2014 – Page 31 – Via Negativa

August 21, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

No

“In the thin, soured soil,
a perfect endurance…” ~ Anna Ross

And what if I refuse to answer
to the order to stop and be searched,
to come like a dog with its tongue
hanging out when summoned

with two fingers of one hand?
And what if I refuse to open
my doors without warrant,
to get over it, to see

it was only a joke, just
a test, one more invisible
hoop to jump or be jumped?
And what if I’m not interested

in leftovers, the grudgingly
offered scraps, the free
meal that isn’t free? What if
I’ve kept an accounting

that doesn’t match your
claims, ledger books that show
where and when I didn’t get
what was due? But you

always change the rules,
the secret passwords,
the handshakes at the door
to the old boys’ club.

You circle your wagons
and act like you don’t
know what the fuck
I’m talking about.

August 20, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

History: A Lesson

This entry is part 2 of 14 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2014

Parade of vessels from across the seas, carrying
death and marketing schemes for the soul.

Lumber and hemp; tobacco, salt and spice: the measure
of a man’s or woman’s years of indentured service.

Land to till, forests to slash and burn.
The harvest that always goes to some other.

In the schoolhouse the foreign teacher turns
on her heel, confronts the monkey’s child.

The committee decides: You must not
have written this essay yourself, boy.

Rust that blooms across each hinge face
so the door never lies straight again.

Something that bends the grass
to flush out the hidden creatures.

Slick of oil all the way to the wharf.
Scritch of a match across granite.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

August 20, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

At the office all the morning; at noon the children are sent for by their mother my Lady Sandwich to dinner, and my wife goes along with them by coach, and she to my father’s and dines there, and from thence with them to see Mrs. Cordery, who do invite them before my father goes into the country, and thither I should have gone too but that I am sent for to the Privy Seal, and there I found a thing of my Lord Chancellor’s to be sealed this afternoon, and so I am forced to go to Worcester House, where severall Lords are met in Council this afternoon. And while I am waiting there, in comes the King in a plain common riding-suit and velvet cap, in which he seemed a very ordinary man to one that had not known him. Here I staid till at last, hearing that my Lord Privy Seal had not the seal here, Mr. Moore and I hired a coach and went to Chelsy, and there at an alehouse sat and drank and past the time till my Lord Privy Seal came to his house, and so we to him and examined and sealed the thing, and so homewards, but when we came to look for our coach we found it gone, so we were fain to walk home afoot and saved our money.
We met with a companion that walked with us, and coming among some trees near the Neate houses, he began to whistle, which did give us some suspicion, but it proved that he that answered him was Mr. Marsh (the Lutenist) and his wife, and so we all walked to Westminster together, in our way drinking a while at my cost, and had a song of him, but his voice is quite lost.
So walked home, and there I found that my Lady do keep the children at home, and lets them not come any more hither at present, which a little troubles me to lose their company. This day my aunt Fenner dyed.

O mother, O wife,
in the country of Chance I am king
in a velvet cap.
I had a mine and sealed the thing
and save our money in trees,
which cost a song and keep
the children company.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 19 August 1661.

August 19, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Dark

”The duende is not in the throat;
the duende climbs up inside you,
from the soles of the feet.” ~ Lorca

What a fever of documentation
our naked glistening inspires
in your ships’ logs, what a frenzy
of pointing fingers when you all
come ashore. Don’t deny
you want to graze the tips
of our women’s breasts
as they husk the grain
and carry our young on their hips.
Slim pretense of idols you set
against the gods, their dark
bodies like ours
standing sentinel in the fields.
When we dance our bodies
enter the fire.
Your falsehoods robed in piety
make us subaltern:
our heels mark time, coppered
by the dust of the earth.
Alloyed in the gleam
of history and its chains,
rows of us mourn in orchards
sowing and reaping for tables
where we won’t be made
welcome, where the lyric blood
in our veins cannot mark
the pure white cotton
of your daughters’ frocks;
where our tired brown bodies
roam at night, looking to escape
the judgments of the merciless.

August 19, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Owl

(Lord’s day). To our own church in the morning and so home to dinner, where my father and Dr. Tom Pepys came to me to dine, and were very merry. After dinner I took my wife and Mr. Sidney to my Lady to see my Lord Hinchingbroke, who is now pretty well again, and sits up and walks about his chamber.
So I went to White Hall, and there hear that my Lord General Monk continues very ill: so I went to la belle Pierce and sat with her; and then to walk in St. James’s Park, and saw great variety of fowl which I never saw before and so home.
At night fell to read in “Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Polity,” which Mr. Moore did give me last Wednesday very handsomely bound; and which I shall read with great pains and love for his sake.
So to supper and to bed.

