multi-dimensional worlds, populated by magic,
animated by a willful universe.

What did she say? Life has no obligation to give you
what you expect. I see through layers of so-called
reality. I make things up. It’s not always deep
but amusing. Follow me into a world where nothing
you learned makes any sense. Stay with me so we may
explore together a realm that disconcerts.

Once you’ve passed through my Netherworld
you’ll come back perceiving the absurdities
of a reality that never was.

 

Magic Markers

The memory train
passes stations
that have long since closed for service.
Eyes in windows—hollow black sockets—
follow the dreamer.

Nameless things with wings
are leaving the eaves,
rising up high into mind space,
settling softly on flotsam
ostensibly discarded eons ago
to lighten the journey.

Wondrous transformation:
sackcloth and ashes
become precious lace
with the help of magic markers.