When everything starts over
after "Bird of the Blue Sun"
woodcut by Jay Seeley
there will be a blue sun
and you and I
will sway like the flowerings
on the floor of the sea.
There will be a new bird
and night will warm
our thoughts with twin
moons, will spread
and scent the ground. And you
and I will find mercy
painted on every stone. Rain
will sing its long song
and you and I. And you and I.
All My Flowers
I know ice whalebone white
green and turquoise,
milky ice, ice blood-red
when the algae blooms; candle ice, pack ice,
pancake ice, and cat ice that glazes
water so thinly a breath would shatter it;
loose crystals in a salt-water slurry;
young ice and its false maturity.
I know the way fast ice locks on
and doesn’t let go;
the gray moire of grease ice, its sheen
of watermarked silk skimming the sea;
and fog ice, mists of diamond dust
that cancel skies, that conjure
multiple and dazzling suns,
bounce prisms, throw halos,
suspend a snow field, inverted, in midair.
The ice gives birth to ice.
The first filaments of ice mating are frazil ice.
Once it develops and grows muscular
Ice battles ice.
The ice barrage explodes in a din
Of booms, cannonades, cracks loud as rifle shots.
And when the ice buries ice
it is entombed with ancient atmospheres.
All my hours are ice hours.
All my flowers are ice flowers.
"All My Flowers," by Marion Starling Boyer,
published by The Pedestal Magazine, issue #85.
Go to The Pedestal Magazine,
to hear an audio of this poem.
AIRSHIP, JANUARY 1915
A piece of smurry night broke off,
silver and fish-shaped. It drifted closer,
shimmering, massive as a god.
The navigation light was a single slow-
moving star and the ship purred as it glided
over. Our upturned faces lit with appalled
fascination. Lost, windblown off course,
the zeppelin lowered, sprinkled the lands
with parachute flares – small fires
wafting down –
and found its way to Yarmouth’s
cluster of coastal lights where Baptists
were closing the midweek prayer meeting
with the refrain singing to welcome
pilgrims of the night. Martha Taylor sat
at home knitting a sock. She set the needles
down before turning the heel, her fingers’
misery worse for the rafty weather.
On the road a dog barked and barked.
Two streets over, Liza walked the floor
with the baby, worn out, in a frap.
An unfamiliar throbbing noise drew Sam
Smith, a cobbler, outside to stand
with others in the wet.
The men in the gondola
wore fur-lined shoes with rubber soles.
They warmed themselves with coffee
from a thermos. One, lying flat on his
stomach, peered through a trap door
and dropped the first aerial bomb
ever to fall on England, and then nine
more, managing to ruin a church, to blow
apart buildings, a fishing drifter, Martha
in her chair and Sam standing in the rain.
"Airship, January, 1915" by Marion Starling Boyer,
from The Sea Was Never Far. Main Street Rag. 2019.
Published by The Atlanta Review as a finalist
for their International Poetry Competition 2018.
(Use requires permission of author).
Antarctica Speaks of the Pack Ice published by
Escape Into Life
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Antarctica Speaks of the Pack Ice
Their territory is a gauzy netherworld
of sea smoke, of black water. Their credo
is freedom. Numberless drifters, the floes
and growlers cruise the decaying fringes
jockeying for position. They collide,
rupture, resuture. Cold thugs, the pack
encircles outsiders and carries them off
or crushes them. My winds are strong
and can drive the pack away, but needles
of skeletal ice always skulk back and bond.
The ice hardens to grease ice and once again
ice initiates ice into the pack.
Toady Tells Me, Over Tea and Tabnabs
For Brian Rudd
My father was Boy Toady and I was
Young Toady. Grandfather was Old Toady
and when he died we all moved up one.
Winterton people had nicknames
because there were too many in the village
with the same name. On a drifter,
there might be two Bob Greens asleep
below so if you're going to call the watch
you need shout up Bob-the-devil
not Bob Crow to get the right one.
In the George family there was Social George,
Cuddy George, Jack Starchy, Bill Starchy,
Eddie Starchy, and Punch George. Punch
George drove a big lorry into Yarmouth.
There'd be about eight hundred men and boys
to cart from Winterton for the fishing. Mute,
(I don't know why they named him Mute) he was
a Goffin, and he had two lorries. There was Fizzle,
Flat, and Fatty, Duff, and Dumps, Jello, Poachy,
Fourboat, and Eric Kettle who we called Teapot.
"Toady Tells Me Over Tea and Tabnabs,"
by Marion Starling Boyer, from
The Sea Was Never Far. Main Street Rag. 2019.
(Use requires permission of author).