Month: March 2014

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Waterbound

At the office all the morning. At dinner Sir W. Batten came and took me and my wife to his house to dinner, my Lady being in the country, where we had a good Lenten dinner.
Then to Whitehall with Captn. Cuttle, and there I did some business with Mr. Coventry, and after that home, thinking to have had Sir W. Batten, &c., to have eat a wigg at my house at night. But my Lady being come home out of the country ill by reason of much rain that has fallen lately, and the waters being very high, we could not, and so I home and to bed.

Morning came in a white wig,
a country of rain
fallen late and high.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 6 March 1660/61.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Inter-

The woman at the meeting wants to know
about representation: where her ideas went,
why her name isn’t listed
as a volunteer.
The room grows quiet as her voice
deepens in timbre, rises
in pitch and complaint— The body
of documents we assemble
through the hours
fills binders lined up on the shelves.
Outside, in their inside,
insects build their own structures:
walls woven of their tongues’
and bodies’ excretions,
tunnels lined with bits of hair.
Every now and then we find
a cell abandoned, its hinges
torn asunder in the wind.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Evergreens.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Evergreens

This entry is part 42 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

Melting snow reveals
the catacombs of rodents.
It’s been a long winter.

Starving deer strip
rhododendrons of their tough,
cold-curled tongues.

Hundred-year-old hemlocks
lose their needles to an insect
thinner than a thread.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

High on the hog

With Mr. Pierce, purser, to Westminster Hall, and there met with Captain Cuttance, Lieut. Lambert, and Pierce, surgeon, thinking to have met with the Commissioners of Parliament, but they not sitting, we went to the Swan, where I did give them a barrel of oysters; and so I to my Lady’s and there dined, and had very much talk and pleasant discourse with my Lady, my esteem growing every day higher and higher in her and my Lord.
So to my father Bowyer’s where my wife was, and to the Commissioners of Parliament, and there did take some course about having my Lord’s salary paid tomorrow when the Charles is paid off, but I was troubled to see how high they carry themselves, when in good truth nobody cares for them. So home by coach and my wife. I then to the office, where Sir Williams both and I set about making an estimate of all the officers’ salaries in ordinary in the Navy till 10 o’clock at night.
So home, and I with my head full of thoughts how to get a little present money, I eat a bit of bread and cheese, and so to bed.

Here I sit, high
and fat as a parliament
nobody cares for.

An ordinary night.
My head full of money, I eat
bread and cheese.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 5 March 1660/61.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Cascade

What I want is immediacy, the nub
of the moment pressed without doubt
into my side, the tremor that comes
sometimes before sight, before taste
or touch. Whatever might be lost, don’t
take that away from me: stars pouring
out of the firmament, not ever holding
back the flood over my small ladle.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Fat Tuesday.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Threnody

This entry is part 41 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

A cop with a backpack sprayer
poisoning an urban garden—
why should I dream of this?

I carry out a dead houseplant,
but can’t find a snow-free spot
to lay it to rest.

The house finch whose eye disease
prevents him from migrating
warbles on and on.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Down and out

My Lord went this morning on his journey to Hinchingbroke, Mr. Parker with him; the chief business being to look over and determine how, and in what manner, his great work of building shall be done.
Before his going he did give me some jewells to keep for him, viz., that that the King of Sweden did give him, with the King’s own picture in it, most excellently done; and a brave George, all of diamonds, and this with the greatest expressions of love and confidence that I could imagine or hope for, which is a very great joy to me.
To the office all the forenoon. Then to dinner and so to Whitehall to Mr. Coventry about several businesses, and then with Mr. Moore, who went with me to drink a cup of ale, and after some good discourse then home and sat late talking with Sir W. Batten. So home and to bed.

Broke, I look for a cell.
A brave press of confidence could gin me—
ice in an oven.
I drink and talk.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 4 March 1660/61.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Some things I know to be true

When the phone rings, sometimes I get palpitations.
Worry causes palpitations.
Mothers seem to have an inexhaustible supply of worry.
Worry can be aggravated by having a new cellphone model with apps
that allow you to imagine you can know more than you actually can
about situations over which you really have no control.
In the meantime, small birds fly up into bare branches.
The outline of orange glimpsed through the crosshatched branches
is not fire but the sun setting over the Elizabeth river.
Winter is bone white in patches, slush and grey in others.
The plumber said it was lucky the flow that bubbled from toilet flange
into the hallway from the sewer backup was no more than an inch.
The surface got wet, but the heartwood was spared.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Grand jete.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Fat Tuesday

(Lord’s day): Mr. Woodcocke preached at our church a very good sermon upon the imaginacions of the thoughts of man’s heart being only evil. So home, where being told that my Lord had sent for me I went, and got there to dine with my Lord, who is to go into the country tomorrow. I did give up the mortgage made to me by Sir R. Parkhurst for 2,000l.
In the Abby all the afternoon. Then at Mr. Pierces the surgeon, where Shepley and I supped. So to my Lord’s, who comes in late and tells us how news is come to-day of Mazarin’s being dead, which is very great news and of great consequence.
I lay tonight with Mr. Shepley here, because of my Lord’s going to-morrow.

In the heart, only evil—
tomorrow I give up the urge.
Late news is dead news.
A great lay tonight
because of tomorrow.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 3 March 1660/61.