Via Negativa

May 4, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

The Buddha is tired

of expectations, of the million and one ways
in which the bread might not rise, the cup

might not run over, the tire might go flat,
the light bulb go out. She is tired of the times
intention is thwarted, detoured, outright taken

over by some other outcome less ideal than what
was originally desired. The Buddha is tired
of going last, eating the crust, saving

the ribbons and the wrapping paper, reheating
the scraps; being the open door, the one they come to,
the shoulder to cry on, the purse that both makes do

and makes it right. She wants to be the one not
singled out by The Boss for turning her Out of Office
message on, while others go away without so much as a by-

your-leave. Who wrote the rules about selflessness and virtue,
about retribution in coin or in kind? All everyone wants
every now and then is to be seen for what they really are.

In response to Via Negativa: No trespassing.

May 4, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Early to walk with Mr. Creed up and down the town, and it was in his and some others’ thoughts to have got me made free of the town, but the Mayor, it seems, unwilling, and so they could not do it.
Then to the payhouse, and there paid off the ship, and so to a short dinner, and then took coach, leaving Mrs. Hater there to stay with her husband’s friends, and we to Petersfield, having nothing more of trouble in all my journey, but the exceeding unmannerly and most epicure-like palate of Mr. Creed.
Here my wife and I lay in the room the Queen lately lay at her going into France.

Early to walk
up and down the ship—
here with nothing but the most
epicure-like going.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 3 May 1661.

May 3, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

No Trespassing

Up, and Mr. Creed and I to walk round the town upon the walls. Then to our inn, and there all the officers of the Yard to see me with great respect, and I walked with them to the Dock and saw all the stores, and much pleased with the sight of the place.
Back and brought them all to dinner with me, and treated them handsomely; and so after dinner by water to the Yard, and there we made the sale of the old provisions. Then we and our wives all to see the Montagu, which is a fine ship, and so to the town again by water, and then to see the room where the Duke of Buckingham was killed by Felton.
So to our lodging, and to supper and to bed.
To-night came Mr. Stevens to town to help us to pay off the Fox.

The walls leased
the sight of the place—
a handsome provision.

To see is to kill.
Night came to town
to help the fox.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 2 May 1661.

May 3, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Guise

This entry is part 86 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

That gobbling on the ridge:
turkey, or turkey hunter?
That whistle: factory or train?

I follow a vole’s progress
by watching where the grass trembles—
until a breeze springs up.

How the weasel must hate the wind!
And how it must strive to sound
exactly like it.

May 2, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Blood Orange

Dark-pulped when sweet,
prepared to stain your mouth—

Lift the membranes
crossing this moon-

shaped face and pull
the sections loose:

storm the little turret where
my half-blood tides reside.

In response to Via Negativa: Blood Moon.

May 2, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Blood moon

Up early, and bated at Petersfield, in the room which the King lay in lately at his being there.
Here very merry, and played us and our wives at bowls. Then we set forth again, and so to Portsmouth, seeming to me to be a very pleasant and strong place; and we lay at the Red Lyon, where Haselrigge and Scott and Walton did hold their councill, when they were here, against Lambert and the Committee of Safety.
Several officers of the Yard came to see us to-night, and merry we were, but troubled to have no better lodgings.

A field in which
the king ate an owl—
old, amber.
Night bled,
no better lodging.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 1 May 1661.

May 2, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Door

This entry is part 85 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

A haze of jewelweed sprouts,
the dimpled embryonic leaves
like conjoined twins.

From the valley, the sound
of horses pulling a buggy
in their eight steel shoes.

The crooked sassafras—
something has found under its bark
a blood-colored door.

May 1, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Seasonals

This entry is part 8 of 15 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2014

The hum of a generator
edging night.

Two houses down, a frat party
in progress.

Points of itchy heat, trapunto
of sand fly bites.

In the backyard, raccoons
foraging around garbage bins,

their snouts briefly lit
by fireflies.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

May 1, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Compleat angler

This morning, after order given to my workmen, my wife and I and Mr. Creed took coach, and in Fishstreet took up Mr. Hater and his wife, who through her mask seemed at first to be an old woman, but afterwards I found her to be a very pretty modest black woman.
We got a small bait at Leatherhead, and so to Godlyman, where we lay all night, and were very merry, having this day no other extraordinary rencontre, but my hat falling off my head at Newington into the water, by which it was spoiled, and I ashamed of it.
I am sorry that I am not at London, to be at Hide-parke to-morrow, among the great gallants and ladies, which will be very fine.

I give my fish
to a pretty woman
and lay my head in the water—
which spoiled it.
I am sorry that I am not at London
to hide among the ants.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 30 April 1661.

May 1, 2014May 1, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Morel hunting

This entry is part 84 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

Fungi are like us—
absorbing oxygen, releasing CO₂.
This puffball is an abandoned factory.

I nudge the intact wall
with the point of my umbrella.
It’s all out of smoke.

Ovenbirds and the black morel,
writes a friend.
Impossible to see.