End Times

As a child told to read the Bible, I’d skip ahead to the end,
to Revelations: plague, hail, beasts, burning. Apocalyptic.

The end’s foreshadowed by arrogance, by bland indifference
as statesmen stir up wars for spoils in this apocalypse.

Without protection, more whales and dolphins drag themselves
onto beaches to die. We’ll perish with them in the apocalypse.

Nowadays, so many movies and novels seem truer
than fiction: beautiful and sad because apocalyptic.

They start with some clear sense of the world
as it was before it turned apocalyptic:

people in parks, drinking coffee, eating in restaurants.
Then they’re falling down in ERs and it turns apocalyptic.

There’s a mass exodus as cities burn. Where will they go?
There’s only one world and it’s become apocalyptic.

Zika, Ebola, Avian Flu; melting icecaps, global warming;
zombies, wars, migrations, refugees: in a word, apocalyptic.

I step outside today into warm sunshine and feel a ripple
of cold. No one outraces time when it turns apocalyptic.

Closeted

(Lord’s day). Up, and my cold continuing in great extremity I could not go out to church, but sat all day (a little time at dinner excepted) in my closet at the office till night drawing up a second letter to Mr. Coventry about the measure of masts to my great satisfaction, and so in the evening home, and my uncle and aunt Wight came to us and supped with us, where pretty merry, but that my cold put me out of humour. At night with my cold, and my eye also sore still, to bed.

I could not go to church
except in my closet

wing of my evening
up with that cold cold eye


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 6 March 1663/64.

Will you live to see it?*

I’m not sure I know what’s meant by legal recourse.

Men in vests took B away from us after we came off the plane.

We had the necessary paperwork but were told: not from your country.

I don’t know where our luggage has been taken.

I had milk powder and diapers for the baby, who has not stopped crying.

My daughter wet herself and we don’t have a change of clothes.

We are frantic with worry and soon short of cash.

A grandmother in a wheelchair is sobbing while chewing the edge of her shawl.

There are bars on the high window of our cell.

They’ve given us blankets that look like sheets of foil.

We cannot see a road but know there is one because we hear passing vehicles.

On tiptoe, we can see the dark blue edge of a mountain in the distance.

The ominous curve of the moon.

* ~ in part, after an acrylic painting with the same title, by Ulysses Duterte. Also in response to story on Afghan family of 5 detained at airport.

One-sided

Up and to the office, where, though I had a great cold, I was forced to speak much upon a publique meeting of the East India Company, at our office; where our own company was full, and there was also my Lord George Barkeley, in behalfe of the company of merchants (I suppose he is on that company), who, hearing my name, took notice of me, and condoled my cozen Edward Pepys’s death, not knowing whose son I was, nor did demand it of me. We broke up without coming to any conclusion, for want of my Lord Marlborough.
We broke up and I to the ‘Change, where with several people and my uncle Wight to drink a dish of coffee, and so home to dinner, and then to the office all the afternoon, my eye and my throat being very bad, and my cold increasing so as I could not speak almost at all at night. So at night home to supper, that is a posset, and to bed.

the bark of merchants
who took no dole
not knowing any want

we the people
all throat
could not speak


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 5 March 1663/64.

The Last Meal of Cristina Padual

1

The rise of still life painting
in the early 1600s, according to art
history, reflected the growing urbanization
of society: a rising merchant class,
influx of ideas on how to live and spend
new wealth (including sugar and slaves)
trickling in from varied ports across
the globe. And thus upon a damask tablecloth,
a spread of wine in crystal decanters, some
carcass of roast pheasant or quail, quartered
lemons, flowers in a vase beginning to wilt,
an hourglass or sputtering candle— all
part of the conceit of “Vanitas,” the empty,
useless nature of material pursuit.

