Apparition

At the office all the morning. At noon comes my brother Tom and Mr. Armiger to dine with me, and did, and we were very merry. After dinner, I having drunk a great deal of wine, I went away, seeming to go about business with Sir W. Pen, to my Lady Batten’s (Sir William being at Chatham), and there sat a good while, and then went away (before I went I called at home to see whether they were gone, and found them there, and Armiger inviting my wife to go to a play, and like a fool would be courting her, but he is an ass, and lays out money with Tom, otherwise I should not think him worth half this respect I shew him). To the Dolphin, where he and I and Captain Cocke sat late and drank much, seeing the boys in the streets flying their crackers, this day being kept all the day very strictly in the City. At last broke up, and called at my Lady Batten’s again and would have gone to cards, but Sir W. Pen was so fuddled that we could not try him to play, and therefore we parted, and I home and to bed.

At the office, having drunk
a great deal of wine,
I see my hat before me
like money in the street.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 5 November 1661.

Taste, See

How can I forget the night
you roused us all from sleep,
coming back near midnight,

some dinner party with local
politicians, journalists
eager for the opportunity

of an open bar— You
pushed aside mosquito netting
and scooped me up, brought me

to the kitchen to taste
take-home treasures none of us
had ever had before: turtle eggs

in clear stock, slippered tongues
of abalone on a bed of greens.
Especially because I was young,

I was not to be spared the lesson:
that it is most excellent to ingest
as much knowledge as one can,

of the untold riches of this earth.
What did it matter if such a feast
was never to be had again?

Years and years later, ailing
and on the verge of tears, moved by
an emotion for which you had no name,

you pointed at a drawer which held
the things I would need to make accounts
upon your death. There, beneath the pile

of your good socks flanked by a neat
stack of pressed cotton handkerchiefs—
what logic justified this pairing?—

your savings passbook with its dwindling
rows of numbers, and a roll of unused cheques.
I am sorry, your eyes said. Did you

not realize how well you taught me? My eyes and lips
still smart but I know how to open my heart to eat
whatever the world brings to my door.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Marrow.

Antumbra

At night, we hear dim, percussive scrabbling on the roof.
It’s hard to tell what makes these sounds: animal or dream.

But then again, it’s always some kind of hunger
that drives one to the edge. Animal or dream,

whatever sharp fingernail has roused us from sleep
only means the season’s knife has turned. No dream

prepares enough for the shearing of what used to be
green on the branch, lush in the grove. Koi dream,

but closer toward the bottom of the pond— They barely
swish now: scales muted, their gold a murky dream.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Marrow

In the morning, being very rainy, by coach with Sir W. Pen and my wife to Whitehall, and sent her to Mrs. Hunt’s, and he and I to Mr. Coventry’s about business, and so sent for her again, and all three home again, only I to the Mitre (Mr. Rawlinson’s), where Mr. Pierce, the Purser, had got us a most brave chine of beef, and a dish of marrowbones. Our company my uncle Wight, Captain Lambert, one Captain Davies, and purser Barter, Mr. Rawlinson, and ourselves; and very merry. After dinner I took coach, and called my wife at my brother’s, where I left her, and to the Opera, where we saw “The Bondman,” which of old we both did so doat on, and do still; though to both our thinking not so well acted here (having too great expectations), as formerly at Salisbury-court. But for Betterton he is called by us both the best actor in the world. So home by coach, I lighting by the way at my uncle Wight’s and staid there a little, and so home after my wife, and to bed.

morning rain
only a dish of marrow bones
left in the world


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 4 November 1661.

Re/creation

(Lord’s day). This day I stirred not out, but took physique, and it did work very well, and all the day as I was at leisure I did read in Fuller’s Holy Warr, which I have of late bought, and did try to make a song in the praise of a liberall genius (as I take my own to be) to all studies and pleasures, but it not proving to my mind I did reject it and so proceeded not in it. At night my wife and I had a good supper by ourselves of a pullet hashed, which pleased me much to see my condition come to allow ourselves a dish like that, and so at night to bed.

I work at leisure—
a holy war.
I have bought all my own
pleasures and so
proceed in a supper of ash,
ourselves a dish.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 3 November 1661.

Leave-taking 2: videopoem

Yesterday’s poem was sparked by the footage included here, of a true katydid on the side of my house about a week ago. The music by Peder Norrby (rymdenmusic on Soundcloud) is licensed Attribution-Only under the Creative Commons. I’m experimenting with delivering a poem via text rather than voiceover in a videopoem, but I think I have a ways to go.

I’ll leave it to readers/viewers to decide what the poem means — I’m not really sure myself how best to interpret the last lines. But I will say that I was thinking about idol-worship, or what the Buddhists call upādāna (attachment, clinging, grasping).

Mile Marker

No one’s
too young

for history.
Coming or going

we find fruit
or rind, so many

parts of ourselves:
behind is ahead,

each catapult a skin
aimed for signpost

after signpost—
Poor traveler, boxed

in the present. Open it,
says the billboard.

The present, it means.
Even the Lady of Peace

and Good Voyage
was found at least twice

hiding in the breadfruit
tree, having played

truant from the quiet
of her own shrine:

the pilgrims gone,
the highway empty.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Leave-taking.

Match

At the office all the morning; where Sir John Minnes, our new comptroller, was fetched by Sir Wm. Pen and myself from Sir Wm. Batten’s, and led to his place in the office. The first time that he had come hither, and he seems a good fair condition man, and one that I am glad hath the office.
After the office done, I to the Wardrobe, and there dined, and in the afternoon had an hour or two’s talk with my Lady with great pleasure. And so with the two young ladies by coach to my house, and gave them some entertainment, and so late at night sent them home with Captain Ferrers by coach.
This night my boy Wayneman, as I was in my chamber, I overheard him let off some gunpowder; and hearing my wife chide him below for it, and a noise made, I call him up, and find that it was powder that he had put in his pocket, and a match carelessly with it, thinking that it was out, and so the match did give fire to the powder, and had burnt his side and his hand that he put into his pocket to put out the fire. But upon examination, and finding him in a lie about the time and place that he bought it, I did extremely beat him, and though it did trouble me to do it, yet I thought it necessary to do it. So to write by the post, and to bed.

In my pocket, a match, a hand.
In his pocket, the fire.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 2 November 1661.

Leave-taking

the trees react to colder nights by stripping naked
the meadow too

it’s as if they’re about to set off somewhere
all excess baggage is left at the gate

the sun too is a budget traveler
abandoning most of the sky
the days are so quiet now

take me with you
even if there’s nowhere to go
even if it means leaving myself behind