Tempo

“…A lost horse
to carry me
to the tomb.”

~ “Hard Ride,” Dave Bonta

The teacher said, Mind the tempo of the beat
and I started, thinking I’d heard The tempo of the beast,

which made me recall Yeats’ poem with that creature slouching
toward a famous middle eastern city to be born. Man or beast,

outcast in the dead of winter; the world in shambles, the world
a gyre with broken teeth on whose temple steps lie beasts

in their own blood. But if he slunk toward the fabled city,
toward the hour of his birth, that could only mean this beast

was its own ungainly steed, its own doula, primigravida. Who can tell
now womb from maw when terror and all manner of beastly

rapes are foisted off as amusement, cheap thrills, entertainment? The lost
and wounded limp through these deserts filled with dying bees.

Our noses to the ground, we try to keep company, our saddlebags light:
one step in front of the other, sights trained ahead, stumbling after the beat.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Hard Ride.

Checkmate

Up betimes. 25s the reckoning for very beer. Paid the house and by boats to London, six boats. Mr. Moore, W. Howe and I, and then the child in the room of W. Howe.
Landed at the Temple. To Mr. Crews. To my father’s and put myself into a handsome posture to wait upon my Lord. Dined there.
To Mr. Crews again. In the way met Dr Clerke and Mr. Pierce.
To White-Hall with my Lord and Mr. Edw. Montagu. Found the King in the parke. There walked. Gallantry great.
To Will How till 10 at night. Back and to my fathers.

Bet for beer, I put
the white king
in the park at night.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 9 June 1660.

Hard Ride

Out early, took horses at Deale. I troubled much with the King’s gittar, and Fairbrother, the rogue that I intrusted with the carrying of it on foot, whom I thought I had lost.
Col. Dixwell’s horse taken by a soldier and delivered to my Lord, and by him to me to carry to London.
Came to Canterbury, dined there. I saw the minster and the remains of Becket’s tomb. To Sittingborne and Rochester. At Chatham and Rochester the ships and bridge.
Mr. Hetly’s mistake about dinner.
Come to Gravesend. A good handsome wench I kissed, the first that I have seen a great while.
Supped with my Lord, drank late below with Penrose, the Captain. To bed late, having first laid out all my things against to-morrow to put myself in a walking garb. Weary and hot to bed to Mr. Moore.

A horse with
the king’s guitar.
A lost horse
to carry me
to the tomb.
I kiss a late rose,
having laid out
my walking garb,
weary and hot.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 8 June 1660.

Night Calculus

“Who remembers paradise?” ~ Marne Kilates, from “The Panels of Hieronymus Bosch”

I don’t think there were any sheep—
Or there may have been, but I didn’t see them.
Not fences either, no abacus clicking

bead by bead as each jumped over, fleece
catching in the bramble but more or less
keeping time to the ticking of the clock.

I was sleepless for such an eternity,
the apple had not yet fallen from the tree;
and the mathematician had not yet discovered

that bright chain of numbers spilling
over the narrow edge of the page, proof
of a problem everyone said could not be solved.

At some point the mathematician must have gone
to bed. At some point he must have taken off
his linen collar, his boots, breeches, hose,

exchanging these for a shapeless night-gown.
Infinitesimal, they called it—
that calculus for finding tangent

lines to curves, the canopy space
under curves, the lantern chain
of the day’s domestic worries

gathered in bubbled rows of helium
beneath the ceiling— And me,
as if on the ocean bed, hoping

at some point to fall asleep.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Insomniac.

Insomniac

About one in the morning, W. Howe called me up to give him a letter to carry to my Lord that came to me to-day, which I did and so to, sleep again. About three in the morning the people began to wash the deck, and the water came pouring into my mouth, which waked me, and I was fain to rise and get on my gown, and sleep leaning on my table.
This morning Mr. Montagu went away again.
After dinner come Mr. John Wright and Mr. Moore, with the sight of whom my heart was very glad. They brought an order for my Lord’s coming up to London, which my Lord resolved to do tomorrow.
All the afternoon getting my things in order to set forth to-morrow. At night walked up and down with Mr. Moore, who did give me an account of all things at London. Among others, how the Presbyterians would be angry if they durst, but they will not be able to do any thing.
Most of the Commanders on board and supped with my Lord.
Late at night came Mr. Edw. Pickering from London, but I could not see him this night.
I went with Mr. Moore to the Master’s cabin, and saw him there in order to going to bed.
After that to my own cabin to put things in order and so to bed.

One in the morning. How to sleep?
Ash came pouring into my mouth.
I sleep on my table after dinner
and at night walk up and down in bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 7 June 1660.

War Stories

Father said, sometimes we ate
what moved among

the fallen— small things,
seed, snail, quick green, mottled

brown that swam or burrowed
low. To live is merely one

advantage— but grace,
grace is something else.

It’s what you might find
or leave for someone

at the bottom: one grain,
one mouthful of water.

It fractures, salves,
or multiplies,

depending on the angle
of the day, moonlight

or the bloom pinned
like a corsage on the chest—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Seeker.

Seeker

In the morning I had letters come, that told me among other things, that my Lord’s place of Clerk of the Signet was fallen to him, which he did most lovingly tell me that I should execute, in case he could not get a better employment for me at the end of the year. Because he thought that the Duke of York would command all, but he hoped that the Duke would not remove me but to my advantage.
I had a great deal of talk about my uncle Robert, and he told me that he could not tell how his mind stood as to his estate, but he would do all that lay in his power for me.
After dinner came Mr. Cooke from London, who told me that my wife he left well at Huntsmore, though her health not altogether so constant as it used to be, which my heart is troubled for. Mr. Moore’s letters tell me that he thinks my Lord will be suddenly sent for up to London, and so I got myself in readiness to go.
My letters tell me:
That Mr. Calamy had preached before the King in a surplice (this I heard afterwards to be false).
That my Lord, Gen. Monk, and three more Lords, are made Commissioners for the Treasury.
That my Lord had some great place conferred on him, and they say Master of the Wardrobe.
That the two Dukes do haunt the Park much, and that they were at a play, Madam Epicene, the other day.
That Sir. Ant. Cooper, Mr. Hollis, and Mr. Annesly, late President of the Council of State, are made Privy Councillors to the King.
At night very busy sending Mr. Donne away to London, and wrote to my father for a coat to be made me against I come to London, which I think will not be long.
At night Mr. Edward Montagu came on board and staid long up with my Lord. I to bed and

I come among the fallen,
loving for advantage.

A cook hunts
a constant heart.

Lice haunt my coat,
me against me.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 6 June 1660.

Sea-change

Do you ever wonder
about those 29,000 rubber ducks
that spilled into the ocean

out of a ship that left
a Hong Kong harbor
14 years ago?

I want to imagine
the last small band
has found its way

to a shallow inlet
in Alaska or Greenland,
white as bone or ash,

now almost
indistinguishable
from the landscape.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Castaway.

Firm

A-bed late. In the morning my Lord went on shore with the Vice- Admiral a-fishing, and at dinner returned.
In the afternoon I played at ninepins with my Lord, and when he went in again I got him to sign my accounts for 115l., and so upon my private balance I find myself confirmed in my estimation that I am worth 100l..
In the evening in my cabin a great while getting the song without book, “Help, help Divinity, &c.”
After supper my Lord called for the lieutenant’s cittern, and with two candlesticks with money in them for symballs, we made barber’s music, with which my Lord was well pleased.
So to bed.

A-bed late a-fishing,
I play with my accounts,
my private lance,
find myself firm
with money for balls.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 5 June 1660.