In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Opening
Mortality estimate, life expectancy the sand,
invisible hourglass handed over by a doctor
(this once, not wearing gloves), little bottle,
prescription of one day a day, no refills.
Hand grenade. An empty urn that has been
pre-engraved with best-if-used-by date.
An erosion, top to bottom, losing ground.
Used the guess to calculate, translated into
months, counted slowly with a finger, found
the anticipated final square upon the calendar.
Did not share the projection, merely took
red ink and marked a question in the space.
Reluctant to remove the pen, turned that
final point beneath the curving symbol into
a circle, a little window with no shutters
open on unknown.
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “What could we know” and Dave Bonta’s “Camping.”
Camping
To Whitehall, and thence to the Rhenish wine-house, where I met Mons. Eschar and there took leave of him, he being to go this night to the Downs towards Portugall, and so spent all the morning. At noon to dinner to the Wardrobe; where my Lady Wright was, who did talk much upon the worth and the desert of gallantry; and that there was none fit to be courtiers, but such as have been abroad and know fashions. Which I endeavoured to oppose; and was troubled to hear her talk so, though she be a very wise and discreet lady in other things. From thence Mr. Moore and I to the Temple about my law business with my cozen Turner, and there we read over T. Trice’s answer to my bill and advised thereupon what to do in his absence, he being to go out of town to-morrow. Thence he and I to Mr. Walpole, my attorney, whom I never saw before, and we all to an alehouse hard by, and there we talked of our business, and he put me into great hopes, but he is but a young man, and so I do not depend so much upon his encouragement. So by coach home, and to supper, and to bed, having staid up till 12 at night writing letters to my Lord Sandwich and all my friends with him at sea, to send to-morrow by Mons. Eschar, who goes tomorrow post to the Downs to go along with the fleet to Portugall.
night desert
I hear discreet things
out in the sand
Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 9 December 1661.
What could we know
of the hidden, that gleam
constellations away, without
any known name for it here?
And what could we know
of the answer that arrives
as faint echo, lighthouse
beam cutting through fog
in some millennium where we
might still after all be
mortal, shipwrecked, if not
for what love deposited
in these bones?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Matins
(Lord’s day). In bed all the morning thinking to take physique, but it being a frost my wife would not have me. So to dinner at the Wardrobe, and after a great deal of good discourse with my Lady after dinner, and among other things of the great christening yesterday at Mr. Rumbell’s, and courtiers and pomp that was there, which I wonder at, I went away up and down into all the churches almost between that place and my house, and so home. And then came my brother Tom, and staid and talked with me, and I hope he will do very well and get money. So to supper and to bed.
This morning as I was in bed, one brings me T. Trice’s answer to my bill in chancery from Mr. Smallwood, which I am glad to see, though I am afraid it will do me hurt.
a frost on all the churches
between us
morning wood
Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 8 December 1661.
From life:
which is to say, not
equivalent, but like:
life-like, that
verisimilitude
exacted from observing
closely the way we work
through the vagaries
of events. Notice
I do not say the way
things work. Nor do I
mention disaster
or tragedy, not even
success. Time is merely
time, eluding the master
index with clear tabs.
