March 2014 – Page 6 – Via Negativa

March 14, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Sitting on the dock of the bay

Early up in the morning to read “The Seaman’s Grammar and Dictionary” I lately have got, which do please me exceeding well.
At the office all the morning, dined at home, and Mrs. Turner, The, Joyce, and Mr. Armiger, and my father and mother with me, where they stand till I was weary of their company and so away.
Then up to my chamber, and there set papers and things in order, and so to bed.

Early in the morning,
the sea’s grammar
and diction please me,
exceeding all joy.
I weary of company.
The papers thin.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 13 March 1660/61.

March 14, 2014May 23, 2015 by Luisa A. Igloria

[poem temporarily hidden by author]

March 13, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Wine-dark

At the office about business all the morning, so to the Exchange, and there met with Nick Osborne lately married, and with him to the Fleece, where we drank a glass of wine. So home, where I found Mrs. Hunt in great trouble about her husband’s losing of his place in the Excise. From thence to Guildhall, and there set my hand to the book before Colonel King for my sea pay, and blessed be God! they have cast me at midshipman’s pay, which do make my heart very glad. So, home, and there had Sir W. Batten and my Lady and all their company and Capt. Browne and his wife to a collation at my house till it was late, and then to bed.

Married to a glass
of wine, I hunt trouble,
set my hand to the sea
and the ship, which make
my heart home.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 12 March 1660/61.

March 13, 2014March 13, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Cold Front

This entry is part 48 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

in memoriam Bill Knott

With the cold front
came news of your death—
a failed bypass—

and a skim of snow
that vanishes at the sun’s touch.
Soon, only shadows are white,

like the letters
I keep trying to form
as my pen runs out of ink.

March 13, 2014March 13, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

The Buddha calls a 1-800 number for service

and is put on hold for at least 15 minutes. She settles
into the chair and a strain of muzak plays over and over
in her ear. In order to not be completely annoyed by this,
she turns her practice of mindful attention to items
on the desk that need gentle straightening: the pull-out
keyboard drawer used for sundry papers not yet filed away
is in need of some dusting; and the books beside the plastic
pencil holder could use a bit of straightening. She reviews
their spines and is reminded that she has fallen behind
last season’s vow to do more mindful reading, to take up
where the dog ears and bookmarks indicate the last place
on the page she felt she’d stopped time for just
the briefest moment. From the window overlooking
the front walk, she can see that despite the cold,
a flock of sparrows has gathered around the still
barren elm. They look the picture of industry, of doing
for themselves because no one else will serve: bobbing
and foraging in small crevices of bark, among the gravel,
until one darts away with its small reward: tip
of an earthworm a glistening serif in weak sunlight.

March 13, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

What would the Buddha say

What would the Buddha say
if he discovered his teenage son
had an internet addiction? Would he storm
into his room and pull by the wire
every electronic gadget snaking from the wall
outlets, cast them out of the garden of innocent
childhood transformed overnight into a landscape
charged with hormones and other such land mines
and say You, you are grounded for all eternity?
How would he sit on the sage-green cushions
to deliver with utmost patience
that famous lecture on how everything—
despite the shimmer of advertising—
is illusion, if the young acolyte
had earphones on and the music drowned out
his father’s even, reasonable tones?
The thing I am trying to concentrate on
is that the Buddha was also human—
except perhaps with an extraordinary
capacity for understanding I do not yet
but would so dearly like to have. The other thing
I wonder about is how long it would take
to arrive at the doorstep of such
unwavering equanimity even when it seems
it is either the day of the great deluge
or the hour just after the waters
have finally receded, but there,
at the horizon, is a glimpse
of yet another rising wave?

In response to Via Negativa: The dying ocean.

March 12, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Sacrifice

At the office all the morning, dined at home and my father and Dr. Thos. Pepys with him upon a poor dinner, my wife being abroad. After dinner I went to the theatre, and there saw “Love’s Mistress” done by them, which I do not like in some things as well as their acting in Salsbury Court.
At night home and found my wife come home, and among other things she hath got her teeth new done by La Roche, and are indeed now pretty handsome, and I was much pleased with it. So to bed.

I dine on love
like a well I bury
my teeth in.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 11 March 1660/61.

March 12, 2014 by Dave Bonta

In place

This entry is part 47 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

Inside a cloud moved
rapidly by the wind,
I catch a whiff of wood smoke.

All the tracks have melted through,
erasures that say only
that something was there—

except for the trees,
still marooned on the same
round islands.

March 11, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

That old-time religion

(Lord’s day). Heard Mr. Mills in the morning, a good sermon. Dined at home on a poor Lenten dinner of coleworts and bacon. In the afternoon again to church, and there heard one Castle, whom I knew of my year at Cambridge. He made a dull sermon.
After sermon came my uncle and aunt Wight to see us, and we sat together a great while. Then to reading and at night to bed.

A poor
bacon, the church.
I knew a ridge.
We sat together
a great while.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 10 March 1660/61.

March 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Hello? Are you hearing this?

This is me. This is me trying
to make sense of twigs and dried matter
on the path, beer cans and cinders left over
from someone else’s bonfire—

This is me trying to make sense
of swings in weather,
of the sun’s nearly always meltingly
cheap, successful seductions

so layers come off and all
we want to do is lie
in the yard or on the beach,
shirts off, trousers off, hearts open—

This is me,
mother of many trials
stumped and stumped again
by the fact you whip out yet another one

between the real-world-job
and the third-, fourth-, invisible
shift job that says open more, open,
open, Mamacita, you’ve got

so much to give. Not to be
ungrateful or quotidian, not to be unkind
or unmoving, but for once I would like the water in the ditch
to taste more like water and not like dried grass in the mouth—

In response to Via Negativa: Emergence.