Joan’s poems play with words and invite you to hear and sound them on your ‘big screen’. There’s a rhythm, beauty and depth to be shared. Let the images take you to your realm of impossibility.
Listen to Joan’s May, 2013 blogtalk radio interview that considers ‘kicking up some spray’ in the youtubing world with a blend of word/movement/music: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ns-writers/2013/05/29/a-live-chat-with-poet-joan-boxall
The 2014 North Shore Writers’ Association Poetry Prize-winner, ‘Pink Water-lily’
Night-blooming Pink water-lily,
Nymphaea pubesens or hairy nymph,
opens her latticed ladyfingers
and fills the darkness with fragrance.
From muddy anchors, heart-shaped shoots
lift up a round-leafed dais
where she fleetingly lingers.
She will not strut down
Light’s harsh catwalk.
I would be as cultivated,
when to open,
when to deflect bruise and blemish;
when to clench
she does it all
Why, I’d hybridize and prize her,
while she, passes by my stigma
by way of her p…o…ll…e…n…
When one wonders, one ponders why.
‘I wonder if you could answer my question?
I was just wondering if…’
The astonishing awe of wonder.
The key to wonderland is our own curiosity…
Just wanting to know.
This spectacle for amazement is here, present.
S’wonderful, s’marvelous, s’what I want to see…’ George and Ira Gershwin
‘Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.’ Helen Keller
‘Wonderful, Counsellor…Prince of Peace’ Handel
‘Star of wonder, star of night, star with roya.l beauty bright…’
‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.’
Whether through a child’s wondering eye or our own… let our breath be taken away.
In the Eyja: The Eyjafjallajokull Volcanic Eruption
When the Eyja-land’s mountainous icecap
Shakes loose its entrails,
Our own are loosened, and
We pour out.
Is a cantankerous pot
Left too long to simmer.
The cauldron tips
In a flood of rock and gas:
Spewing, suffocating, poisoning,
In a ferment of boiling anger.
Spilling over land/sea and skyscape,
Eruptions plume and pulverize,
Side to Side
Cracking Shocking Shattering
Shocking Shattering Cracking
Shattering Cracking Shocking
When the storm clouds blacken,
And we see ourselves
In a nervy network;
Spit and spilt on our own uncertain flight path.
Careening toward the abyss,
Wondering in awe.
Did its cataclysmic dis-ruption
Broaden our horizon?
We reach, strain, and groan to comprehend…
Humbled in the Eyja.
Revised from North Shore Writers’ Anthology, ‘Still Running’, used with permission, Rogue Literary Press, 2010 by Joan Boxall, all rights reserved
“Dance with me,” Moon’s languid look
Rests on Palm, and she,
Skittish under his luminous spell,
Her tympanic tapers,
Lustrous ones askew,
Chatter and connive
Across his radiant view.
Hair spiked and tousled,
A nervous schoolgirl’s wiles;
Stray strands wisp and fidget
Under his soulful smiles.
“Dance with me,” Moon beams,
But her fluttering lashes demure.
“You are the essence of Flora!”
Still myriad fans maneuver.
She, with moon-varnished mallets,
Arranging her billowing crinoline,
But Gust uplifts and sweeps her
Away from the enraptured simpleton.
Moon unwaveringly bathes her
Yet all to no avail.
Wind cuts in and dances her from
Moon’s spotlight pearly pale.
Gust twirls her til she’s giddy
Encircling her every whim.
Veil upon veil, the rival’s wand
Casts out any notion of Him.
She welcomes his zephyr with a waltz;
His breeze, an erotic ballet.
Her hula, his waft; her reel, his gale;
Secluded under cloudy duvet.
What happened to our lunar orb
Obscured in layers of cirrus?
Shadowed and elusive
Behind a cumulus-nimbus?
He, so distant an amour
Still makes lovers swoon.
In his tender, dreamy lighting,
He’s his own aloof lampoon.
Adapted from North Shore Writers’ Association Anthology, ‘Still Running’ by Joan Boxall, all rights reserved, used with permission, Rogue Literary Press, 2010
Slacktide is where we go
When the shortest day
Kisses the North Shore,
Cursorily, its icy lips
Take off our lugubrious watch.
Drifts the sun and moon,
We are pulled by a tide
Beyond our control;
Swept by its gravity,
Its ebb ‘n’ flow.
Feeding our senses
With mindless awareness, we’re
Ready to turn:
Freshening the customary.
The rise ‘n’ fall
Carries us away,
To merrily swim
Against it, enabled
To redraw the map.
Dodging the rush,
Floods of memory
In the delightful surge
That loosens the wintry bonds.
Let it rip
Our weighty seriousness
As we peer intertidally
Along Hawaiin shores.
Adapted from ‘Wintertide’, Lynn Valley Literary Society Anthology, used with permission.
Joan Boxall, all rights reserved, ‘Winter Woes & Wonders’, 2009
It arrived as Spring
Whether to come in
He who waits is lost!
‘He who? Phooey!!’
With Its door open a crack,
‘Not so fast!
I’m not finish-sh-sh-ed…nyet!’
And down it came:
The fluffy blanket of frigidity
Frosting sprouts and shoots,
X-raying for one closer look.
Each filament, a delineated limb
Outlined in frosty, white contour;
Against the threatening dullness.
Every shapely stem, sprig or spray;
Defined, outlined, distinct.
Each a chalkmark on a greyboard,
Etched with Its long, bewitching claws;
Unobstructed construction lines.
‘Yes, the foundations are set,
I like it,
It’s fant-arctically n-n-n-ICE:
Adapted from North Shore Writer’s Anthology, 2009, Rogue Literary Press,
used with permission, all rights reserved, Joan Boxall