“All that has dark sounds has duende.”
~ Manuel Torre, via Federico Garcia Lorca
It is cold and the windows rattle.
On their surface, reflections of indoor plants—
those heart-shaped leaves with holes
through which the old questions leak,
and they wait to see what you might do
with these old-new sorrows.
I want to pump my fists and yell
into the air I don't know, why do you
think I should know what to do, then
collapse in a heap like my mothers
when spent, at the height
of their own upheavals.
Then someone might come
to help them into bed or feed them
a drink of water, stroke their hair,
hold their hands; after which
their sobs might gentle
into fitful sleep.
And still they knew they would need
to wake, gather the fragments of old-
new wounds into a knot, pat their hair
back into place; wield the kitchen knife
over the scarred back of a wooden
chopping board, so a mosaic of mutilated
onions would tinge our stews.
Change agent
By appointment, we all went this morning to wait upon the Duke of York, which we did in his chamber, as he was dressing himself in his riding suit to go this day by sea to the Downs. He is in mourning for his wife’s grandmother, which is thought a great piece of fondness. After we had given him our letter relating the bad condition of the Navy for want of money, he referred it to his coming back and so parted, and I to Whitehall and to see la belle Pierce, and so on foot to my Lord Crew’s, where I found him come to his new house, which is next to that he lived in last; here I was well received by my Lord and Sir Thomas, with whom I had great talk: and he tells me in good earnest that he do believe the Parliament (which comes to sit again the next week), will be troublesome to the Court and Clergy, which God forbid! But they see things carried so by my Lord Chancellor and some others, that get money themselves, that they will not endure it. From thence to the Theatre, and there saw “Father’s own Son” again, and so it raining very hard I went home by coach, with my mind very heavy for this my expensefull life, which will undo me, I fear, after all my hopes, if I do not take up, for now I am coming to lay out a great deal of money in clothes for my wife, I must forbear other expenses.
To bed, and this night began to lie in the little green chamber, where the maids lie, but we could not a great while get Nell to lie there, because I lie there and my wife, but at last, when she saw she must lie there or sit up, she, with much ado, came to bed.
dressing in mourning
I live as I believe
in some thin chance
and the rain coming
to green us up
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 13 November 1661.
Birch: A Ghazal
I recently learned that Björk is a common
girl's name in Sweden, and it also means birch.
Once, some students were playing a game in which they named
each of their professors after a singer or a band; and I got Björk.
I was amused, and wondered: did it mean they imagined me
with a live swan draped around my neck like a scarf, like Björk;
or thought I was cool, avant-garde, in a class of my own?
In a forest of elms, oaks and chestnuts, a fragrant silver birch.
Bright green and saw-toothed at the edges, leaves turn
amber in fall. In fading light, a grove of silvery birch
is beautiful. Lorca, who taught about the spirit and power of duende,
was dragged out of a house and shot in an olive grove, not birch.
November, Aftermath
At the women's gathering,
the lecturer from Ukraine tells us
how her daughter's Mexican tutor
tenses up when she asks her how she
has been doing this past week.
*
Overnight, wind gusts
have shaken down
almost all remaining
leaves on the trees.
*
And it's been weeks, but
I'm still unsure what animal—
badger, coon, or cat—has been
leaving its scat at the edge
of the deck.
*
Will we have to learn
secret gestures, secret
words, as part of keeping
each other safe?
*
Part of me feels
it's futile to start unboxing
the Christmas lights;
but the dark is even more
dark now, everywhere.
*
Somewhere in the world,
rigiht now, there are people
who call each other by name,
knowing they exist.
Entangled
At the office all the morning. Dined at home alone. So abroad with Sir W. Pen. My wife and I to “Bartholomew Fayre,” with puppets which I had seen once before, and the play without puppets often, but though I love the play as much as ever I did, yet I do not like the puppets at all, but think it to be a lessening to it. Thence to the Greyhound in Fleet Street, and there drank some raspberry sack and eat some sasages, and so home very merry.
This day Holmes come to town; and we do expect hourly to hear what usage he hath from the Duke and the King about this late business of letting the Swedish Embassador go by him without striking his flag.
to play without love
like puppets in a grey sack
ages us in this business
of letting go
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 12 November 1661.
Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 45
A personal selection of posts from the Poetry Blogging Network and beyond. Although I tend to quote my favorite bits, please do click through and read the whole posts. You can also browse the blog digest archive at Via Negativa or, if you’d like it in your inbox, subscribe on Substack (where the posts might be truncated by some email providers).
