Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
All the morning at home lying in bed with my wife till 11 o’clock. Such a habit we have got this winter of lying long abed. Dined at home, and in the afternoon to the office. There sat late, and so home and to bed.
lying with my clock
such a habit we have
this winter-long
afternoon at home
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 14 December 1661.
What is that joy
which doesn't yet
arrive in answer to
our supplications?
The blinds are stuck
and the shade can only
cover half the window,
open half to light.
Leaves on the ground
anticipate the winter, but
bare branches hold themselves
open to the idea of fruit.
At home all the morning, being by the cold weather, which for these two days has been frost, in some pain in my bladder. Dined at home and then with my wife to the Paynter’s, and there she sat the first time to be drawn, while I all the while stood looking on a pretty lady’s picture, whose face did please me extremely. At last, he having done, I found that the dead colour of my wife is good, above what I expected, which pleased me exceedingly. So home and to the office about some special business, where Sir Williams both were, and from thence with them to the Steelyard, where my Lady Batten and others came to us, and there we drank and had musique and Captain Cox’s company, and he paid all, and so late back again home by coach, and so to bed.
the pain in paint
her drawn face
the dead color of the ice
out in the yard
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 13 December 1661.
When my father died, a hummingbird knocked on the casket's glass
and woke me up. Its jeweled wings flashed before it flew away.
Someone cried, It's his soul coming back to give us a sign.
I wish I knew with certainty if this was true.
I startled awake to a momentary flash of jeweled wings.
How do we know what form we take after we've left our bodies?
I wish I could tell you if this memory was true.
The heart is veined, red as pulsing coral and small as a fist.
I wish I knew what form we take after we leave our bodies.
When a beekeeper dies, someone's sent to tell the bees.
The heart is veined, red as pulsing coral and small as a fist;
but the banner draped over the hive is dark as grief.
When a beekeeper dies, someone's sent to tell the bees. Is it
more painful, not knowing something's gone from the world?
The banner draped over the hive is dark as grief.
The years have frayed its edges but it ripples in the wind.
I'd want to know if someone I loved was gone from the world.
Someone cried, It's his soul coming back to give us a sign.
The years have frayed the edges but it ripples in the wind.
When my father died, a hummingbird beat on the casket's glass.
We lay long in bed, then up and made me ready, and by and by come Will Bowyer and Mr. Gregory, my old Exchequer friend, to see me, and I took them to the Dolphin and there did give them a good morning draft, and so parted, and invited them and all my old Exchequer acquaintance to come and dine with me there on Wednesday next.
From thence to the Wardrobe and dined with my Lady, where her brother, Mr. John Crew, dined also, and a strange gentlewoman dined at the table as a servant of my Lady’s; but I knew her not, and so I am afeard that poor Madamoiselle was gone, but I since understand that she is come as housekeeper to my Lady, and is a married woman. From thence to Westminster to my Lord’s house to meet my Lord Privy Seal, who appointed to seal there this afternoon, but by and by word is brought that he is come to Whitehall, and so we are fain to go thither to him, and there we staid to seal till it was so late that though I got leave to go away before he had done, yet the office was done before I could get thither, and so to Sir W. Pen’s, and there sat and talked and drank with him, and so home.
we become old
in acquaintance
with the war
the strange woman
under the house
is no byword
we are hit
as though
for the hit
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 12 December 1661.
