The starving artist studies his model

All day looking after my workmen, only in the afternoon to the office where both Sir Williams were come from Woolwich, and tell us that, contrary to their expectations, the Assurance is got up, without much damage to her body, only to the goods that she hath within her, which argues her to be a strong, good ship.
This day my parlour is gilded, which do please me well.

All day looking
at her body, a good ship;
his, a gilded well.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 17 December 1660.

Approaching Solstice

All things arise, they abide, change, and fall away. ~ seon joon

Little moon in the sky, little year
that draws bit by bit to a close—

You were not wholly unkind,
you were not without feeling.

You were the hope we needed to embrace,
the story we needed to tell and be told.

Little griefs that came like a sudden
onslaught of rain, you too were necessary.

You were the light that knighted
the gutter’s edge, the static

from a radio coming to life. Little piper
in the grass at dawn, you were most missed

when the hour was silent. You were
the lover that grazed among the lips

of hidden flowers, the flutter of feathers
against the negative strip of windows.

 

In response to thus: a psalm for winter.

Rendezvous

In the morning to church, and then dined at home. In the afternoon I to White Hall, where I was surprised with the news of a plot against the King’s person and my Lord Monk’s; and that since last night there are about forty taken up on suspicion; and, amongst others, it was my lot to meet with Simon Beale, the Trumpeter, who took me and Tom Doling into the Guard in Scotland Yard, and showed us Major-General Overton, where I heard him deny that he is guilty of any such things; but that whereas it is said that he is found to have brought many arms to town, he says it is only to sell them, as he will prove by oath.
From thence with Tom Doling and Boston and D. Vines (whom we met by the way) to Price’s, and there we drank, and in discourse I learnt a pretty trick to try whether a woman be a maid or no, by a string going round her head to meet at the end of her nose, which if she be not will come a great way beyond.
Thence to my Lady’s and staid with her an hour or two talking of the Duke of York and his lady, the Chancellor’s daughter, between whom, she tells me, that all is agreed and he will marry her. But I know not how true yet.
It rained hard, and my Lady would have had me have the coach, but I would not, but to my father’s, where I met my wife, and there supped, and after supper by link home and to bed.

Meet me in thin arms,
say it is only to sell me a trick
or a ring in the nose.
I know how true
rain would be.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 16 December 1660.

Ten

leafhenge

Today is Via Negativa’s tenth birthday. It seems like just yesterday, etc. But the media landscape has changed a lot over the last ten years; blogs are now thoroughly mainstream. The sort of daily writing and self-publishing that Luisa and I do here is still looked at askance in more conservative literary circles, but I think it’s proved very productive for both of us, yielding books and chapbooks, videopoem collaborations, invitations to poetry readings and conferences, and even, for me, a long-term relationship with a fellow blogger.

But let’s keep this in perspective. Five hundred years from now, if a literate civilization still exists, the 21st-century American writers they’ll probably most celebrate are those whose names we now barely recognize. I speak, of course, of the many brilliant writers of screenplays and TV scripts. And why are we just now entering what many are calling a golden age of television? In large part because the power of the publishers and media conglomerates is crumbling. And in general, thanks to the internet and all its disruptions to the traditional media landscape, writers have few restraints and fewer — or no — intermediaries between us and our audiences, who in turn are becoming more independent and creative, with fan fiction, videopoetry and the like.

What we now call remix was always essential to the storytelling and song-generating process, of course. And as it grows in cultural prominence, the (often collaboratively produced) artwork regains its rightful place at the center of creative life, and the Artist or Writer can go back to being a plain old artist or writer, a skilled worker rather than a demigod.

This, as I see it, is the milieu from which collaborative literary blogs such as Via Negativa have emerged as primary outlets for their authors. I’m pleased to have been a participant in this revolution. Back on Via Negativa’s sixth birthday, I wrote a blogging manifesto which I would like to think is still relevant, despite or perhaps because of the exponential growth of corporate, web-gobbling social networks and the meme machines flooding every feed with viral content. Thanks to all Via Negativa’s readers and to my fellow literary and personal bloggers for reading and linking and just generally for keeping us company out here in the open, non-corporate web. Industrial civilization seems more set on self-destruction than ever, but let’s keep this blogging thing going as long as we can!

Practice

As one body, as a single breath
through which any music must pass—

And to get it right means to be precise.
Think of the needle that must itself

gather courage to enter what precedes it:
never an easy matter, given the redness

of the field and what it might stand for—
unknown sacrifice, the most-desired,

the forbidden. The never again the same,
what you pay for any kind of knowing.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Starving Artist.

The starving artist casts a wide net

All day at home looking upon my workmen, only at noon Mr. Moore came and brought me some things to sign for the Privy Seal and dined with me. We had three eels that my wife and I bought this morning of a man, that cried them about, for our dinner, and that was all I did to-day.

At home looking at an eel
that my wife bought,
I cried for our dinner
that was all I.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 15 December 1660.

New Citizen

Once a poet of my people wrote: cities of falling light.

Bodies bend low in the field, whisper to the seed, tend to the orchard. On weekdays, the shirt allows for the stoop.

It is labor hardly anyone else wants, and the sea is a long way from here. A Studebaker could not make the return.

Wingtips of leather, fedoras to doff to the ladies walking down the avenue. They’ve been told not to smile but they can’t help themselves.

Oh the curve of the coast, sinuous as the hip of a goddess reclined. In the dark, fruit ripen on trees and you can tell by their scent.

For something so small as a gold tooth, there have been men that are beaten or killed. And the trains that whistle past stitch the names of towns to each other, or the stations of the dead.

At each junction, a chance to feel there might still be a choice.

Warrior poets, shape-shifters and other unlikely characters: a year of reading aloud

Woodrot Padcost 47: books read aloud in 2013 [MP3, 25 MB]
Duration: 27:50

‘Tis the season for literary bloggers to write about the best things they read this year. But in my case, much of my most interesting reading is out loud, in nightly Skype calls with Rachel Rawlins. Usually I’m the reader, but sometimes she is able to get an electronic version of whatever it is we’re reading and we take turns. I thought it might be fun to record us talking about what we liked and didn’t like this year (though Rachel had her doubts that anyone else would care). Here are the main books we talked about:

Other books mentioned in passing:

The starving artist considers entomophagy

Also all this day looking upon my workmen. Only met with the Comptroller at the office a little both forenoon and afternoon, and at night step a little with him to the Coffee House where we light upon very good company and had very good discourse concerning insects and their having a generative faculty as well as other creatures.
This night in discourse the Comptroller told me among other persons that were heretofore the principal officers of the Navy, there was one Sir Peter Buck, a Clerk of the Acts, of which to myself I was not a little proud.

All this day looking at the light
and insects
and other creatures to which
I was not little.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 14 December 1660.

Winter Song

This entry is part 27 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

 

Insidious winds will blow,
and rain or sleet come down
to blur the fields and try
the patient shoots
that bide their time
beneath the loam—

And waiting seems so long,
and spring too far away
a memory of easeful time:
even the tree whose roots I’ve
coiled indoors into a dish
knows it is time to shed

what remnants it wears
of green— Austere
the habit of the season,
a growing lean. Cast off
the surfeit, give away.
Lean on the longer days.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.