Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
They told me as a child,
pick the fish-bone from your plate and go
quietly behind the one
who is choking on her dinner. Find
a way to deposit
that mineral sliver in her hair,
and she will be spared.
I believed without asking,
trusted without coiling
my spine. How is it possible
I could hold out my hand then
and touch, or hold, and nothing broke?
In response to Via Negativa: Self-exile.
In bed the greatest part of this day also, and my swelling in some measure gone. I received a letter this day from my father, that Sir R. Bernard do a little fear that my uncle has not observed exactly the custom of Brampton in his will about his lands there, which puts me to a great trouble in mind, and at night wrote to him and to my father about it, being much troubled at it.
In bed, swelling,
I measure a little fear,
observe exactly
the custom of
the mind at night.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 12 October 1661.
All day in bed with a cataplasm to my Codd and at night rose a little, and to bed again in more ease than last night. This noon there came my brother and Dr. Tom and Snow to dinner, and by themselves were merry.
All day a cat and the snow
by themselves
were merry.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 11 October 1661.
I have nothing to wear,
said the soul, rummaging
through drawers full of socks—
I would like to have
a word with the night,
said the eye’s dark iris—
I have pockets full of seeds,
said the bitter melon that I sliced
into half-circles on the chopping board—
And I repeat everything you say,
said the northern mockingbird to the row
of machines churning in the laundromat—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
At the office all the morning; dined at home, and after dinner Sir W. Pen and my wife and I to the Theatre (she first going into Covent Garden to speak a word with a woman to enquire of her mother, and I in the meantime with Sir W. Pen’s coach staying at W. Joyce’s), where the King came to-day, and there was “The Traytor” most admirably acted; and a most excellent play it is. So home, and intended to be merry, it being my sixth wedding night; but by a late bruise in one of my testicles. I am in so much pain that I eat my supper and in pain to bed, yet my wife and I pretty merry.
After dinner to the garden
to speak a word
into the night.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 10 October 1661.
– for Nikky Finney and Jane Hirshfield
How was I to know there would be
an earthquake? I put on a soft new
black cardigan and went to work,
deciding I’d get the groceries
in the afternoon instead of
during my lunch break.
And how was I to know
he’d stop at a local bar
for drink after drink
then buy a used car, sight
unseen, squandering money
from our loan installment?
And how is anyone to know
when the month of muscled
flesh and feasting turns
into years of chemical
transfusions, of sharply
chiseled bones?
Once I witnessed a toddler
wake from the sleep induced
by a spate of seizures to say,
in a perfectly articulated
sentence, that she was
exceedingly hungry.
Once I knew a woman
who lay in a coma for half
a decade, then one day
sat up in bed, blinked
her eyes open, then asked
for a long drink of water.
Who knows when the slow
seconds catch up to the hour,
when misery decides it wants to eat
another kind of bread, when the herd
of stubborn anxieties finally
agrees to be led into the barn?
I also desire a homecoming, a waiting
bed with the familiar outline of my body,
the mat with strands of my hair and flakes
shed from my skin. And also I wish
that for such things, the price asked
of the hungry heart will not be so dear.
Those who enjoyed my photo-essay on Belgium from last summer might be interested in another by-product of that visit which I’ve just gotten around to finishing. Google says it’s not a good idea to re-blog full posts, so I’ll send you to the Moving Poems Forum: “Marc Neys in front of the camera: The Swoon interviews.” Despite my dodgy video and audio recording techniques, I think you’ll be inspired by Marc’s creative ethos. He’s the film-making embodiment of Ezra Pound’s dictum, “Make it new!”
This morning went out about my affairs, among others to put my Theorbo out to be mended, and then at noon home again, thinking to go with Sir Williams both to dinner by invitation to Sir W. Rider’s, but at home I found Mrs. Pierce, la belle, and Madam Clifford, with whom I was forced to stay, and made them the most welcome I could; and I was (God knows) very well pleased with their beautiful company, and after dinner took them to the Theatre, and shewed them “The Chances;” and so saw them both at home and back to the Fleece tavern, in Covent Garden, where Luellin and Blurton, and my old friend Frank Bagge, was to meet me, and there staid till late very merry. Frank Bagge tells me a story of Mrs. Pepys that lived with my Lady Harvy, Mr. Montagu’s sister, a good woman; that she had been very ill, and often asked for me; that she is in good condition, and that nobody could get her to make her will; but that she did still enquire for me, and that now she is well she desires to have a chamber at my house. Now I do not know whether this is a trick of Bagge’s, or a good will of hers to do something for me; but I will not trust her, but told him I should be glad to see her, and that I would be sure to do all that I could to provide a place for her. So by coach home late.
I went among others
to be mended. But
their beautiful company
showed me an old bag—
my ill condition. Nobody
could make me desire to be.
I do not know
the trick of trust.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 9 October 1661.
At the office all the morning. After office done, went and eat some Colchester oysters with Sir W. Batten at his house, and there, with some company; dined and staid there talking all the afternoon; and late after dinner took Mrs. Martha out by coach, and carried her to the Theatre in a frolique, to my great expense, and there shewed her part of the “Beggar’s Bush,” without much pleasure, but only for a frolique, and so home again.
We eat late, after
the heat in my
part of the bush,
with pleasure for
a home.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 8 October 1661.
I was tired
of the backhanded remark
and the subtle inflection
floating behind yet another
decorative screen—
And I remembered
a woman from Turkey I’d met
at a conference long ago,
how she turned to speak
to someone giving her
a similar issue—
I didn’t hear
their full exchange,
saw only their gestures.
Later she said,
walking away:
You can tell
by the tightening
in the gut that’s trying
so hard to keep in its poison.
In response to Via Negativa: Prophet without honor.