Beat Poet Laureate of Maine 2024-2026, Claire Conroy has self published two books of poetry (“Listen” in 2018 and “Silent” in 2022) and a chapbook (“Rumors From Dead Lips” in 2024). Born in Portsmouth, NH, she is a proud board member of the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program and is the coordinator and the host of the open mic, The HOOT. She also started a fundraiser
event called Painting Poetry, combining the Arts for the public to participate. Claire also hosts a Beat Night in Biddeford Maine once a month.
She has been published in over 30 anthologies and has been translated into Hindi by Devesh Path Sariya. She has had the honor of being invited to speak at PoetFest in St Augustine, Florida in 2024, and GonzoFest in New Orleans in 2025. Claire lives in Sanford, Maine and will travel for poetry.
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| Claire Conroy |
Silent
(Previously Published in "Silent" by Claire Conroy)
It is silent.
So very quiet.
My watery thoughts are lonely
And nothing stirs them.
Sentiments sifted into sandy sediments
Settled in the ocean of my mind.
Stillness, surface mirror-like
So that any disturbance may make a wake,
And wake me
From swimming in my Poseidon sleep.
Depths of seaweed drenched dreams.
Gentle swirling blues
Hues of ink, I sink
Deeper into sleep.
Plummeting down.
Drowning, dozing, floating, flying.
Careful not to break the surface
Of my subconscious.
Deeper still,
Into and out of self.
Sirens of slumber
In wonder I whirl
A dervish dance
Under the spell of
These sea nymphs of silence.
Broken waves break my trance.
Awake.
And it is silent.
So very quiet.
Sandy briny ashes
Cling to my eyelashes,
Icarian journey’s memory.
All else is washed away.
Letters Lost
(Previously Published in "World Post Day Anthology" by Sourav Sarkar)
I once wrote beautiful letters.
But there hasn’t been a need
For cursive handwriting
And sentiments in ink
And professions of love
For a long, long time.
I often wonder, if perhaps
You ever wrote letters to me
Of how you traveled and suffered
And triumphed through life
While missing me.
Loving me, hoping for something more
For us, before
Sealing the envelope
And putting it with the others
In the forgotten drawer.
As for me,
I didn’t keep my beautiful handwritten letters.
I sent them.
Was the cost of a postage stamp too much for you then?
Because it costs more now.
So much more.
Pull the Plug of the Ocean
(Previously Published in "2024 National & International Goddess Anthology Honoring Women" by National Beat Poetry Foundation)
I want to let it all go, spiral down,
Let it drown, turn my whole world inside out.
Pull the plug of the ocean, cool the core.
Kissing coal, hissing, streaming steam release.
Like specters rising out of the ashes,
I want to see those ghosts from the West Coast.
There are things suffered that I need to mourn.
I need to cry, wail about, Banshee-like.
I sang and danced on the Bay of Fundy,
Where someone pulled the plug of the ocean.
The sand showed no trace of Leda, Zeus cried.
Cygnus flew West~ I was a speck of dust…
Let the swan stars show the underbelly
With leftover sadness, connect my coasts.
On This Late Summer Early Evening
(Previously Published in The Long Islander's "Walt's Corner")
On this late summer early evening
There’s a nostalgic breeze coming through my window
While my worn thoughts turn to the little things.
How the sun was especially cruel to convince me to hide
Rather than risk bursting into flames.
And when I did venture out into the stifling heat to see
How brittle, and dry the grasses in the marsh had gotten.
With stolen hours, alone in my car, driving on top of
Black snakes patch frost heaves in grey pavement.
When I ventured into the woods to pick the wild blueberries
Only to find my late arrival as well as birds and critters
And the sun had either taken them away or shriveled them.
The verdant leaves had reddened into beautiful hues.
So I sat on the ancient boulder’s ledge to write poetry
About when we swam in Lake Champlain in the rain
We spent nights under the sheets with sandy feet.
Or when a different rain fell and it possessed me to
Strip down and dance to feel tears that weren’t my own.
I hope on this late summer early evening you took the time
To dance in the rain.