Walker
This morning comes Captain Ferrers and the German, Emanuel Luffe, who goes as one of my Lord’s footmen, though he deserves a much better preferment, to take their leave of me, and here I got the German to play upon my theorbo, which he did both below and in my wife’s chamber, who was in bed. He plays bravely. I find by him that my lute is a most excellent lute. I did give them a mince pie and a collar of brawn and some wine for their breakfast, and were very merry, and sent for Mr. Adams our neighbour to drink Mr. Shepley’s health. At last we all parted, but within a quarter of an hour after they were gone, and my wife and I were talking about buying of a fine scallop which is brought her this morning by a woman to be sold, which is to cost her 45s., in comes the German back again, all in a goare of blood, which I wondered at, and tells me that he is afeard that the Captain is killed by the watermen at Towre Stayres; so I presently went thither, and found that upon some rude pressing of the watermen to ply the Captain, he struck one of them with his cane, which they would not take, but struck him again, and then the German drew his sword and ran at one of them, but they were both soundly beaten. The Captain is, however, got to the hoy that carries him and the pages to the Downs, and I went into the alehouse at the Stayres and got them to deliver the Captain’s feathers, which one from the Captain was come to demand, and went home again, and there found my wife dressing of the German’s head, and so did [give] him a cravett for his neck, and a crown in his purse, and sent him away again. Then came Mr. Moore, and he and I to Westminster and to Worcester House to see Mr. Montagu before he goes away (this night), but could not see him, nor do I think he has a mind to see us for fear of our demanding of money of him for anything. So back to Whitehall, and eat a bit of meat at Wilkinson’s, and then to the Privy Seal, and sealed there the first time this month; and, among other things that passed, there was a patent for Roger Palmer (Madam Palmer’s husband) to be Earl of Castlemaine and Baron of Limbricke in Ireland; but the honour is tied up to the males got of the body of this wife, the Lady Barbary: the reason whereof every body knows. That done, by water to the office, when I found Sir W. Pen had been alone all the night and was just rose, and so I to him, and with him I found Captain Holmes, who had wrote his case, and gives me a copy, as he hath many among his friends, and presented the same to the King and Council. Which I shall make use of in my attempt of writing something concerning the business of striking sail, which I am now about. But he do cry out against Sir John Minnes, as the veriest knave and rogue and coward in the world, which I was glad to hear, because he has given out bad words concerning my Lord, though I am sorry it is so. Here Captain Cox then came in, and he and I staid a good while and so good night. Home and wrote by the post to my father, and so to bed.
My foot is a fine scallop,
a cane beaten into feathers,
my head for a night.
I see it eat a bit of land,
tied to a body
of water.
Alone with a copy,
I make it cry out
against the world.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 7 December 1661.
Molest
On the sheet, the child renders
a house with crayons: tilted roof,
fence, yard, the figures that make up
the family— The mother and father
are taking a nap. Or they are out.
Then a room— curtained over
with blue or black, disguised
by the steam from the iron
and the starch on the clothes—
where something happens for which
she has no words at the time: the uncle
wants to play doctor, to conduct
an examination— Neither did she
have words for doubt, suspicion,
the tingle in the parts that burned.
There are words whose meanings she’ll
mull over all her life: rupture
in her head, lesion on her tongue,
having come to their true disclosures.
When she says them now, she is like
the meter reader, gauging from month
to month the cost of what was used.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Spanish Lullaby
Small hour of the morning stop, platform
bathed in yellow light and fog, grating
of the wheels on the rail. Luggage bumping
blends with footsteps up the narrow
stairwell of the sleeper, I hear the car
attendant offer extra pillow, bottled water.
Click of luggage latches snapping open breaks
the silence, then a child’s startled wail as
the train begins to move. Discomfited sobbing
settles quickly, soothed by a woman’s gentle
humming. I tiptoe in sock-feet, press my palm
against the thin compartment wall, sit quietly
on the carpet to eavesdrop on this comfort.
As I move my lips to shape the unsung words,
a father’s voice lifts, whispering soft tenor:
este niño lindo / ya quiere dormir / háganle la cuna
de rosa y jazmín / háganle la cama
this lovely child / wants to sleep / make him a cradle
of rose and jasmine / make him a bed
—Laura M Kaminski
12 07 2014
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “Poem with a line from Ilya Kaminsky,” ending with lines from “Arrorró mi niño.”
Poem with a line from Ilya Kaminsky
The darkness, a magician, finds quarters
behind our ears— every single time,
quick wave of a hand, twirl of fingers that brush
dangerously close to the face. Long past childhood,
of course now we know they were planted there.
But always, we act genuinely startled; we giggle
nervously, comb out our hair, pick out sudden twigs,
moss and bramble, dried curl of bark as if we’d slept
all night in a forest lair. And who’s to say
where the soul has lodged in between stations?
It rouses itself and treks out again in the cold
mornings, washes its dirt-streaked face in the stream.
It holds out a hand to thumb a ride as vehicle
after vehicle passes its dusty figure on the road.
In response to Via Negativa: Bohemian life.