~ (Thismia rodwayi)
There's a small, red-orange flower
that pokes up like a tongue from under
damp forest cover, as if without
stem and leaves.
The plant guides say it doesn't
have any green pigment allowing
absorption of energy from light—
Perhaps it was born under
a serious star, on a broody
night. Perhaps it gets by
through a kind of ironic
detachment: wanting little,
it's often overlooked
despite its lightbearing
name. Like it, I wish I could
slip, subterranean, through life.
How can our cracked,
exhausted hearts brave the elements,
so far below, as if in a well? Above,
bits of blue show through clouds.
Split
This morning Mr. Berkenshaw came again, and after he had examined me and taught me something in my work, he and I went to breakfast in my chamber upon a collar of brawn, and after we had eaten, asked me whether we had not committed a fault in eating to-day; telling me that it is a fast day ordered by the Parliament, to pray for more seasonable weather; it having hitherto been summer weather, that it is, both as to warmth and every other thing, just as if it were the middle of May or June, which do threaten a plague (as all men think) to follow, for so it was almost the last winter; and the whole year after hath been a very sickly time to this day. I did not stir out of my house all day, but conned my musique, and at night after supper to bed.
after break-up we pray
for more warmth
as if it were a threat
to the winter of us
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 15 January 1661/62.
Fern Frost
With our little nephew, in December
we cut out dozens of paper snowflakes
and taped them to the front windows.
Where he lives, they get real snow
in winter— like, more than seven inches,
whereas we on the coast are lucky to get
a dusting. I was today years old when I
remembered, after rereading Dante,
that the lowest circle of hell is not
actually a blazing inferno but a frozen
tundra where hundreds of sinners
are buried up to their necks in ice.
And the coldest of them is Satan, of course—
having fallen from such a great height, he caused
such rapid cooling in the atmosphere
which followed him into the deepest circle of hell.
There he is, the central cooling system where
the sun never shines, beating gigantic bat-like wings.
Hell must be anywhere or anytime you feel
stuck without sight of reprieve— Thinking about that
makes my heart constrict. Water bubbles dropped
on ice, swirling with crystal dendrites and fern frost,
are sharp with beauty at the edge of grief.
Ordnance
All the morning at home, Mr. Berkenshaw by appointment yesterday coming to me, and begun composition of musique, and he being gone I to settle my papers and things in my chamber, and so after dinner in the afternoon to the office, and thence to my chamber about several businesses of the office and my own, and then to supper and to bed. This day my brave vellum covers to keep pictures in, come in, which pleases me very much.
all the gun
music gone
I settle into the chamber
of my own day
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 14 January 1661/62.
Being told you can’t have sex
after sixty is like when a poet of a certain
age is told they shouldn't expect to have work
picked up by the hottest magazines or
journals, or land in those Best of...
lists. My muscles are fine,
thank you. I appreciate both the power
of restraint and the joy of
spontaneity, the frisson of a seductive
opening (perhaps like the title
of this poem). Once, I entered an epic-
poem writing competition, mostly
from irritation; some male poets I knew
were going on and on about how
it was all a matter of length and
endurance. Really. I scoffed. I could
tell you about endurance, and about how sexy
is perhaps one of the most
misunderstood of qualities we like to lob
around in this late-twenty-first-
century-nearing-apocalypse period. I've heard
that Barrel Woman is one variation of
the carved Barrel Man souvenir sold to tourists
in the Cordillera: instead of a phallus,
breasts spring out to titillate. Scholars say this
is really a product of colonization,
since indigenous sensibility saw no shame in going
around clad only in loincloths and woven
skirts. Back in the nineteenth century, we
were seen only as dark and exotic.
From there, connect the dots. How many times
have we walked unblinking past catcalls and
Hey, ma-GAN-da ka (accent totally on the wrong
syllable)? In 1565, Spanish explorers
thought Syquijor island was on fire; it was the light
from clouds of fireflies in the molave
trees. It's said the slightest look or brush
of a hand while walking in the town
could mean hex or enchantment. That's sexy.
Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 2
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: ravaged days, a faint buzzing, a dead boy’s imagined journey, a night pure and thick as a womb, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 2”Communion
All the morning at home, and Mr. Berkenshaw (whom I have not seen a great while), came to see me, who staid with me a great while talking of musique, and I am resolved to begin to learn of him to compose, and to begin to-morrow, he giving of me so great hopes that I shall soon do it.
