Editor’s note: Nancy Anne Miller, a Bermudian poet, has published ten collections of poetry. We feature six of her poems here. While ‘Missing Hurricanes’ expresses a wistful longing for the exhilaration and transformative power of hurricanes and island life, ‘Infinite’ captures the boundless joy and timeless wonder of childhood summers spent on the beach. ‘Chiclets’ and ‘Sticky’ depict the sensory richness of Bermuda, celebrating its colours, flavours, and cultural charm. ‘Thank You Enid Blyton’ expresses gratitude for the author’s books that ignited the reader’s imagination and thirst for adventure. ‘Sun Drunk’ embraces the intoxicating allure of the island, inviting readers to immerse themselves in its mesmerizing and dreamlike ambiance.

The shape of hurricane Fiona on the weather map

might as well be a bubble about to burst I streamed

across the porch when I blew soapy water 

through a loop.  It might as well be the flopper

bud of the Life Plant, we as children would 

pop between fingers. Or, an elongated net 

I used to chase Gulf Frittary butterflies

in the sage bush full field between Lovers Lane 

and Highwood, because the photo on the weather map 

has me missing hurricanes as if they are a frolic.

It might as well be anything that provokes island

skylarking because I miss being in one. I miss

the roaring sound, a steam roller overhead,

a rolling pin pressing us down deep into lives

seven hundred miles out at sea. The boarded up 

windows like eyes shut in grim anticipation. I

miss the ocean rising like a mermaid from sleep,

each wave an unrolled map claiming more space.

I miss waiting like during the Blitz in England,

squatting down in the root cellar with flashlight, 

blanket, tea. I miss the shark’s oil in a bottle,

an amulet worn by the house. I miss the wild eye

it becomes, swirled and clenched as the clouds above,

like fists punching into the grey sky. I miss the owning

of the isle, we Bermudians then make, the coming            

outside after we sustained the howl of a licking, 

as if we had been good, earned the warming light.

The round corner table on Coral Beach 

Club Beach Terrace with a center hole

for a canvas umbrella, is like a belly button,

a circular spot which mothers so many.

How could we not be infants above where 

waves diaper chubby pink sand, surf clings

like towels aunts gently put on our wet and    

rosy shoulders? How could we not feel in-

finite in the high hot heat, waiting for 

tomato sandwiches, iced tea, strawberry 

ice cream as the tide unravels a calendar-

less summer? Suspended in airy light

as the wooden axis above our heads 

is a water wheel in sky’s blue, mimics

a noon day turning when the clock’s hands 

meet to clap the sun’s arc, the sea’s twirl.

The Chiclets I would buy from 

Paget Pharmacy: pink, yellow, 

orange, poured into my hand,

like teeth filled with island colour 

‘licked’ by sun tone vurds 

said. Not allowed to chew in 

public, as if gum is a rubber band,

joins jaws, to masticate a nefarious            

thought. Not allowed to talk in 

a thick accent, less lush language        

lures me into an island’s stupor. 

Edwards, the West Indian gardener 

brought us sugar cane. I minced 

chalky fibers, extracted sticky 

juice, spat out thready stalk. 

Like a word in the salt air  

sveets me, drips a melliferous  

tone, harmonizes high humid

hours, sea humming waves, 

kiskadee alerts, before she

is wrung out from de use. 

For the windblown bobbing

hair of Julian, Dick, Anne,

Jo and Timmy as they merrily

trod a path of mystery while

eating tomato sandwiches.

Thank you Eileen Sofir for

luminous illustrations that 

made solving the clues equal 

to a day in Britain’s blustery 

weather, where a glorious

sun would settle the question   

of how it ends. Thank you 

for torches shining into 

seaside caves, like these 

books were what brought 

a light to my darkness, to

expose hidden meanings

of words, learn not reading  

was a crime. Thank you for 

the castle in Treasure Island, 

the turret to stave off intruders, 

look in a circular manner,

like text fortifies the mind, 

gives an overview, a place 

to observe meaning. The turret, 

a chess piece used to eliminate 

the opponent, hopping about on        

a board, like hopscotch played 

by Julian, Dick, Anne, Jo, 

before they became famous.   
    

Like a beehive of stacked

trays, the closed shutters drip 

a honeyed light into 

the busy Paget morning.

Each early hour nectarous

as Mopeds, Zundaps buzz 

down Harbour Rd. on 

the way to town, before 

the shutter is pushed up 

at an angle, so the sun like 

a grated persimmon or ‘June

Fruit’ drips sticky juice into 

a languid island afternoon. 

How did we move in such 

a liquidous heat? Madras 

blouses, pants from Bamboo 

Gate stuck to our backs,

thighs with perspiration 

stains like a wrinkled papaya. 

Sweat salting our slowed 

down bodies with sodium, 

the taste of it bitter on our warm 

lips, as if to help us able to 

bear all the abiding sweetness.  

The pink, pink hibiscus

with its stigma like a swizzle

stick in an island drink

splashes petals on this

hot day as if a bartender

swirls it through a rum 

punch. So many ways

to get sun drunk on 

a semitropical day. 

The loll of waves rolls in,

out, hypnotizes one

to sleepiness, humidity

sticks ligaments to air,

makes movements slow,

dull, clumsy. The light

flashes off everything,

a flash camera’s shot

of you, makes it hard to 

think while you blink,

pull a shadow along, burden 

in the sea spray air. Exude 

a saltiness, like stains 

from rocking in ocean’s 

unsteady waves, get

tipsy, until you stumble 

out, leg heavy,

a drunk walking home.