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 The Sea Was Never Far 

Main Street Rag, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-59948-737-3

80 pages, $14 (+ shipping)

Praise for The Sea Was Never Far


Marion Starling Boyer’s The Sea was Never Far functions as oral history, dramatic monologue, personal mythology, biography framed by white space, and a novel in verse—but thankfully, it is poetry, salt-tinged and music-lush as the sea. Each poem  is an act of lyric ingenuity, offering up a particular voice within the realm of a particular place and time, revived by Boyer’s attention and magic.

                                        -  Diane Seuss, poet and Pulitzer Prize Winner 


Marion Boyer cannot exist. No one person could give such voice to fishermen, millers, widows, thatchers, herring girls, compass adjustors. An entire community rises from the pages of The Sea Was Never Far, not as pale and whispering ghosts, but as individuals with nicknames and failings and skills and stories that invade your head and become your memories. Whether Marion Boyer is ventriloquist or necromancer or medium, it is certain that she is a poet.    - Susan Blackwell Ramsey,                                      Prairie Schooner Book Prize Winner for A Mind Like This.        





Grayson Books


35 pages, $10.00 (+shipping)


This extraordinarily original and powerful collection of poems strikes me as nearly flawless. The poet makes wildly inventive use of sound, metaphor, and imagery, and I deeply admire the poet's willingness to take chances in both craft and idea. Furthermore, they are all strong and brilliantly written, but the manuscript holds together richly and convincingly as a whole...these poems made me smile with delight.


                                        --Edwina Trentham, Competition Judge 

Composing the Rain

The Clock of the Long Now


Mayapple Press 2009


88 pages, $15.95 (+shipping)


about purchase or soup

people count on plums

or peculiarities of weather

to sand the hardwood 

between them with each word.

           A woman sells me stamps

wishes me well, and warns

about rain.

I am in her head and now she's in mine.

I imagine the people de-planing

have traveled to see me,

or the ones criss-crossing on escalators,

them going up, me gliding down

are possible loves sweeping by.

         There are so many ways

never to know another person.

A man behind the fish counter

wraps paper around salmon

in a crisp way, frowning

over the scale so I know

his concern for me

is whittled down to pampering

the silvered flesh he hands across the glass.

Later, I'll unwrap the package like a gift.

Her Favorite Story

     And everyone was quiet

moving to the windows

from their desks and cupboards

or pianos to stand together, watching.

It was the last time 

it snowed on earth.

March. I could tell you

all the facts, the finite dimensions

of depth, durations, degrees

but we reached for it falling.

And it fell so slowly, softly

bandaging edges,

each flake particular.

And for a time

we were monkeys

and monks, kicking

through the drifts

or solemn as candles.

It is hard to tell you

of snow. It was

like the ash, but colder.


Finishing Line Press  2003

ISBN 1-932755-01-2

32 pages, $12.00 (+ shipping)