…got up early the next morning and got to Barkway, where I staid and drank, and there met with a letter-carrier of Cambridge, with whom I rode all the way to Cambridge, my horse being tired, and myself very wet with rain. I went to the Castle Hill, where the judges were at the Assizes; and I staid till Roger Pepys rose and went with him, and dined with his brother, the Doctor, and Claxton at Trinity Hall. Then parted, and I went to the Rose, and there with Mr. Pechell, Sanchy, and others, sat and drank till night and were very merry, only they tell me how high the old doctors are in the University over those they found there, though a great deal better scholars than themselves; for which I am very sorry, and, above all, Dr. Gunning. At night I took horse, and rode with Roger Pepys and his two brothers to Impington, and there with great respect was led up by them to the best chamber in the house, and there slept.
red and wet
as a rose is a rose
the old doctors are better
than the gun I rode in on
Everything we don't understand, we can simply call mystery. Mystery is knowing the first but not the surname of your grandfather. Or mystery is the dead bird that lay on your front step, beautiful and still. A spider web attaches itself to the mailbox every day; this too is mystery. A bigger mystery is how hard you work and never seem to prosper. But mystery is the sudden purpling of fruit in a wilderness of green. After rain, heat; then the mystery of mycelia mapping roots underground. There is more mystery in thin colors than in opulence and brilliance. Fashion isn't interested in mystery that doesn't reveal what's underneath. Mystery is the mouth that kisses every hollow of my body in dreams. I want to cultivate mystery, but I'm not sure it means the same as mystique. Mystery coats glass with mercury or silver, so we can look in the mirror. If you can clearly imagine something, does it lose all its mystery? At night I want to fall quickly and deeply into the mystery of sleep.
At the office all the morning. At noon Dr. Thos. Pepys dined with me, and after dinner my brother Tom came to me and then I made myself ready to get a–horseback for Cambridge. So I set out and rode to Ware, this night, in the way having much discourse with a fellmonger, a Quaker, who told me what a wicked man he had been all his life-time till within this two years. Here I lay, and…
The shortest distance between two points is a line but the shortest distance between you and the poem or the novel you say you want to write (someday, not today) is the first word you write on the page or on the screen, after you hear the couple next door fighting about one or another thing as they always seem to do this time of day while a baby cries somewhere in the background.
But what is the square of the hypotenuse of the right angles formed by a memory of your mother humming as she worked at her sewing machine, the sound of your father laughing late at night while watching the Lucy and Desi Comedy Hour in his bathrobe; and the first sirens that split day from night after the Declaration of Martial Law?
The word theorem comes from the Greek theorema, meaning to look at and see. The Pythagorean theorem has been used in architecture to ascertain the stability and precision of structures, from pyramids to skyscrapers. You can calculate the roof height and pitch angle, but as some photography tricks show, what you see is not always how it is.
You can stand at one end of the garden and I can stand on the porch steps so when I angle my palm a certain way, it would seem you are perched in the hollow of my hand. An observer could say this is also true.
This morning Sir Williams both, and my wife and I and Mrs. Margarett Pen (this first time that I have seen her since she came from Ireland) went by coach to Walthamstow, a-gossiping to Mrs. Browne, where I did give her six silver spoons for her boy. Here we had a venison pasty, brought hot from London, and were very merry. Only I hear how nurse’s husband has spoken strangely of my Lady Batten how she was such a man’s whore, who indeed is known to leave her her estate, which we would fain have reconciled to-day, but could not and indeed I do believe that the story is true. Back again at night home.
As long-time readers of Via Negativa know, Todd Davis is a near neighbor (and deer hunter in Plummer’s Hollow), who’s contributed a number of guest posts over the years. I asked him to write a blog post about his latest collection, and what it means to him to have a “new and selected” out in the world. Here’s the link to order. —Dave
I often hear poets say they write for themselves, and I can’t argue with that. Writing is an act of exploration—of the self to be sure, and for me, more importantly, of what exists beyond the self.
But I’m a writer who makes poems in hope of connecting, of taking a step toward a reader who might, in turn, take a step toward me, toward the words I’ve worked hard to place on the page.
I’m a writer who toils over poems with the hope of representing the experiences of those whose lives are seldom written about, seldom noticed. I want my poems to leave a record of a place, of its flora and fauna, its people and the living earth that makes all lives, our very existence, possible.