2

Is this then still life too, this last forsaken meal
on a makeshift dining table somewhere on Commonwealth
Avenue in the middle of a humid night in March, now
cordoned off with crime scene tape? The newspaper says
she was a “guest relations officer” at a desultory shack
sporting the sign “Virgo Club;” says the man ten feet away
was her partner, allegedly involved in drugs: both of them
killed by masked gunmen riding up on a motorcycle.
A plateful of rice, dull silver spoon; sardines
in tomato sauce from a can: food achingly familiar
to the poor. And just beyond the empty glass, five
slices of watermelon, a few eaten almost to the rind.
The plastic yellow monobloc chair smeared with blood
that caught her head and torso when she fell.


~ based on a photograph taken by I-Witness documentarist and photojournalist Howie Severino; Manila, Philippines; used with permission of Howie Severino. Twitter: @Howieseverino

Ephemera

Up, my eye being pretty well, and then by coach to my Lord Sandwich, with whom I spoke, walking a good while with him in his garden, which and the house is very fine, talking of my Lord Peterborough’s accounts, wherein he is concerned both for the foolery as also inconvenience which may happen upon my Lord Peterborough’s ill-stating of his matters, so as to have his gaine discovered unnecessarily. We did talk long and freely that I hope the worst is past and all will be well. There were several people by trying a new-fashion gun brought my Lord this morning, to shoot off often, one after another, without trouble or danger, very pretty.
Thence to the Temple, and there taking White’s boat down to Woolwich, taking Mr. Shish at Deptford in my way, with whom I had some good discourse of the Navy business. At Woolwich discoursed with him and Mr. Pett about iron worke and other businesses, and then walked home, and at Greenwich did observe the foundation laying of a very great house for the King, which will cost a great deale of money. So home to dinner, and my uncle Wight coming in he along with my wife and I by coach, and setting him down by the way going to Mr. Maes we two to my Lord Sandwich’s to visit my Lady, with whom I left my wife discoursing, and I to White Hall, and there being met by the Duke of Yorke, he called me to him and discoursed a pretty while with me about the new ship’s dispatch building at Woolwich, and talking of the charge did say that he finds always the best the most cheape, instancing in French guns, which in France you may buy for 4 pistoles, as good to look to as others of 16, but not the service.
I never had so much discourse with the Duke before, and till now did ever fear to meet him. He found me and Mr. Prin together talking of the Chest money, which we are to blame not to look after.
Thence to my Lord’s, and took up my wife, whom my Lady hath received with her old good nature and kindnesse, and so homewards, and she home, I ‘lighting by the way, and upon the ‘Change met my uncle Wight and told him my discourse this afternoon with Sir G. Carteret in Maes’ business, but much to his discomfort, and after a dish of coffee home, and at my office a good while with Sir W. Warren talking with great pleasure of many businesses, and then home to supper, my wife and I had a good fowle to supper, and then I to the office again and so home, my mind in great ease to think of our coming to so good a respect with my Lord again, and my Lady, and that my Lady do so much cry up my father’s usage of her children, and the goodness of the ayre there, found in the young ladies’ faces at their return thence, as she says, as also my being put into the commission of the Fishery, for which I must give my Lord thanks, and so home to bed, having a great cold in my head and throat tonight from my late cutting my hair so close to my head, but I hope it will be soon gone again.

who is concerned
for the foolery of fashion
green and pretty as money

we look at nature
and home in on business

sure of the owl
and the goodness of air
so cold and so close


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 4 March 1663/64.

