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Posted on by Dave Bonta

Divided loyalties

To White Hall to the Privy Seal, where my Lord Privy Seal did tell us he could seal no more this month, for that he goes thirty miles out of town to keep his Christmas. At which I was glad, but only afeard lest any thing of the King’s should force us to go after him to get a seal in the country.
Thence to Westminster Hall (having by the way drank with Mrs. Sarah and Mrs. Betty at my Lord’s lodgings), and thence taken by some Exchequer men to the Dogg, where, being St. Thomas’s day, by custom they have a general meeting at dinner. There I was and all very merry, and there I spoke to Mr. Falconberge to look whether he could out of Domesday Book, give me any thing concerning the sea, and the dominion thereof; which he says he will look after. Thence taking leave to my brother’s, and there by appointment met with Prior of Brampton who had money to pay me, but desiring some advice he stays till Monday. So by coach home to the office, where I was vexed to see Sir Williams both seem to think so much that I should be a little out of the way, saying that without their Register they were not a Committee, which I took in some dudgeon, and see clearly that I must keep myself at a little distance with them and not crouch, or else I shall never keep myself up even with them. So home and wrote letters by the post. This evening my wife come home from christening Mrs. Hunt’s son, his name John, and a merchant in Mark Lane came along with her, that was her partner. So after my business was done, and read something in Mr. Selden, I went to bed.

white Christmas
the dog desiring both
to be out and in


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 21 December 1661.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

When nights are longest

Happy/Merry Yule, Solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, New Year, and Epiphany to all our readers from Luisa and me. This videopoem is a joint production of Via Negativa and Moving Poems, my poetry-film site. Via Negativa just celebrated its 11th birthday last Wednesday, and this time of year “when nights are longest” has always seemed full of creative possibilities to me. I also found out yesterday that December 21 (or possibly 22) was the date when, in 1818, John Keats coined the term “negative capability”—”when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason”—which I think is more or less the same as what Zen Buddhists call don’t-know mind or beginner’s mind.

So yesterday I found a mysterious, dark but light-filled home move at the Prelinger Archives, selected and arranged some of the images into a composition that made sense to me, emailed the link to Luisa and asked her if she thought she could find a poem in it. Indeed she could! After a little back-and-forth about the title and opening lines last night, she settled on a final form for the text this morning and sent me a terrific reading that she recorded with her mobile phone. I found a Creative Commons-licensed sound recording on SoundCloud through my usual method of clicking on random links and trusting in serendipity: it’s a field recording by Marc Weidenbaum of Phil Kline’s “Unsilent Night” boombox procession passing a certain point in the streets of San Francisco on December 18, 2010.

Here’s the text of the poem.

When nights are longest

by Luisa A. Igloria

In the dark, it takes the eye
a moment to adjust,

but we won’t even feel
the pull of gravity

that slows us down,
nor the drift of the moon

just slightly more
out of reach.

And there is nothing
to do, really, but trim

the flourishes from the roof,
gather the scraps,

burn them to make
more fire. There is

no point asking
if the garden still

needs weeding, if the flowers
will come back, or if the fish

will flash their dangerous
golden charms again

through ice. Come share
a shard of bread: we’ll set

the pot to boil and skim
the fat off the stew.

We’ll feed each other
with no need to speak,

watching our thoughts ignite
like fireflies into their afterlife.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Milonga sentimental

This entry is part 2 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2014-15

 

Old heart, tired heart
counting this cold morning
the beads that gather on the grass—

Sometimes it’s hard
to keep track of how many
promises you made, fueled by hope

of their full return: each time
felt real, was real— O how you
wanted to empty your draw-

string purse of all
your savings, and spend them
on the greatest love of all.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Night walk

Lay long in bed, and then up, and so to the Wardrobe to dinner, and from thence out with Mr. Moore towards my house, and in our way met with Mr. Swan (my old acquaintance), and we to a tavern, where we had enough of his old simple religious talk, and he is still a coxcomb in these things as he ever was, and tells me he is setting out a book called “The unlawfull use of lawfull things;” but a very simple fellow he is, and so I leave him. So we drank and at last parted, and Mr. Moore and I into Cornhill, it being dark night, and in the street and on the Exchange discoursed about Dominion of the Sea, wherein I am lately so much concerned, and so I home and sat late up reading of Mr. Selden, and so to bed.

tavern talk
full of awful things
the street home


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 20 December 1661.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Stealer

Oton Death Mask
Luisa A. Igloria December 20, 2014
(Oton, Iloilo; 1300-1400 A.D.)

They’ve melted and cut
a ribbon of gold

into squares they’ll beat
with mallets to the thinness

of skin— They’ll trim
around the outlines

then lift with pincers to lay
upon the face of the beloved,

pressing upon the mouth
that kissed and doubtless

was kissed warmly in return,
the bridge of the nose

that flared quietly
for the last time

then shut close
in the early dark;

and because the dark
is real now, the two

eyepieces are a blessing—
one over each shaded socket,

medallions hammered to borrow
the sun’s old fire.

*

Melted gold,
thinness of skin,
beloved kissed
quietly then shut
to borrow fire.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Sacerdotage

This morning my wife dressed herself fine to go to the christening of Mrs. Hunt’s child, and so she and I in the way in the morning went to the Paynter’s, and there she sat till noon, and I all the while looking over great variety of good prints which he had, and by and by comes my boy to tell us that Mrs. Hunt has been at our house to tell us that the christening is not till Saturday next. So after the Paynter had done I did like the picture pretty well, and my wife and I went by coach home, but in the way I took occasion to fall out with my wife very highly about her ribbands being ill matched and of two colours, and to very high words, so that, like a passionate fool, I did call her whore, for which I was afterwards sorry. But I set her down at home, and went myself by appointment to the Dolphin, where Sir W. Warren did give us all a good dinner, and that being done, to the office, and there sat late, and so home.

I come to Christ
not like a wife but
like a whore,
set down by appointment
to give all.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 19 December 1661.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Mandala

At the office upon business extraordinary all the morning, then to my Lady Sandwich’s to dinner, whither my wife, who had been at the painter’s, came to me, and there dined, and there I left her, and to the Temple my brother and I to see Mrs. Turner, who begins to be better, and so back to my Lady’s, where much made of, and so home to my study till bed-time, and so to bed.

ordinary morning
the sand painter begins
to study time


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 18 December 1661.

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Coming to my senses

Moonlight reflects
from snow-encrusted surfaces,
bounces a single
immense shadow
up to the side of the barn.

I watch the moving silhouette
of some large owl, species
uncertain, but make simple
identification from the turret-
turning of its head.

It bends low over
the snow, listening to something
there beneath. I hold
my breath, as if I too might
hear it, some small thing

tunneling invisibly
between the smothered
blades of grass. I hold
my breath, I am become
like owl, a hunger

and this listening
is all there is.


In response to/inspired by Dave Bonta’s “Early” and Luisa A. Igloria’s “Landmarks.”

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Inspirational poster

Up and to the Paynter’s to see how he went forward in our picture. So back again to dinner at home, and then was sent for to the Privy Seal, whither I was forced to go and stay so long and late that I was much vexed. At last we got all done, and then made haste to the office, where they were sat, and there we sat late, and so home to supper and to Selden, “Mare Clausum,” and so to bed.

how we picture the sea
at the office
where we sat and sat


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 17 December 1661.