This week: notes on self-preservation, walking through fire, soundlessly mouthing the syllables for “beloved”, the gunpowder plot, the intimacies of the woods, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 45”Another minor atrocity
To the Wardrobe, and with Mr. Townsend and Moore to the Saracen’s Head to a barrel of oysters, and so Mr. Moore and I to Tom Trice’s, with whom I did first set my hand to answer to a writt of his this tearm. Thence to the Wardrobe to dinner, and there by appointment met my wife, who had by my direction brought some laces for my Lady to choose one for her. And after dinner I went away, and left my wife and ladies together, and all their work was about this lace of hers.
Captain Ferrers and I went together, and he carried me the first time that ever I saw any gaming house, to one, entering into Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields, at the end of Bell Yard, where strange the folly of men to lay and lose so much money, and very glad I was to see the manner of a gamester’s life, which I see is very miserable, and poor, and unmanly.
And thence he took me to a dancing school in Fleet Street, where we saw a company of pretty girls dance, but I do not in myself like to have young girls exposed to so much vanity.
So to the Wardrobe, where I found my Lady had agreed upon a lace for my wife of 6l, which I seemed much glad of that it was no more, though in my mind I think it too much, and I pray God keep me so to order myself and my wife’s expenses that no inconvenience in purse or honour follow this my prodigality. So by coach home.
a head left out
in the yard of a school
where we do not like
to think too much
and pray that no inconvenience
follow this prodigality
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 11 November 1661.
Pitimini
My mother called them pitimini roses—
pitimini, pitimini, she'd croon as she worked
on pots and garden beds—miniature blooms
that have been bred to bud smaller than regular
roses, but in just as many colors. Only much later
did I realize these are the kinds that nurseries
label "petite minis" — some of them thornless,
or only sporting milder prickles that can still
embed themselves on the surface of a finger.
The saying goes, a rose by any other name is
just as sweet—but as she worked, talking to
her roses, I sometimes thought that she
was really saying pity me, pity me—which is why
they let her pluck and gather them in her hands.
View from the center
(Lord’s day). At our own church in the morning, where Mr. Mills preached. Thence alone to the Wardrobe to dinner with my Lady, where my Lady continues upon yesterday’s discourse still for me to lay out money upon my wife, which I think it is best for me to do for her honour and my own. Last night died Archibald, my Lady’s butler and Mrs. Sarah’s brother, of a dropsy, which I am troubled at.
In the afternoon went and sat with Mr. Turner in his pew at St. Gregory’s, where I hear our Queen Katherine, the first time by name as such, publickly prayed for, and heard Dr. Buck upon “Woe unto thee, Corazin,” &c., where he started a difficulty, which he left to another time to answer, about why God should give means of grace to those people which he knew would not receive them, and deny to others which he himself confesses, if they had had them, would have received them, and they would have been effectual too. I would I could hear him explain this, when he do come to it. Thence home to my wife, and took her to my Aunt Wight’s, and there sat a while with her (my uncle being at Katharine hill), and so home, and I to Sir W. Batten’s, where Captain Cock was, and we sent for two bottles of Canary to the Rose, which did do me a great deal of hurt, and did trouble me all night, and, indeed, came home so out of order that I was loth to say prayers to-night as I am used ever to do on Sundays, which my wife took notice of and people of the house, which I was sorry for.
the war continues
on our own public other
those people I took
as bottles of hurt
all out of prayers
to a Sunday knot
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 10 November 1661.
Beautiful
What a beautiful family, others say,
piecing together a story they see
in photographs—us, smiling and in our good
clothes before a Christmas tree; celebrating
birthdays and graduations, travel and visits
from friends. How else could one respond
to what's offered as compliment, except
say Thank you? But half the time,
it seems a dishonesty—as if I could take
credit for something I cultivated and shaped
the way I might write and edit a manuscript:
tightening the gaps, choosing the best
order; gently trying to ease my daughters' hurts
so they learn to walk this constantly harrowing
life without giving all they are to suffering, to
sadness. And they are beautiful. Their visions
dart like bright fish in the waters, even when
a chemistry in their constitutions rakes and
churns the currents, whips up winds of anxiety
as if toying with the trust they want to continue
to place in the world. I only desire a little
space for consolation; to know, before I
leave this world or it leaves us,
beauty before any betrayal.