My brother Tom and then Mr. Moore came to me this morning, and staid a while with me, and then I went out, and in my way met with Mr. Howell the Turner, who invited me to dine this day at Mr. Rawlinson’s with some friends of his, officers of the Towre, at a venison pasty, which I promised him, and so I went to the Old Bayly, and there staid and drank with him, who told me the whole story how Pegg Kite has married herself to a weaver, an ugly fellow, to her undoing, of which I am glad that I have nothing to do in it. From thence home and put on my velvet coat, and so to the Mitre to dinner according to my promise this morning, but going up into the room I found at least 12 or more persons, and knew not the face of any of them, so I went down again, and though I met Mr. Yong the upholster yet I would not be persuaded to stay, but went away and walked to the Exchequer, and up and down, and was very hungry, and from thence home, when I understand Mr. Howell was come for me to go thither, but I am glad I was not at home, and my wife was gone out by coach to Clerkenwell to see Mrs. Margaret Pen, who is at school there. So I went to see Sir W. Pen, who for this two or three days has not been well, and he and I after some talk took a coach and went to Moorfields, and there walked, though it was very cold, an hour or two, and went into an alehouse, and there I drank some ale and eat some bread and cheese, but he would not eat a bit, and so being very merry we went home again. He to his lodgings and I by promise to Sir W. Batten’s, where he and my lady have gone out of town, and so Mrs. Martha was at home alone, and Mrs. Moore and there I supped upon some good things left of yesterday’s dinner there, where dined a great deal of company — Sir R. Browne and others — and by and by comes in Captain Cox who promised to be here with me, but he staid very late, and had been drinking somewhere and was very drunk, and so very capricious, which I was troubled to see in a man that I took for a very wise and wary man. So I home and left him there, and so to bed.
some old velvet face
some cold hour
some ale
some bread alone
some yesterday’s captain
some untroubled bed
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 11 December 1661.
The refrigerator hums; ice
crescents fall through
the night in a tray.
Soft lint gathers in the mouth
of the trap, as heat tumbles
our clothes dry.
By the front steps, spikes
of rosemary. Even in almost-winter,
their scent curls into the underground.
The paradox of distance is
it can always be halved
and halved again.
A rice grain falls
without sound. A hundred
of them make the sound of rain.
To Whitehall, and there finding Mons. Eschar to be gone, I sent my letters by a porter to the posthouse in Southwark to be sent by despatch to the Downs. So to dinner to my Lord Crew’s by coach, and in my way had a stop of above an hour and a half, which is a great trouble this Parliament time, but it cannot be helped. However I got thither before my Lord come from the House, and so dined with him, and dinner done, home to the office, and there sat late and so home.
gone south
to stop time
I cannot help
my house of ice
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 10 December 1661.
I know that a group of buffalos
is called an obstinacy, and a group
of owls is a parliament. I learned
Pangea is the name of a continent
that existed 200 million years ago,
and how to write a five-paragraph theme.
From high school I remember the Pythagorean
theorem, but not the formula for the quadratic
equation or the slope-intercept form of a line.
I know there are questions no one has found
a proper answer for— like, is there any thought
that's truly original? or, where do things
we have forgotten go? Now and then someone
asks about what the difference is between prose
and poetry. One could talk about structures
like sentences and paragraphs vs. lines and stanzas,
patterns that repeat according to the design dictated
by meaning and metaphor. Emily Dickinson said
poetry is what made her feel the top of her head
had been taken off; and Mary Oliver wrote about
how the language of the poem is the language of
particulars. In either prose or poetry, one
could write of a column of chickens or an armory
of aardvarks, and somewhere in there is the little
frisson of pleasure from rubbing two sticks together.
There's no flame but there's fire, leaping from word
to image to some surprising view of the world.
To Whitehall, and thence to the Rhenish wine-house, where I met Mons. Eschar and there took leave of him, he being to go this night to the Downs towards Portugall, and so spent all the morning. At noon to dinner to the Wardrobe; where my Lady Wright was, who did talk much upon the worth and the desert of gallantry; and that there was none fit to be courtiers, but such as have been abroad and know fashions. Which I endeavoured to oppose; and was troubled to hear her talk so, though she be a very wise and discreet lady in other things. From thence Mr. Moore and I to the Temple about my law business with my cozen Turner, and there we read over T. Trice’s answer to my bill and advised thereupon what to do in his absence, he being to go out of town to-morrow. Thence he and I to Mr. Walpole, my attorney, whom I never saw before, and we all to an alehouse hard by, and there we talked of our business, and he put me into great hopes, but he is but a young man, and so I do not depend so much upon his encouragement. So by coach home, and to supper, and to bed, having staid up till 12 at night writing letters to my Lord Sandwich and all my friends with him at sea, to send to-morrow by Mons. Eschar, who goes tomorrow post to the Downs to go along with the fleet to Portugall.
at noon on a desert road
out in the absence of tomorrow
I saw a great sea
go down with the fleet
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 9 December 1661.