Before twelve o’clock comes, by appointment, Mr. Peter and the Dean, and Collonel Honiwood, brothers, to dine with me; but so soon that I was troubled at it. But, however, I entertained them with talk and oysters till one o’clock, and then we sat down to dinner, not staying for my uncle and aunt Wight, at which I was troubled, but they came by and by, and so we dined very merry, at least I seemed so, but the dinner does not please me, and less the Dean and Collonel, whom I found to be pitiful sorry gentlemen, though good-natured, but Mr. Peter above them both, who after dinner did show us the experiment (which I had heard talk of) of the chymicall glasses, which break all to dust by breaking off a little small end; which is a great mystery to me. They being gone, my aunt Wight and my wife and I to cards, she teaching of us how to play at gleeke, which is a pretty game; but I have not my head so free as to be troubled with it. By and by comes my uncle Wight back, and so to supper and talk, and then again to cards, when my wife and I beat them two games and they us one, and so good night and to bed.
who am I talking to
all alone with nature
in the dust
of great mystery
how to lay my head
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 13 January 1661/62.
I Will Never be Yuja Wang
The crossword clue was small
instrument, seven letters. Eventually
it led to pianino, which I've never
heard before but apparently is the mid-
eighteentth century forerunner of
the upright piano. Sometimes I think of how
my life might be different, if my parents
had their way and trundled me off to conservatory
though every now and then, they'd sigh
Musicians always eat last. I didn't like
the idea of hours-long daily practice,
for a performance opportunity that might never
materialize— I mean, I knew even then
I was no prodigy. People talk about enjoying
the process and not the goal; so it was
good to hear the great Yuja Wang say on BBC
television, I kind of want the goal
without the process. Hard to believe, when she's
powering through three hours of Rachmaninov
on a concert stage with her pixie haircut,
five-inch stilettos, sparkly thigh-
and shoulder-baring outfits. I will never be
a Yuja Wang. Instead, for the last
forty-plus years I've been teaching students
how to read poems and stories. I live
in a house with far too many books and not enough
counter space. The backyard is a scraggly
mess, and raccoons have tried to stake a claim
on the southwest corner by the fence
for a communal bathroom. But from June to August,
the lone fig tree shakes out its lushest
green dress beaded with so much fruit you wouldn't
believe. It may not know it, but it gives
me so much joy all summer long, this thing I had
no hand in bringing to life, this thing I
can have no quarrel with enough to say I am done
with everything, and I am done with you.
Stung
"Truth should sting, in its way,
like a major bee, not a sweat bee."
~ Diane Seuss
And so I can totally relate when I read
the transcript of an NPR feature on familial
estrangement my husband sends me. I too feel
blindsided. I still don't have a clear idea
about why exactly my eldest child won't talk
to me or to the rest of the family. No doubt
this is intentional. It doesn't feel like
a momentary tantrum. It's been months. No,
a year, more than a year. I'm not looking
for epiphanies. This is not a narrative
poem nor even a confession. As young people say
these days, It's not always about you. I'm not
even sure it's absolution I want or need. I've been
stung over and over, none of this
necessarily easier with time. Who are we kidding?
I doubt it, but perhaps I'm past the age of rue.
Rue, from the Greek root reuo, which means to set free
besides to regret. Whoever said Absence
makes the heart grow fonder is a charlatan of
the lowest order. I'm not interested in knowing blue
hyacinths, tulips, orchids, and lily of the valley
mean apology, but I can't not care. What
do I know anyway? I say sometimes; I'm only ___.
Unchurch
(Lord’s day). To church, where a stranger made a very good sermon. At noon Sir W. Pen and my good friend Dean Fuller, by appointment, and my wife’s brother by chance, dined with me very merry and handsomely. After dinner the Dean, my wife and I by Sir W. Pen’s coach left us, he to Whitehall, and my wife and I to visit Mrs. Pierce and thence Mrs. Turner, who continues very ill still, and The. is also fallen sick, which do trouble me for the poor mother. So home and to read, I being troubled to hear my wife rate though not without cause at her mayd Nell, who is a lazy slut.
So to prayers and to bed.
a church made by chance
with hands to sit on
fallen for the poor
and lazy prayer
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 12 January 1661/62.