Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
—the tracks that bodies cut
across the heavens and are mimicked
on this earth: I used to worry
that I couldn’t stop the rush
forward and away; everything
I tried to build, tether,
coax to stay— Helpless
in the pendulum swing
from love to loss
and back again, skies alternating
mild and azure, then lit like wicks
aflame— Cups and bowls
drying on the sink, empty
at the moment, know there is
a shape for every hunger.
In response to thus: devour.
To my Lord, much business. With him to the Council Chamber, where he was sworn; and the charge of his being admitted Privy Counsellor is 26l..
To the Dog Tavern at Westminster, where Murford with Captain Curle and two friends of theirs went to drink. Captain Curle, late of the Maria, gave me five pieces in gold and a silver can for my wife for the Commission I did give him this day for his ship, dated April 20, 1660 last.
Thence to the Parliament door and came to Mr. Crew’s to dinner with my Lord, and with my Lord to see the great Wardrobe, where Mr. Townsend brought us to the governor of some poor children in tawny clothes; who had been maintained there these eleven years, which put my Lord to a stand how to dispose of them, that he may have the house for his use. The children did sing finely, and my Lord did bid me give them five pieces in gold at his going away.
Thence back to White Hall, where, the King being gone abroad, my Lord and I walked a great while discoursing of the simplicity of the Protector, in his losing all that his father had left him. My Lord told me, that the last words that he parted with the Protector with (when he went to the Sound), were, that he should rejoice more to see him in his grave at his return home, than that he should give way to such things as were then in hatching, and afterwards did ruin him: and the Protector said, that whatever G. Montagu, my Lord Broghill, Jones, and the Secretary, would have him to do, he would do it, be it what it would. Thence to my wife, meeting Mr. Blagrave, who went home with me, and did give me a lesson upon the flageolet, and handselled my silver can with my wife and me.
To my father’s, where Sir Thomas Honeywood and his family were come of a sudden, and so we forced to lie all together in a little chamber, three stories high.
With the dog to see some poor children
in tawny clothes sing.
I give them five pieces in gold,
a sound lesson upon the flag
and a silver can of ham three stories high.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 21 June 1660.
Oh I was yours before you
laid eyes on me, my course
predicted by a white wing
adrift: lone vessel voyaging,
voyaging— Sometimes I lose
sight of the latitudes and turn
the rudder wrong ways. No one,
least of all you, will come
to rescue me, though I am
your prodigy. Under the moon
I do my best to persevere,
my brilliant darling—
The stars so bright
on the surface of the well,
your fingers clasped
so beautifully, the way
you lead a body
into the dance.
In response to Via Negativa: Fee.
Up by 4 in the morning to write letters to sea and a commission for him that Murford solicited for.
Called on by Captain Sparling, who did give me my Dutch money again, and so much as he had changed into English money, by which my mind was eased of a great deal of trouble. Some other sea captains. I did give them a good morning draught, and so to my Lord (who lay long in bed this day, because he came home late from supper with the King). With my Lord to the Parliament House, and, after that, with him to General Monk’s, where he dined at the Cock-pit. I home and dined with my wife, now making all things ready there again.
Thence to my Lady Pickering, who did give me the best intelligence about the Wardrobe. Afterwards to the Cockpit to my Lord with Mr. Townsend, one formerly and now again to be employed as Deputy of the Wardrobe.
Thence to the Admiralty, and despatched away Mr. Cooke to sea; whose business was a letter from my Lord about Mr. G. Montagu to be chosen as a Parliament-man in my Lord’s room at Dover; and another to the Vice- Admiral to give my Lord a constant account of all things in the fleet, merely that he may thereby keep up his power there; another letter to Captn. Cuttance to send the barge that brought the King on shore, to Hinchingbroke by Lynne.
To my own house, meeting G. Vines, and drank with him at Charing Cross, now the King’s Head Tavern.
With my wife to my father’s, where met with Swan, an old hypocrite, and with him, his friend and my father, and my cozen Scott to the Bear Tavern. To my father’s and to bed.