Having grown up and lived in the Rust Belt my entire life, with deep roots in Appalachia on both sides of my family in Kentucky and Virginia, I want my poems to mean something to people like my grandparents and aunts and uncles, my cousins. Folks who don’t have much experience with poems, who most likely don’t see themselves in the poems that are celebrated. I want my home along the Allegheny Front to have a place in poetry, to tell a story worth telling, to make it sing in verse.
I suppose this desire is rooted in my own reading experience and the fact I didn’t discover poems that seemed possible for me to live into for a long time. I still remember the moment I finished reading Galway Kinnell’s “The Bear” for the first time when I was twenty-four years old. How in the last section when he questions “what, anyway, / was that sticky infusion, that rank flavor of blood, that poetry by which I lived?” the entire poem turned, dislocating me for a moment, unsettling me so I could see something new.
I was thrilled at the way a narrative poem suddenly, unexpectedly, became something else, turning while not abandoning the strength of its narrative. This happened again when I read Maxine Kumin’s “Excrement Poem,” and again with the farming poems of Wendell Berry, and yet again with the factory poems of Philip Levine and Jim Daniels. Over the decades many, many poets have changed the person and writer I am. They’ve helped me grow and understand far more than I could individually.
From Donika Kelly to Mary Oliver, from Robert Wrigley to Brigit Pegeen Kelly, from Tyree Daye to Jim Harrison and Jan Beatty and Ted Kooser and Jane Kenyon and Ross Gay and William Stafford and Lucille Clifton and James Wright and and and . . . . Far too many poets to name, but all of them precious to me. They helped me to believe that the places I lived and the people I lived among were worthy of attention, even adoration, of grief and sorrow, and especially of wonder.
Coincidentally, I discovered many poets through their “new and selected” volumes, those books that offer an overview of poetry careers. I surely never dreamed I’d someday have a new & selected collection of my own work.
But here in my 59th year—a long way from the first poems I tried to write in college and more than thirty years after my first poems were accepted by a little magazine in Aurora, Illinois, called Gothic Light—I found myself looking back over my previous seven books, wondering what poems I’d give to a reader who’s never encountered my work.
With the help of my publisher, Michigan State University Press, I selected poems from those books and added thirty new poems for the first section. I left behind so many poems that I wished to include, but a “new and selected” is not a “collected.” Something must always be left out.
Perhaps what’s most special for me about Ditch Memory: New & Selected Poems is the foreword written by David James Duncan. David’s writing entered my life in grad school when I read his iconic novel The River Why. He’s a kindred spirit on the page, but I didn’t meet him for more than twenty years after I first read his words. It was a mutual friend who suggested I send David my third book, The Least of These. And I did and held my breath.
Would I hear back from a writer whose work meant so much to me? If I did hear, would it be a simple thanks, a bland and dismissive nod of acknowledgment?
Instead, in March 2010, I received a nine-page, single-spaced letter. In that missive, David listed titles of poems that had moved him, connected with him. Sometimes a few words, sometimes voluminous paragraphs, speaking back to my poems, back to me.
I cannot begin to explain how that letter buoyed me, floated me in a way that said what I was doing mattered, that I should continue to try to make poems, to grow in that making.
When David said he’d write a foreword for Ditch Memory—as surreal as that still seems to me, although we’ve sat with our feet in a streambed together, shared meals with each other—it brought to mind that old hymn “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?”
This book feels like an unbroken circle, looping out from the self, joining with so many living beings—wildflowers and trees and all sorts of mammals and birds and insects, fungi sprouting and then disappearing, the people I’ve lived among or who lived before me, their stories handed down to me as something valuable to be saved and to be shared. The violence of this life is certainly in my poems, but there is also love. Grief and sorrow enter but also peace and joy.
Whenever a writer publishes a book, they have hopes for that book. Mine are simple for Ditch Memory. That something in the pages will matter to a reader, that it will make them value life a bit more, love some particular part of it in a way that might help us restore this world that is our home.
Singing-master came to me this morning; then to the office all the morning. In the afternoon I went to the Theatre, and there I saw “The Tamer Tamed” well done. And then home, and prepared to go to Walthamstow to-morrow. This night I was forced to borrow 40l. of Sir W. Batten.
