Month: October 2014

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Once upon

This entry is part 5 of 27 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2014

a blue moon, blood moon, I wanted

to see: but either I woke up too late
or the moon had by then finished

its brief shadow play—
And I wondered about those lovers,

the ones whose paths cross in the sky
only once a year because in the story

they are cursed, or their love
is forbidden, or someone decided

a story acquires pathos if cruel fate
is written into it— What happens

if they miss the great once a year
rendezvous because the train is late

or the alarm is set wrong or the same
old, same old ritual doesn’t quite

cut it the same as before? What if either
one starts to wonder whether it might be

better to announce Hey I’ve decided
to throw my name into match.com?

Only a saint could have that much
patience; no one could be that much a fool—

In other words, what is the nature
of a true, great love? No one’s

been able to figure it out yet,
here below as above.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Cure for neuroses

Up in the morning and to my uncle Fenner’s, thinking to have met Peg Kite about her business but she comes not, so I went to Dr. Williams, where I found him sick in bed and was sorry for it. So about business all day, troubled in my mind till I can hear from Brampton, how things go on at Sturtlow, at the Court, which I was cleared in at night by a letter, which tells me that my cozen Tom was there to be admitted, in his father’s name, as heir-at-law, but that he was opposed, and I was admitted by proxy, which put me out of great trouble of mind.

My thinking, sick
and sorry all day,
cleared at night.

Tell me my name
and put me
out of mind.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 7 October 1661.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Claims

The man who patrols the sidewalk
in front of his house turns on his sprinklers
so the spray is sure to deter pedestrian traffic
especially around the time that school lets out.
Also, he sets his trash and recycling bins
not on the grass bank like everyone else,
but at least a good six inches from the curb.
Once, I made the mistake of getting out of my car
to push them closer in, so I could have
a bit more room to park. He came charging
onto his driveway, glared hard, clearly
territorial. I held his gaze
but also looked beyond, steadfast
in my own right to be here,
the space I take up public
as the unsequestered air.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Prophet without honor

(Lord’s day). To church in the morning; Mr. Mills preached, who, I expect, should take in snuffe that my wife not come to his child’s christening the other day. The winter coming on, many of parish ladies are come home and appear at church again; among others, the three sisters the Thornbury’s, a very fine, and the most zealous people that ever I saw in my life, even to admiration, if it were true zeal. There was also my pretty black girl, Mrs. Dekins, and Mrs. Margaret Pen, this day come to church in a new flowered satin suit that my wife helped to buy her the other day.
So home to dinner, and to church in the afternoon to St. Gregory’s, by Paul’s, where I saw Mr. Moore in the gallery and went up to him and heard a good sermon of Dr. Buck’s, one I never heard before, a very able man. So home, and in the evening I went to my Valentine, her father and mother being out of town, to fetch her to supper to my house, and then came Sir W. Pen and would have her to his, so with much sport I got them all to mine, and we were merry, and so broke up and to bed.

I preach the winter
coming on, the thorn in life.
A black flower went to
my Valentine—
we were merry and broke.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 6 October 1661.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Unseen

This entry is part 4 of 27 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2014

Coming home from school, I ran
my fingers through fronds that bordered

one stretch of road: guileless green;
and lightly etched in the distance,

clotheslines sagging with the weight
of sheets and clothes that fluttered

like flags of one domestic territory
whose floors were scrubbed and waxed,

whose kitchen sinks and stoves
were tended, where fish and fowl

were gutted and scaled by women’s hands.
And once, when I was just a little older,

in the crowded darkness of a movie house
I felt the blind, insistent fumbling

of unknown fingers around the back
buttons of my blouse. I squirmed

and tried to inch away but could not see
from where this invasive spider

had climbed down from its sticky web…
Out in the tremble of latticed daylight,

I did not know the words to speak for what
just happened: just as when I held up my hand

to my face and saw rather than felt
the crimson gash from the unseen stroke.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

A sailor’s life

At the office all the morning, then dined at home, and so staid at home all the afternoon putting up my Lord’s model of the Royal James, which I borrowed of him long ago to hang up in my room. And at night Sir W. Pen and I alone to the Dolphin, and there eat some bloat-herrings and drank good sack. Then came in Sir W. Warren and another and staid a while with us, and then Sir Arnold Brames, with whom we staid late and till we had drank too much wine. So home and I to bed pleased at my afternoon’s work in hanging up the shipp. So to bed.

All afternoon I row alone
in rings
in too much wine.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 5 October 1661.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Proverbial (6)

By coach to White Hall with Sir W. Pen. So to Mr. Montagu, where his man, Mons. Eschar, makes a great complaint against the English, that they did help the Spaniards against the French the other day; and that their Embassador do demand justice of our King, and that he do resolve to be gone for France the next week; which I, and all that I met with, are very glad of. Thence to Paternoster Row, where my Will did receive the 50l. I borrowed yesterday. I to the Wardrobe to dinner, and there staid most of the afternoon very merry with the ladies. Then Captain Ferrers and I to the Theatre, and there came too late, so we staid and saw a bit of “Victoria,” which pleased me worse than it did the other day. So we staid not to see it out, but went out and drank a bottle or two of China ale, and so home, where I found my wife vexed at her people for grumbling to eat Suffolk cheese, which I also am vexed at. So to bed.

Char a bass and be glad.

*

The pater noster yesterday; war today.

*

Vexed to eat, vexed to be.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 4 October 1661.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Travelers

(October is Filipino American History month)

21

Moth like a heart
in a sack, in a mesh
of dust and light,
impelled by promise:
frenzy so small
and slight.

22

You call,
you write—
What can I do
for you, so far
away on the other
side of the world?

23

Nightmare
of living between
worlds whose edges
do not so easily
touch— Winding road
through treacherous
mountains, wide enough
for only one
vehicle to pass—

24

Don’t ask me
when or why
Don’t ask me
words like
remittance
forsaken
forgotten
return

25

Some days words
are all we can have:
a small flower
to keep from winter
under glass, a paper boat
to crease and uncrease;
whole towns of dreams
that sway, precarious,
on stilts—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Moth.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Travelers

(October is Filipino American History month)

16

A TV producer calls,
wanting to know if I
have had any close
encounters with aswang
like in a recent episode of “Grimm”—
and why this creature targets
unborn fetuses curled tight like ferns
within their mothers’ wombs.

17

I don’t tell him
the usual stories
he’s already heard,
about jilted women
out to get revenge.

18

Instead I tell him
of the foreign ships
that crested the horizon,
and of their systematic
purge of the indigenous,
up and down the coast
four hundred years ago.

19

Babaylan,
Mambunong,
Manchachawak—

S/he who spoke
to the ancestors
in moonlight, s/he
who wove the grain
into an abacus of prayer
and turned the third
eye to another world—

These ancient names
for seer, poet,
diviner,
shaman—

20

Banished
to the margins,
cast out as demons,
how could they not
become grotesque?
How could they not
now be almost un-
recognizable?

 

In response to Via Negativa: Ghetto moon.