Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I dream of miles of loamy soil
and potatoes in their winter beds,
their eyes still sealed quite shut.
Crows pick through stones for seeds
and nuts. I know sometimes they tear
small animals furtive in the grass,
while in our houses we dunk chunks
of bread in hot soup. Impartial,
stars leak their shine upon us all.
What luck to feel the thumb of sleep
on our lids, the cold a mantle
flung across every form.
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: glitter on our fingers, the heaven of the moon, Emily Dickinson’s 195th birthday, the buzz of numbness, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 50”
Up and to my Lord’s and thence to the Duke, and followed him into the Park, where, though the ice was broken and dangerous, yet he would go slide upon his scates, which I did not like, but he slides very well. So back and to his closett, whither my Lord Sandwich comes, and there Mr. Coventry and we three had long discourse together about the matters of the Navy; and, indeed, I find myself more and more obliged to Mr. Coventry, who studies to do me all the right he can in every thing to the Duke.
Thence walked a good while up and down the gallerys; and among others, met with Dr. Clerke, who in discourse tells me, that Sir Charles Barkeley’s greatness is only his being pimp to the King, and to my Lady Castlemaine. And yet for all this, that the King is very kind to the Queen; who, he says, is one of the best women in the world. Strange how the King is bewitched to this pretty Castlemaine.
Thence to my Lord’s, and there with Mr. Creed, Moore, and Howe to the Crown and dined, and thence to Whitehall, where I walked up and down the gallerys, spending my time upon the pictures, till the Duke and the Committee for Tangier met (the Duke not staying with us), where the only matter was to discourse with my Lord Rutherford, who is this day made Governor of Tangier, for I know not what reasons; and my Lord of Peterborough to be called home; which, though it is said it is done with kindness, yet all the world may see it is done otherwise, and I am sorry to see a Catholick Governor sent to command there, where all the rest of the officers almost are such already. But God knows what the reason is! and all may see how slippery places all courtiers stand in.
Thence by coach home, in my way calling upon Sir John Berkenheade, to speak about my assessment of 42l. to the Loyal Sufferers; which, I perceive, I cannot help; but he tells me I have been abused by Sir R. Ford, which I shall hereafter make use of when it shall be fit.
Thence called at the Major-General’s, Sir R. Browne, about my being assessed armes to the militia; but he was abroad; and so driving through the backside of the Shambles in Newgate Market, my coach plucked down two pieces of beef into the dirt, upon which the butchers stopped the horses, and a great rout of people in the street, crying that he had done him 40s. and 5l. worth of hurt; but going down, I saw that he had done little or none; and so I give them a shilling for it and they were well contented, and so home.
And there to my Lady Batten’s to see her, who tells me she hath just now a letter from Sir William, how that he and Sir J. Minnes did very narrowly escape drowning on the road, the waters are so high; but is well. But, Lord! what a hypocrite-like face she made to tell it me.
Thence to Sir W. Pen and sat long with him in discourse, I making myself appear one of greater action and resolution as to publique business than I have hitherto done, at which he listens, but I know is a rogue in his heart and likes not, but I perceive I may hold up my head, and the more the better, I minding of my business as I have done, in which God do and will bless me. So home and with great content to bed, and talk and chat with my wife while I was at supper, to our great pleasure.
in a broken world
how bewitched are the slippery
the loyal sufferers
down in the dirt
crying like the public
head of a god
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 15 December 1662.
(Lord’s day). Lay with great content talking with my wife in bed, and so up and to church and then home, and had a neat dinner by ourselves, and after dinner walked to White Hall and my Lord’s, and up and down till chappell time, and then to the King’s chappell, where I heard the service, and so to my Lord’s, and there Mr. Howe and Pagett, the counsellor, an old lover of musique. We sang some Psalms of Mr. Lawes, and played some symphonys between till night, that I was sent for to Mr. Creed’s lodging, and there was Captain Ferrers and his lady and W. Howe and I; we supped very well and good sport in discourse. After supper I was sent for to my Lord, with whom I staid talking about his, and my owne, and the publique affairs, with great content, he advising me as to my owne choosing of Sir R. Bernard for umpire in the businesses between my uncle and us, that I would not trust to him upon his direction, for he did not think him a man to be trusted at all; and so bid him good night, and to Mr. Creed’s again; Mr. Moore, with whom I intended to have lain, lying physically without sheets; and there, after some discourse, to bed, and lay ill, though the bed good, my stomach being sicke all night with my too heavy supper.
talking to ourselves
in time to the music
some night air
between us on thin sheets
some discourse and thou
my stomach
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 14 December 1662.