I write letters to some other sea,
who lay long in bed—
one formerly and now again
to be employed as the sea—
about the admiral, an old hypocrite.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 20 June 1660.
Kensal Green Cemetery is, as previously discussed, a tad overgrown in parts. But it turns out that’s all part of the plan. The wooded parts feature some truly magnificent trees, including the most thickly ivied tree I’ve ever seen (a sweet gum, I think). Continue reading “Kensal Green Cemetery: returning to nature”
Trying to figure out
the next part of the story,
I do not disregard the dew.
In response to Via Negativa: Suchness.
Called on betimes by Murford, who showed me five pieces to get a business done for him and I am resolved to do it.
Much business at my Lord’s. This morning my Lord went into the House of Commons, and there had the thanks of the House, in the name of the Parliament and Commons of England, for his late service to his King and Country. A motion was made for a reward for him, but it was quashed by Mr. Annesly, who, above most men, is engaged to my Lord’s and Mr. Crew’s families.
Meeting with Captain Stoakes at Whitehall, I dined with him and Mr. Gullop, a parson (with whom afterwards I was much offended at his importunity and impertinence, such another as Elborough), and Mr. Butler, who complimented much after the same manner as the parson did. After that towards my Lord’s at Mr. Crew’s, but was met with by a servant of my Lady Pickering, who took me to her and she told me the story of her husband’s case and desired my assistance with my Lord, and did give me, wrapped up in paper, 5l. in silver. After that to my Lord’s, and with him to Whitehall and my Lady Pickering. My Lord went at night with the King to Baynard’s Castle to supper, and I home to my father’s to bed. My wife and the girl and dog came home to-day.
When I came home I found a quantity of chocolate left for me, I know not from whom. We hear of W. Howe being sick to-day, but he was well at night.
Show me five pieces:
a morning of ash,
a white gull,
a parson wrapped in paper,
a castle of chocolate,
a well at night.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 19 June 1660.
This is not a review, just as a pipe fallen to the stage is not a pipe. The performer’s open mouth resembles a small asteroid covered in hair. Eventually, everything is thrown into question, such as why we don’t live in flowerpots or buy religion all shrink-wrapped out of vending machines. Have the sun and the moon really been played by the same poorly informed celebrity all this time? Do you remember where you were when you heard about the death of humor? Why don’t owls ever unbutton their vests? Who told your elbows to sing? Words approach as quickly as starved sheep and lower in pitch after they pass, thanks to the Doppler effect. Short films of moss growing on a butler or tractors that won’t start are triggered by a wrong note on a tuba or the audience’s failure to clap. It turns out that people dress up like armies solely in order to march, becoming lost in the middle of a vast square. It turns out that you need a long stick to poke someone who is far away. The lighting crew keep a purple spotlight on the audience, so I take advantage of the extra illumination to write down a one-word recipe for porridge (“porridge”). An avuncular Jah chortles about the beetles he squirreled away in Guatemala. All the Jamaicans from Downton Abbey begin to pray.
O long-awaited, are you nearly here?
Is that your shadow I see from the window,
beginning to cross the field?
Everywhere I look, there are emblems
from all the years of laboring: nettles
that stung my hands, fronds of palm
braided close to patch the holes
in the roof. Here are shirts
with sleeves of linen to throw
on the shapes of the banished
as they fly under cover of night,
so they too might break free
of their long enchantment. Here
are grains spilled on muddy ground,
where they still shine like pearls
in moonlight: each one now,
accounted for. I read tonight
that certain moths drink the tears
of sleeping birds, turning sorrow
into sustenance. O long awaited,
I have never left, I am still here.
Just down the road from where I’m staying in north London, the Kensal Green Cemetery houses the mortal remains of many eminent Victorians. Like Highgate Cemetery, which I visited in 2011, it’s one of the “magnificent seven” garden-style cemeteries in London. And just as at Highgate, the groundskeepers’ gardening style is permissive in the extreme, favoring unpruned trees and shrubs and rampant ivy. Continue reading “Kensal Green Cemetery: being dead in style”