Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Names misspelled, assumptions
triggered before the facts.
Folded cot or makeshift bed,
lunchpail oozing with suggestive
smells. Unreadable map of origins
beneath veiled eyes, slight bow
to obviate the need to offer up
the callused palm. Stations lined
with wayfarers: quiet under a row
of clocks ticking out world time,
clothing the same shade as boxes
at their feet, secured with twine.
This morning I went to my father’s, and there found him and my mother in a discontent, which troubles me much, and indeed she is become very simple and unquiet. Hence he and I to Dr. Williams, and found him within, and there we sat and talked a good while, and from him to Tom Trice’s to an alehouse near, and there sat and talked, and finding him fair we examined my uncle’s will before him and Dr. Williams, and had them sign the copy and so did give T. Trice the original to prove, so he took my father and me to one of the judges of the Court, and there we were sworn, and so back again to the alehouse and drank and parted.
Dr. Williams and I to a cook’s where we eat a bit of mutton, and away, I to W. Joyce’s, where by appointment my wife was, and I took her to the Opera, and shewed her “The Witts,” which I had seen already twice, and was most highly pleased with it.
So with my wife to the Wardrobe to see my Lady, and then home.
In a tent I become
simple and quiet
with rice, unoriginal
and worn as a wit
seen twice.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 23 August 1661.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
In the night
something listless flies
from the shoulder of the goddess:
pilgrim heart, it wants to find
the hollow from which it first was
taken: wants to know what ticks
beneath the marbled shoulder
of the goddess, listless
even in composure,
in the night.
In response to Via Negativa: Owl.
The Doctor insists
there is no longer
any promised land—
insists it is a myth,
inflated fable chased
across the dust
of centuries
by the dispossessed,
who have forgotten
where they’re from
and what they’re doing
here. And whose fault
is that? asks
the automaton with
the marble eye,
and the soldiers for hire
dropped into the deserts
of middle earth,
and the maids whose hands
have become detachable
at the wrists—
interchangeable as all
the other trafficked
body parts that move
the indifferent machine
farther and farther
from any living source.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
To the Privy Seal, and sealed; so home at noon, and there took my wife by coach to my uncle Fenner’s, where there was both at his house and the Sessions, great deal of company, but poor entertainment, which I wonder at; and the house so hot, that my uncle Wight, my father and I were fain to go out, and stay at an alehouse awhile to cool ourselves. Then back again and to church, my father’s family being all in mourning, doing him the greatest honour, the world believing that he did give us it: so to church, and staid out the sermon, and then with my aunt Wight, my wife, and Pall and I to her house by coach, and there staid and supped upon a Westphalia ham, and so home and to bed.
The sea is great company
but poor entertainment.
We go out
all in mourning,
believing it a sermon and a pall.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 22 August 1661.
It’s been less than three weeks since I returned from Cornwall, but already the alembic of memory is distilling the random incidents of that trip into stories fit for re-telling. One such story I’ve begun to think of as the Mystery of the Dead Hand. Continue reading “The Mystery of the Dead Hand”
If the brown dog lies
panting in the sun,
do you think that means
it’s hot? If the skies
are overcast, do you think
we’ll see the once-in-a-lifetime
alignment of the stars? If
there are villages three
days’ hike away but reachable only
through trails that hug the cliffs,
should we go to the trouble
of a costly expedition? Isn’t it all
the same to make up names
and numbers, invent a history
for those poor people huddled there,
one they couldn’t after all read?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
This morning by appointment I went to my father, and after a morning draft he and I went to Dr. Williams, but he not within we went to Mrs. Terry, a daughter of Mr. Whately’s, who lately offered a proposal of her sister for a wife for my brother Tom, and with her we discoursed about and agreed to go to her mother this afternoon to speak with her, and in the meantime went to Will. Joyce’s and to an alehouse, and drank a good while together, he being very angry that his father Fenner will give him and his brother no more for mourning than their father did give him and my aunt at their mother’s death, and a very troublesome fellow I still find him to be, that his company ever wearys me. From thence about two o’clock to Mrs. Whately’s, but she being going to dinner we went to Whitehall and there staid till past three, and here I understand by Mr. Moore that my Lady Sandwich is brought to bed yesterday of a young Lady, and is very well. So to Mrs. Whately’s again, and there were well received, and she desirous to have the thing go forward, only is afeard that her daughter is too young and portion not big enough, but offers 200l. down with her. The girl is very well favoured, and a very child, but modest, and one I think will do very well for my brother: so parted till she hears from Hatfield from her husband, who is there; but I find them very desirous of it, and so am I. Hence home to my father’s, and I to the Wardrobe, where I supped with the ladies, and hear their mother is well and the young child, and so home.
My fat hat is an angry hat,
a troublesome hat, a weary hat,
a staid hat, a yesterday hat,
a war hat, a Big Brother hat.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 21 August 1661.
At the office in the morning and all the afternoon at home to put my papers in order. This day we come to some agreement with Sir R. Ford for his house to be added to the office to enlarge our quarters.
At the office
in the morning and all
the afternoon.
To order
is to add ice
to enlarge our art.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 20 August 1661.