Harbor

Lay long in bed, and then to Westminster Hall and there walked, and then with Mr. Spicer, Hawly, Washington, and little Mr. Ashwell (my old friends at the Exchequer) to the Dog, and gave them two or three quarts of wine, and so away to White Hall, where, at Sir G. Carteret’s, Sir Williams both and I dined very pleasantly; and after dinner, by appointment, came the Governors of the East India Company, to sign and seal the contract between us (in the King’s name) and them. And that done, we all went to the King’s closet, and there spoke with the King and the Duke of York, who promise to be very careful of the India trade to the utmost. So back to Sir G. Carteret’s and ended our business, and so away homewards, but Sir W. Batten offering to go to the 3 Tuns at Charing Cross, where the pretty maid the daughter of the house is; I was saying that, that tickled Sir W. Pen, he seemed to take these words very captiously and angrily, which I saw, and seemed indifferent to go home in his coach with them, and so took leave to go to the Council Chamber to speak with my Lord Privy Seal, which I did, but they did stay for me, which I was pleased at, but no words passed between him and me in all our way home. So home and to bed.

I walk with my old dog
to see a seal—
no words all our way home


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 6 December 1661.

Bohemian life

This morning I went early to the Paynter’s and there sat for my picture the fourth time, but it do not yet please me, which do much trouble me. Thence to the Treasury Office, where I found Sir W. Batten come before me, and there we sat to pay off the St. George. By and by came Sir W. Pen, and he and I stayed while Sir W. Batten went home to dinner, and then he came again, and Sir W. Pen and I went and dined at my house, and had two mince pies sent thither by our order from the messenger Slater, that had dressed some victuals for us, and so we were very merry, and after dinner rode out in his coach, he to Whitehall, and my wife and I to the Opera, and saw “Hamlett” well performed. Thence to the Temple and Mrs. Turner’s (who continues still very ill), and so home and to bed.

I paint for pay
and stay to dinner,
my house a mess.
Dress me in white
and I turn very ill.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 5 December 1661.

Gilded

She rubbed ointment across the darkening patch on her ankle, feeling the itch beneath the burn.

*

Some miniatures take months, sometimes years, to complete. One must ponder the weight and shape of what is missing, before the outline can be imagined.

*

She wrote of receiving in the mail pots of aloe, pots of African violets— propagated by friends from original plants once tended by her son before he passed away.

*

It is astonishing, how anger and hurt behave— leave in them too long the impress of your fingers and they will adorn every space in the room.

*

Honey on the tongue, bitterness in the heart. Soon the grammar of venomous bees in each ear.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Manifestation

we face the calendar, pen in hand, readily ink
in our presumptions, as if each day’s a caravan
each hour a beast of burden to be packed with
actions and commitments, so much baggage

we try to carry on the journey, much of it
just legacy, souvenirs of habit, but we stay
too busy to take the picnic-stop, savor
the small treasures we have gathered

reaching end of day with marked-up manifest,
a cargo checklist of what’s been accomplished,
what’s deferred, this only leaves the hours
hungry, exhausted, weak, unable to bear more

so as again we’re planning, filling saddle-bags
securing bundles, this time let’s slow a bit, discard
a few things we no longer need, let go those items
whose purposes we’ve outgrown or forgotten

and when we rearrange what’s left
after this lightening, leave two of these hours
free of other baggage, open and available
for guests:

one camel for wonder,
one pony for joy

Laura M Kaminski
12 06 2014
In response to/inspired by the last line of Dave Bonta’s “Broadcast.”

Broadcast

To Whitehall with both Sir Williams, thence by water, where I saw a man lie dead upon Westminster Stairs that had been drowned yesterday. To the Temple, and thence to Mr. Phillips and got my copy of Sturtlow lands. So back to the 3 Tuns at Charing Cross, and there met the two Sir Williams and Col. Treswell and Mr. Falconer, and dined there at Sir W. Pen’s cost, and after dinner by water to Cheapside to the painter’s, and there found my wife, and having sat a little she and I by coach to the Opera and Theatre, but coming too late to both, and myself being a little out of tune we returned, and I settled to read in “Mare Clausum” till bedtime, and so to bed.

dead air—
the opera and I both
out of time


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 4 December 1661.

Not Less

No one is late: only present
to the need particular
to her own circumstances.

And each in his own time
forages for what is
already here—

hidden in plain view,
without restrictions,
though strewn among

the rocky surfaces.
No one is more worthy,
no one less beautiful.

All hunger
for this world goes
by the same name.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Elegy in Ideograms

Instead of anger, we said: we will find
old trails through mountains refusing passage.

*

Instead of sorrow, we said: even God’s tears
are too hot for the caldera our hearts.

*

Instead of hunger, we said: now you will feel
your large intestines consuming the small.

*

Instead of fear, we said: not even your hands
can cut off our greater desire for air.

*

Instead of perhaps, someday room at the table, we said: if
the yeast goes to work, everything should rise with the dough.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

One-percenter

To the Paynter’s and sat and had more of my picture done; but it do not please me, for I fear it will not be like me. At noon from thence to the Wardrobe, where dinner not being ready Mr. Moore and I to the Temple about my little business at Mr. Turner’s, and so back again, and dinner being half done I went in to my Lady, where my Lady Wright was at dinner with her, and all our talk about the great happiness that my Lady Wright says there is in being in the fashion and in variety of fashions, in scorn of others that are not so, as citizens’ wives and country gentlewomen, which though it did displease me enough, yet I said nothing to it. Thence by water to the office through bridge, being carried by him in oars that the other day rowed in a scull faster than my oars to the Towre, and I did give him 6d. At the office all the afternoon, and at night home to read in “Mare Clausum” till bedtime, and so to bed, but had a very bad night by dreams of my wife’s riding with me and her horse throwing her and breaking her leg, and then I dreamt that I had one of my testicles swelled, and I in such pain that I waked with it, and had a great deal of pain there a very great while till I fell asleep again, and such apprehension I had of it that when I rose and trussed up myself thinking that it had been no dream. Till in the daytime I found myself very well at ease, and remembered that I did dream so, and that Mr. Creed was with me, and that I did complain to him of it, and he said he had the same pain in his left that I had in my right testicle which pleased me much to remember.

Like noon in a temple,
our happiness is
a fashion, in scorn of others
that are not us.
I dream of a wing breaking,
dream of a rose
trussed up in
my left testicle.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 3 December 1661.

Found

I didn’t expect to be seen by anyone,
caught down by the creek, damp
and muddy knees before the dawn,

sleeves shoved up above my elbows,
both hands plunged beneath, fingers
raking sediment below the eddies —

I could offer some excuse, tell you
my wedding ring was loose upon my
finger, slipped into the water, and I’m

dredging for loop of silver, small
missing symbol of all that matters —
but that would not be the truth.

Truth is I only came to listen,
a pre-dawn prayer that’s less an act
of asking, more of waiting

for some sense of direction to reveal
itself, burn off the fog, burnish me
with sunlight’s permeating clarity,

but I’m not so good at meditation,
I’m still prone to distraction, and what’s
really happening is just small bliss:

December creek-water, cold
and almost crunchy, floating flecks
of ice that bump and scrape my wrists,

a contrast to the smoothness of stones
beneath my palms, elusive silt between
them velvety, responsive to the touch.

—Laura M Kaminski
12 04 2014
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “Process.”