In front, towering
above the sidewalk edge
and the strip of soil
that all refer to as
city property— two pines
where night herons nest
For compost, for return
to the soil; nutrients
for the fruit tree,
says her daughter
regarding the backyard
unraked for months
With today's wind,
a rain of pine needles
unloosed from every
branch. Tomorrow,
armies of leaf blowers
down the street
Slept long to-day till Sir J. Minnes and Sir W. Batten were set out towards Portsmouth before I rose, and Sir G. Carteret came to the office to speak with me before I was up. So I started up and down to him. By and by we sat, Mr. Coventry and I (Sir G. Carteret being gone), and among other things, Field and Stint did come, and received the 41l. given him by the judgement against me and Harry Kem; and we did also sign bonds in 500l. to stand to the award of Mr. Porter and Smith for the rest: which, however, I did not sign to till I got Mr. Coventry to go up with me to Sir W. Pen; and he did promise me before him to bear his share in what should be awarded, and both concluded that Sir W. Batten would do no less. At noon broke up and dined with my wife, and then to the office again, and there made an end of last night’s examination, and got my study there made very clean and put in order, and then to write by the post, among other letters one to Sir W. Batten about this day’s work with Field, desiring his promise also. The letter I have caused to be entered in our public book of letters. So home to supper and to bed.
mouth of an oven
in the field
given to war
we ward off the night
made into a day’s
red letters
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 13 December 1662.
I hear her the first time before I turn
the corner, walking through the refrigerated
section and shelves still stacked with butter
blocks, cardboard boxes of eggs, seasonal
peppermint- and mocha-flavored creamers.
Leave me alone, no, you leave me alone—
the inflection of anger in her voice somehow
incongruous with the almost languid way she
pushes her cart and considers a bag of frozen
peas. Leave me alone, she repeats into her phone
as she makes the rounds for her grocery items.
Other shoppers keep their distance and avoid
eye contact. When did we not exist in
a time of conflict that didn't trickle down
into the minutiae of our lives? I go in solitude
so as not to drink out of everybody's
cistern wrote Nietzsche, afraid the world
might rob him of his soul. What strikes me
is that she keeps the line open, doesn't
cut off the connection, then put her phone
on silent. Not a big anger, perhaps—
Its audible tip, just enough to pierce the air
toward a listening. Just enough so the curious
soul leans a little way out of its bunker.
From a very hard frost, when I wake, I find a very great thaw, and my house overflown with it, which vexed me.
At the office and home, doing business all the morning. Then dined with my wife and sat talking with her all the afternoon, and then to the office, and there examining my copy of Mr. Holland’s book till 10 at night, and so home to supper and bed.
from a hard wake
I find my overflow
with my wife
talking it all off
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 12 December 1662.
Like a tent, like a tarpaulin,
like the roof that held each
thing in. Across my belly though
fainter now, brown marks
that stretched my skin from
inside, each time my womb grew
to house a child. Let everything
happen to you, said Rilke—
and I, a kind of vessel life
will fill and burst and fill
again, if it doesn't defeat
me. I thought it was my duty
not to break this cycle.
But really, not to break.
Almost the longest night.
Before real darkness arrives,
travelers set out.
*
Some leave, some arrive.
Flaggers waving lit-up wands
before the train station.
*
For a few moments,
the silhouettes of trees pressed
against the sky's burning throat.
*
Domestic vs. extravagant
space: a parade of placid geese
not yet leaning into the wind.