Escape route

Up pretty early and so to the office, where we sat all the morning making a very great contract with Sir W. Warren for provisions for the yeare coming, and so home to dinner, and there was W. Howe come to dine with me, and before dinner he and I walked in the garden, and we did discourse together, he assuring me of what he told me the other day of my Lord’s speaking so highly in my commendation to my Lord Peterborough and Povy, which speaks my Lord having yet a good opinion of me, and also how well my Lord and Lady both are pleased with their children’s being at my father’s, and when the bigger ladies were there a little while ago, at which I am very glad. After dinner he went away, I having discoursed with him about his own proceedings in his studies, and I observe him to be very considerate and to mind his book in order to preferring himself by my Lord’s favour to something, and I hope to the outing of Creed in his Secretaryship. For he tells me that he is confident my Lord do not love him nor will trust him in any secret matter, he is so cunning and crafty in all he do.
So my wife and I out of doors thinking to have gone to have seen a play, but when we came to take coach, they tell us there are none this week, being the first of Lent. But, Lord! to see how impatient I found myself within to see a play, I being at liberty once a month to see one, and I think it is the best method I could have taken.
But to my office, did very much business with several people till night, and so home, being unwilling to stay late because of my eye which is not yet well of the rheum that is fallen down into it, but to supper and to bed.

where are we come to
what high rough peak

having in my book a secret door to the night
I will fall up


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 3 March 1663/64.

The Immigrant Thinks of State Slogans

We didn’t come here
for the advertised welcome,

for the billboards that say
Virginia is for Lovers or Big

Sky or Liberty & Prosperity,
The Way Life Should Be

Though they sold us
more than a century ago

with talk of milk and honey,
we’ve known only the strife

of the wary, the constant
sacrifice of both our innate

beauty and capacity for sadness:
as if, if we worked long and hard

enough, we’d hew a dwelling
out of our bravest hopes

and ambitions; as if, if we
turned the other cheek or shut

our eyes, our parents would not
be handcuffed and taken away

by border agents; as if our nomad
hearts could find a place to arrive.

The sign once said “guest,”

but I read ghost

The old-new signs said Stay
in your lane, don’t build

your houses next to ours;
don’t send your children

to our schools, don’t
make or eat and drink

your foods where we
can smell them;

don’t stand in front
of the room and teach;

don’t pick up that scalpel
to get under my skin, don’t

quote me science that sounds
suspicious— With any luck

they hope to scrub the insides
of their house, not seemingly

aware of how much they reek
like schools of expiring fish.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Border patrol.

Betrayed

Up, my eye mightily out of order with the rheum that is fallen down into it, however, I by coach endeavoured to have waited on my Lord Sandwich, but meeting him in Chancery Lane going towards the City I stopped and so fairly walked home again, calling at St. Paul’s Churchyarde, and there looked upon a pretty burlesque poem, called “Scarronides, or Virgile Travesty;” extraordinary good. At home to the office till dinner, and after dinner my wife cut my hair short, which is growne pretty long again, and then to the office, and there till 9 at night doing business. This afternoon we had a good present of tongues and bacon from Mr. Shales, of Portsmouth. So at night home to supper, and, being troubled with my eye, to bed. This morning Mr. Burgby, one of the writing clerks belonging to the Council, was with me about business, a knowing man, he complains how most of the Lords of the Council do look after themselves and their own ends, and none the publique, unless Sir Edward Nicholas. Sir G. Carteret is diligent, but all for his own ends and profit. My Lord Privy Seale, a destroyer of every body’s business, and do no good at all to the publique. The Archbishop of Canterbury speaks very little, nor do much, being now come to the highest pitch that he can expect. He tells me, he believes that things will go very high against the Chancellor by Digby, and that bad things will be proved. Talks much of his neglecting the King; and making the King to trot every day to him, when he is well enough to go to visit his cozen Chief-Justice Hide, but not to the Council or King. He commends my Lord of Ormond mightily in Ireland; but cries out cruelly of Sir G. Lane for his corruption; and that he hath done my Lord great dishonour by selling of places here, which are now all taken away, and the poor wretches ready to starve. That nobody almost understands or judges of business better than the King, if he would not be guilty of his father’s fault to be doubtfull of himself, and easily be removed from his own opinion. That my Lord Lauderdale is never from the King’s care nor council, and that he is a most cunning fellow. Upon the whole, that he finds things go very bad every where; and even in the Council nobody minds the publique.

my eye out of order
I fall into a burlesque poem

in which long tongues
mouth my writing

look after themselves and prove
not ready to starve


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 2 March 1663/64.