Stripper

All the morning pleasing myself with my father, going up and down the house and garden with my father and my wife, contriving some alterations. After dinner (there coming this morning my aunt Hanes and her son from London, that is to live with my father) I rode to Huntingdon, where I met Mr. Philips, and there put my Bugden matter in order against the Court, and so to Hinchingbroke, where Mr. Barnwell shewed me the condition of the house, which is yet very backward, and I fear will be very dark in the cloyster when it is done. So home and to supper and to bed, very pleasant and quiet.

Pleasing the house with
my fat rations, I live
on lips, my inching
barn-dark oyster. It is
home and supper
and bed, very quiet.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 21 September 1661.

Harlequin life

I pushed off long ago,
barely looking back.

Part of it was caused
by circumstance,

other parts by willfulness
or what we mean

when we say
I had no choice.

What happened
in the intervening years

would fill an archive,
but no more or less

than anyone else’s
harlequin life.

I cannot clearly tell
what parts shone

with more lucidity
than foolishness,

or where I found
the courage to rise

above the givens of this
grasping self. So many

moments as if doomed
from the start

taught me how difficult
it is to shelter hope,

how necessary to hold
its stubborn flicker,

cupped against
the not yet known.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Writing process.

Writing process

Will Stankes and I set out in the morning betimes for Gravely, where to an ale-house and drank, and then, going towards the Court House, met my uncle Thomas and his son Thomas, with Bradly, the rogue that had betrayed us, and one Young, a cunning fellow, who guides them. There passed no unkind words at all between us, but I seemed fair and went to drink with them. I said little till by and by that we come to the Court, which was a simple meeting of a company of country rogues, with the Steward, and two Fellows of Jesus College, that are lords of the town where the jury were sworn; and I producing no surrender, though I told them I was sure there is and must be one somewhere, they found my uncle Thomas heir at law, as he is, and so, though I did tell him and his son that they would find themselves abused by these fellows, and did advise them to forbear being admitted this Court (which they could have done, but that these rogues did persuade them to do it now), my uncle was admitted, and his son also, in reversion after his father, which he did well in to secure his money. The father paid a year and a half for his fine, and the son half a year, in all 48l., besides about 3l. fees; so that I do believe the charges of his journeys, and what he gives those two rogues, and other expenses herein, cannot be less than 70l., which will be a sad thing for them if a surrender be found.
After all was done, I openly wished them joy in it, and so rode to Offord with them and there parted fairly without any words. I took occasion to bid them money for their half acre of land, which I had a mind to do that in the surrender I might secure Piggott’s, which otherwise I should be forced to lose.
So with Stankes home and supped, and after telling my father how things went, I went to bed with my mind in good temper, because I see the matter and manner of the Court and the bottom of my business, wherein I was before and should always have been ignorant.

I set out in the morning
on a journey without any words
to a half acre of land where
I always have been.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 20 September 1661.

In the garden of little hopes,

tread lightly in case the willow
has not yet finished mourning.

Leave the hedges untrimmed
for a few more weeks, in case
the colonies of winged things

have not yet finished migrating.
Let the stone basin keep its ring
of verdigris: such faithfulness

is worth emulating. And let the dull
wool of evening cover the naked stones:
its old heart is rich with longing.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Schooling.

Schooling

Up early, and my father and I alone into the garden, and there talked about our business, and what to do therein. So after I had talked and advised with my coz Claxton, and then with my uncle by his bedside, we all horsed away to Cambridge, where my father and I, having left my wife at the Beare with my brother, went to Mr. Sedgewicke, the steward of Gravely, and there talked with him, but could get little hopes from anything that he would tell us; but at last I did give him a fee, and then he was free to tell me what I asked, which was something, though not much comfort.
From thence to our horses, and with my wife went and rode through Sturbridge but the fair was almost done. So we did not ‘light there at all, but went back to Cambridge, and there at the Beare we had some herrings, we and my brother, and after dinner set out for Brampton, where we come in very good time, and found all things well, and being somewhat weary, after some talk about tomorrow’s business with my father, we went to bed.

Alone in the garden of little hopes,
I tell the light
to be herrings
and come in good time.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 19 September 1661.

What need is there

This entry is part 14 of 14 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2014

for another poem to document
the clack of acorns falling
from the tree,

for another poet to sit
at a table cleared of all
but oil stains from some
previous feast?

What urgency requires
a document be made of things
that the mouth has tasted,
all the secrets slipped

into the body’s crevices?
Why whittle songs
out of the ordinariness
of days, their thinning larder

and their pickled stores?
Someone counts the stones
that lead up the temple steps.
Someone weighs the grains,

pours them into burlap sacks.
And someone draws the tiller
from one end of the row to another,
before turning around again.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Leavings

The next morning up early and begun our march; the way about Puckridge very bad, and my wife, in the very last dirty place of all, got a fall, but no hurt, though some dirt. At last she begun, poor wretch, to be tired, and I to be angry at it, but I was to blame; for she is a very good companion as long as she is well.
In the afternoon we got to Cambridge, where I left my wife at my cozen Angier’s while I went to Christ’s College, and there found my brother in his chamber, and talked with him; and so to the barber’s, and then to my wife again, and remounted for Impington, where my uncle received me and my wife very kindly. And by and by in comes my father, and we supped and talked and were merry, but being weary and sleepy my wife and I to bed without talking with my father anything about our business.

The way, though poor,
was a good companion.
I left my wife,
my brother, my wife,
my uncle, my wife,
my father, my wife
without a thing.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 18 September 1661.

Call and response

This entry is part 13 of 14 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2014

You call and I serve
because you gave me
a name that means hover,
watch over. I give up
and defer, make way,
beg pardon, squeeze
into the narrow
back passage in my
coming and going.
There’s a button
inlaid in the floor,
its purpose
my summons. And I
no longer recall
what it’s like
not to start
at the sound
of my name.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Morning-mare

And the next morning got up, telling my wife of my journey, and she with a few words got me to hire her a horse to go along with me. So I went to my Lady’s and elsewhere to take leave, and of Mr. Townsend did borrow a very fine side-saddle for my wife; and so after all things were ready, she and I took coach to the end of the town towards Kingsland, and there got upon my horse and she upon her pretty mare that I hired for her, and she rides very well. By the mare at one time falling she got a fall, but no harm; so we got to Ware, and there supped, and to bed very merry and pleasant.

Morning-mare:
a red ride.
We are falling
but we go
up.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 17 September 1661.

Keepsakes

This entry is part 12 of 14 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2014

For what occasion did I save
that ill-fitting suit, those shoes
that pinched, that jeweled clutch

worn only one other time before I
put all away and lined the bags
with mothballs? I still have the two

white underskirts adorned with tiny
satin rosebuds made for my First Communion;
and the jade green blouse and skirt I wore

when I got hitched a second time.
Among the baby shoes and embroidered
bedspreads, there is an envelope too

in which I’ve kept relics— hair and nail
clippings, birth-cords: four dried, indigo-
colored discs smaller than stamps,

threaded through their hearts by safety
pins to paper, the way that mothers like
to keep their daughters close.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.