Year: 2014

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Sacerdotage

This morning my wife dressed herself fine to go to the christening of Mrs. Hunt’s child, and so she and I in the way in the morning went to the Paynter’s, and there she sat till noon, and I all the while looking over great variety of good prints which he had, and by and by comes my boy to tell us that Mrs. Hunt has been at our house to tell us that the christening is not till Saturday next. So after the Paynter had done I did like the picture pretty well, and my wife and I went by coach home, but in the way I took occasion to fall out with my wife very highly about her ribbands being ill matched and of two colours, and to very high words, so that, like a passionate fool, I did call her whore, for which I was afterwards sorry. But I set her down at home, and went myself by appointment to the Dolphin, where Sir W. Warren did give us all a good dinner, and that being done, to the office, and there sat late, and so home.

I come to Christ
not like a wife but
like a whore,
set down by appointment
to give all.


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

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Mandala

At the office upon business extraordinary all the morning, then to my Lady Sandwich’s to dinner, whither my wife, who had been at the painter’s, came to me, and there dined, and there I left her, and to the Temple my brother and I to see Mrs. Turner, who begins to be better, and so back to my Lady’s, where much made of, and so home to my study till bed-time, and so to bed.

ordinary morning
the sand painter begins
to study time


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 18 December 1661.

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Coming to my senses

Moonlight reflects
from snow-encrusted surfaces,
bounces a single
immense shadow
up to the side of the barn.

I watch the moving silhouette
of some large owl, species
uncertain, but make simple
identification from the turret-
turning of its head.

It bends low over
the snow, listening to something
there beneath. I hold
my breath, as if I too might
hear it, some small thing

tunneling invisibly
between the smothered
blades of grass. I hold
my breath, I am become
like owl, a hunger

and this listening
is all there is.


In response to/inspired by Dave Bonta’s “Early” and Luisa A. Igloria’s “Landmarks.”

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Inspirational poster

Up and to the Paynter’s to see how he went forward in our picture. So back again to dinner at home, and then was sent for to the Privy Seal, whither I was forced to go and stay so long and late that I was much vexed. At last we got all done, and then made haste to the office, where they were sat, and there we sat late, and so home to supper and to Selden, “Mare Clausum,” and so to bed.

how we picture the sea
at the office
where we sat and sat


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 17 December 1661.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Delusions of an erasure poet: invention is discovery

This entry is part 3 of 4 in the series Delusions of an Erasure Poet

This is sculpture. No, it is interpretive dance. No, it is architecture without blueprints, otherwise known as archaeology. That stone is just a stone, but this one has been worked, and this fragment of human bone will yield up its secrets in the laboratory. And this spot could become a sacred place again, and for the same reason—ancestor veneration—were it not for the fact that a factory must be built. Or, more likely, a parking garage. But I digress. But I always digress. But I also keep circling back and finding new things to dig for. I am like a dog who buries a chew toy and comes back later and digs up a bone. An old dog who looks forward to forgetting his old tricks. A new study shows that dogs process language the same way people do: poorly. When hearing an unfamiliar language, we tilt our heads to catch the few fragments that still make sense. We apply our advanced archaeological skills to assemble those fragments into something just familiar enough to make sense—and just strange enough to keep us listening, looking, tasting, smelling. Such an enticing redolence. Such an efflorescence among the tombs.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Early

Up by five o’clock this morning by candlelight (which I have not done for many a day), being called upon by one Mr. Bollen by appointment, who has business to be done with my Lord Privy Seal this morning, and so by coach, calling Mr. Moore at the Wardrobe, to Chelsy, and there did get my Lord to seal it. And so back again to Westminster Hall, and thence to my Lord Sandwich’s lodging, where I met my wife (who had been to see Mrs. Hunt who was brought to bed the other day of a boy), and got a joint of meat thither from the Cook’s, and she and I and Sarah dined together, and after dinner to the Opera, where there was a new play (“Cutter of Coleman Street”), made in the year 1658, with reflections much upon the late times; and it being the first time, the pay was doubled, and so to save money, my wife and I went up into the gallery, and there sat and saw very well; and a very good play it is. It seems of Cowly’s making. From thence by coach home, and to bed.

light on the sea
the hunt and play
of a late owl


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 16 December 1661.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Landmarks

Girl with the single braid falling down her back,
boy with the limp or a stone in his shoe—

Old man dressed in his only white suit
walking up the road with his cane—

In those days one could buy
bread at dawn from the corner store,

little yeasty fistfuls to carry
like hot stones in each hand, careful

to avoid the dogs that snarled
and pulled at their chains

in unkempt yards— And on Mount
Santo Tomas, the twin cupped discs

of radars that marked the edge of a world
beyond which it did not seem possible

to venture: only the hawks could view
the sea from that height, or the sun

as it slipped from our grasp,
disappearing the end of each day.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Reader

(Lord’s day). To church in the morning, where our young Reader begun the first day to read. Sir W. Pen dined with me and we were merry. Again to church and so home, and all alone read till bedtime, and so to prayers and to bed.
I have been troubled this day about a difference between my wife and her maid Nell, who is a simple slut, and I am afeard we shall find her a cross-grained wench. I am now full of study about writing something about our making of strangers strike to us at sea; and so am altogether reading Selden and Grotius, and such other authors to that purpose.

I read
read all alone

read till I am cross-
grained I am

full of strangers
I am read.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 15 December 1661.