Into an ear of owl
night fell,
ecclesiastical,
with great pain and love
for his supper.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 18 August 1661.

August 19, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Raven

At the Privy Seal, where we had a seal this morning. Then met with Ned Pickering, and walked with him into St. James’s Park (where I had not been a great while), and there found great and very noble alterations. And, in our discourse, he was very forward to complain and to speak loud of the lewdness and beggary of the Court, which I am sorry to hear, and which I am afeard will bring all to ruin again. So he and I to the Wardrobe to dinner, and after dinner Captain Ferrers and I to the Opera, and saw “The Witts” again, which I like exceedingly. The Queen of Bohemia was here, brought by my Lord Craven.
So the Captain and I and another to the Devil tavern and drank, and so by coach home. Troubled in mind that I cannot bring myself to mind my business, but to be so much in love of plays.
We have been at a great loss a great while for a vessel that I sent about a month ago with things of my Lord’s to Lynn, and cannot till now hear of them, but now we are told that they are put into Soale Bay, but to what purpose I know not.

At the park, a loud beggar
like the queen of Bohemia—
raven at play.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 17 August 1661.

August 18, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Clerking for Death

At the office all the morning, though little to be done; because all our clerks are gone to the buriall of Tom Whitton, one of the Controller’s clerks, a very ingenious, and a likely young man to live, as any in the Office. But it is such a sickly time both in City and country every where (of a sort of fever), that never was heard of almost, unless it was in a plague-time.
Among others, the famous Tom Fuller is dead of it; and Dr. Nichols, Dean of Paul’s; and my Lord General Monk is very dangerously ill.
Dined at home with the children and were merry, and my father with me; who after dinner he and I went forth about business. Among other things we found one Dr. John Williams at an alehouse, where we staid till past nine at night, in Shoe Lane, talking about our country business, and I found him so well acquainted with the matters of Gravely that I expect he will be of great use to me. So by link home. I understand my Aunt Fenner is upon the point of death.

Clerks go to burial
like any other full
or ill business.
We talk gravely,
eat ink and point.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 16 August 1661.

August 18, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Claro? Claro.

Yes, I understand: you are no if or but, as I
am to you always mere afterthought or annexation

You are the one to issue then revoke a mandate
and I, the lackey sent to do your bidding

You are high office, powdered wig, gavel, armchair
traveler, bossing; and I, always the colony

You were the battering ram and I the hand-
carved gates of the walled city fallen to ruin

You are the shard of steel blue
hidden in my lolo‘s milky eye

You are the slippery riverbank against which you
pushed my lola and ripped open her baro’t saya

You are the padre, the señor, and I
your bastardo hijo, your hidden puta

You are the revolution I had to wage, and I
the spear I drove into the seafarer’s groin

You are the blood that stained the water,
and I the wrist that did not seal you brother

after the terms of your one-sided contract were drawn

~ after Octavio Paz, “Motion” (“Movimiento”)

In response to Via Negativa: The enemy of the good.

August 18, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Above the fray

To the Privy Seal and Whitehall, up and down, and at noon Sir W. Pen carried me to Paul’s, and so I walked to the Wardrobe and dined with my Lady, and there told her, of my Lord’s sickness (of which though it hath been the town-talk this fortnight, she had heard nothing) and recovery, of which she was glad, though hardly persuaded of the latter. I found my Lord Hinchingbroke better and better, and the worst past. Thence to the Opera, which begins again to-day with “The Witts,” never acted yet with scenes; and the King and Duke and Duchess were there (who dined to-day with Sir H. Finch, reader at the Temple, in great state); and indeed it is a most excellent play, and admirable scenes.
So home and was overtaken by Sir W. Pen in his coach, who has been this afternoon with my Lady Batten, &c., at the Theatre.
So I followed him to the Dolphin, where Sir W. Batten was, and there we sat awhile, and so home after we had made shift to fuddle Mr. Falconer of Woolwich.
So home.

Sick of the town-
talk, I hear
nothing hard,
my wits never
overtaken by
a fuddle of wool.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 15 August 1661.

August 17, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Windfall

From the lowest branches, I can gather
what birds and small creatures leave

after having had their fill.
What the tree has shed

in the dressing room of night
yields barely sufficient cover.

But after the radio dial clicks off,
a small curl of music seems yet

suspended in air— This is how I know
no heart is too small, no plot too shallow

for the seed plucked from its house of flesh
and brought to lie in a field under stars.

In response to Via Negativa: Windfall.

Year: 2014

No