Horticultured

(Lord’s day). In the morning my father and I walked in the garden and read the will; where, though he gives me nothing at present till my father’s death, or at least very little, yet I am glad to see that he hath done so well for us, all, and well to the rest of his kindred. After that done, we went about getting things, as ribbands and gloves, ready for the burial. Which in the afternoon was done; where, it being Sunday, all people far and near come in; and in the greatest disorder that ever I saw, we made shift to serve them what we had of wine and other things; and then to carry him to the church, where Mr. Taylor buried him, and Mr. Turners preached a funerall sermon, where he spoke not particularly of him anything, but that he was one so well known for his honesty, that it spoke for itself above all that he could say for it. And so made a very good sermon.
Home with some of the company who supped there, and things being quiet, at night to bed.

the garden gives me nothing
I am glad

after love or great disorder
in an unknown nest
I could be quiet


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 7 July 1661.

Expatriate Triolet

Of course I think about return: the many ways a path
might stretch or hold, mountain and valley, across a map.
Edges don’t circumscribe or surpass: this kind of math
merely arrives at the same sum— How many ways a path
leafed out, but tracked itself back to a source. No trap’s
more cunning than the one that never shut you in or out—
Of course I think about return: the many ways a path
can stretch and hold, mountain and valley, across a map.

I asked to be curled as a blade of jade-green fern,

to be smooth as a fig leaf sunning in the yard.

I asked to be light as a circus of speckled motes,
to have the dignity of lanterns on a passing train.

I asked to open like a secret peeling from the bark of a tree,
to close like the hinge of a music box after it has been played.

I asked to bear in my hands the heart hidden in the hills,
for the string to guide me into the labyrinth.

The poem behind the poem

says I am not a copy: most of the time
you don’t even know I’m here.
The poem

behind the poem is not your evil twin,
and not your doppelgänger either. You came
into the room thinking Oh what nice

contemporary furniture, what pleasant ambience,
and you were ready to surrender your keys, your purse,
your not-yet-born firstborn to the handsome valet

attendant. But the poem behind the poem doesn’t care
what kind of suit or trench coat you’re wearing,
what kind of cummerbund. The poem behind the poem

is a thin tasseled cord to one side
of the printed drape or the dumbwaiter.
The poem behind the poem is the trapdoor

you don’t notice until the floor falls away
beneath your shiny, pointy, oxfords; and you
are falling into a story that doesn’t seem

to make sense, and so you wave your arms
and yell I’ll sue! except the ancient clerk
yawning at the counter has seen it all before.

 

In response to Via Negativa: An inquiry concerning the poetics of like, whatever.

Bilateral

Waked this morning with news, brought me by a messenger on purpose, that my uncle Robert is dead, and died yesterday; so I rose sorry in some respect, glad in my expectations in another respect. So I made myself ready, went and told my uncle Wight, my Lady, and some others thereof, and bought me a pair of boots in St. Martin’s, and got myself ready, and then to the Post House and set out about eleven and twelve o’clock, taking the messenger with me that came to me, and so we rode and got well by nine o’clock to Brampton, where I found my father well. My uncle’s corpse in a coffin standing upon joynt-stools in the chimney in the hall; but it begun to smell, and so I caused it to be set forth in the yard all night, and watched by two men. My aunt I found in bed in a most nasty ugly pickle, made me sick to see it. My father and I lay together tonight, I greedy to see the will, but did not ask to see it till to-morrow.

I made myself a pair:
my clock and I,
my corpse and I
set forth together,
greedy to see.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 6 July 1661.

The good worker

At home, and in the afternoon to the office, and that being done all went to Sir W. Batten’s and there had a venison pasty, and were very merry. At night home and to bed.

Me and the office: one
wen.
A pasty.
A merry bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 5 July 1661.

An inquiry concerning the poetics of, like, whatever

The poem behind the poem says
what do we do with the other
creatures of this world?
Those that stay put, stay put;
those that move, raise their mobile
devices to the window
and press record. What do we do
with the other languages of this world,
the other ways to forget or fall silent?
Dogs can’t be the only ones
whose vocalizations have adapted
to the inattentiveness of the human ear.
And there’s a bird in New Guinea
that can imitate with equal accuracy
a camera shutter or a chainsaw.
What do we do with ourselves
during the 99% of our lives
when we are not listening
to the poem (song, prayer) in which
our actual names happen to be recorded,
and customs agents are demanding more
and more documentation for everything
that crosses a line, while those that stay put
learn to imitate themselves…
I’m sorry, what
was the question again?
I’ve been busy collecting photographs of cherubs.
I love how they manage to be
both fleshy and impossible.
And now the voices are telling me
to mind the gap—
over and over, as if that were
our most essential task…

Interpellated

We sit in the grass having come nearly late.
We’ve made our way under the trees, rough

ground cover prickling at our sandaled heels.
The moon is a wafer split exactly in half.

Someone asks, If only one part of the balance
is visible, should we assume the other unseen

is properly accounted for? If you haven’t
been where we’ve been, it’s difficult

to understand what it’s really like.
Sure, the streets are spotless and the hedges

are well-manicured. In this part of town,
the doors of townhouses all have beautiful,

ornate knockers, polished to such a high shine.
But who told you the trees bear only fruits

of gold? I and my kind walk beneath endless
rows of them, stretching our shirts and aprons

to catch what careless afterthought the unseen gods
might lob out their windows. We hold up our heads

and smile at those we meet. We carry laminated plastic
cards with which we provision time, our little dignities.

Carnival-goer

At home all the morning; in the afternoon I went to the Theatre, and there I saw “Claracilla” (the first time I ever saw it), well acted. But strange to see this house, that used to be so thronged, now empty since the Opera begun; and so will continue for a while, I believe. Called at my father’s, and there I heard that my uncle Robert continues to have his fits of stupefaction every day for 10 or 12 hours together.
From thence to the Exchange at night, and then went with my uncle Wight to the Mitre and were merry, but he takes it very ill that my father would go out of town to Brampton on this occasion and would not tell him of it, which I endeavoured to remove but could not.
Here Mr. Batersby the apothecary was, who told me that if my uncle had the emerods (which I think he had) and that now they are stopped, he will lay his life that bleeding behind by leeches will cure him, but I am resolved not to meddle in it.
Home and to bed.

In the heat and the throng,
the call of stupefaction.
For hours we were out.
I endeavored to move, but not now
that I am in bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 4 July 1661.

Accrual

“The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting….” ~ Pablo Neruda

Sunlight stretches a braided rope across the yard from which strands fall, every shred made useful over time. The sky’s tarp sags slightly in the middle. Somewhere inside the kitchen, a radio dial is turned and the noise of its scratchy seeking makes a brief aluminum corona in the air. The heated flagstones smell almost like coffee, but the woman hanging laundry on the line doesn’t have time. She would like to linger— even the rivulets of water wrung out of shirts and trousers have their small luxury: they follow lines that snake across the paving; they digress, branch out, before evaporating. Did you know even the merest gash of water on the nape, on the insides of the elbows and the knees, is enough to cool the body on the hottest day? Even extravagance can be meted out, tempered. And later in the evening, when the body gives itself permission to sink at last into a pool of water, sometimes what comes flooding back is both painful and sweet beyond measure.