2014 – Page 73 – Via Negativa

February 23, 2014February 23, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Flower

This entry is part 22 of 23 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2013-14

Seed these words
in your everyday speech—

Acanthus or helichrysum;
indica, milagrosa, javanica;

perforate, constellation, for no reason
but that they introduce

a break in the aftermath of repetition.
Drone of some large, unseen motor

outside our windows every night
after midnight, bearing neither trace

of gold nor verdigris: you do not lead
to a trapdoor through which we might lower

our bodies into a waiting boat, damp seats
skimming prosaic language off our clothes

so they thin to the embroidery of chance,
texture of a different possibility.

The landscape opens like a tapestry:
under the moon, farmers roll

their cotton pantaloons and sink
toes deeper into the mud.

You would think young shoots
give off a uniform sound every time

there is a planting: o of surprise,
ah of falling and letting go,

allowing the dark to swallow
each body wanting to burst

toward the harvest,
arcing toward the stalk.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

February 23, 2014March 15, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Burning the tissues

This entry is part 30 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

In a snow-bound ring of stones,
I am burning all the tissues
from my recent cold.

The sun beats down. Fallen twigs
and leaves are melting themselves
into form-fitting graves.

A flat wing of ash floats up
and hangs in the air
like a famous last word.

February 22, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

To Westminster by coach with Sir W. Pen, and in our way saw the city begin to build scaffolds against the Coronacion. To my Lord, and there found him out of doors. So to the Hall and called for some caps that I have a making there, and here met with Mr. Hawley, and with him to Will’s and drank, and then by coach with Mr. Langley our old friend into the city. I set him down by the way, and I home and there staid all day within, having found Mr. Moore, who staid with me till late at night talking and reading some good books. Then he went away, and I to bed.

We saw the city
build scaffolds
for all who read books.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 21 February 1660/61.

February 22, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Escritura

Write it again,
the teacher said;

and still it was
not good enough.

Don’t write
on paper or wood

or stone. Try
fire; or ice,

a single vein
of water,

a journal
of melting snow.

In response to Via Negativa: Old Snow.

February 22, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Clearing

This entry is part 29 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

Trees sway like drunks
in a sudden gust of wind—
the clacking of their branches.

The whole hillside
is in motion around me,
standing here with my head cold

almost gone.
How marvelous it is
just to breathe.

February 21, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Courtly love

All the morning at the office, dined at home and my brother Tom with me, who brought me a pair of fine slippers which he gave me. By and by comes little Luellin and friend to see me, and then my coz Stradwick, who was never here before. With them I drank a bottle of wine or two, and to the office again, and there staid about business late, and then all of us to Sir W. Pen’s, where we had, and my Lady Batten, Mrs. Martha, and my wife, and other company, a good supper, and sat playing at cards and talking till 12 at night, and so all to our lodgings.

A fine lip the bottle had—
my lady
and her good night.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 20 February 1660/61.

February 21, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Signal No. 3

This entry is part 21 of 23 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2013-14

After the first onslaught of wind, hail the size of golf balls, we heard the radio alert. Is there a safe room beneath the stairwell? Is it large enough to contain the plants seeded at all the children’s births? We would need to loose them under the light of a yellow moon, then anchor them with ivory amulets. Nothing in the dispatches tells you how you must learn to sit still, in the dark, until the mind grows quiet: until the eerie searchlights of danger diminish into soft two-note voices and the rain can be ordinary again.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

February 21, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Old snow

This entry is part 28 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

Melting snow reveals old secrets.
Two spots of blood
have reemerged in the yard.

Wrinkles appear—
long, dark faultlines
from differential settling.

I know you,
I mutter to myself.
We’ve been here before.

February 20, 2014February 20, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Volta

What worm leaves a trail of milk
on the undersides of leaves, what finger
traces indecipherable names on a plane
of frosted glass? O steady pulse

trickling like sand through perfect halves
of the hourglass— Stalks droop along
the weathered fence: memory of wisteria
where there is now no blue. No shrouds

of periwinkle fall: gorgeous veil
like shreds of indivisible water.
This is how we know something else
is coming: after the fever-burn,
the hands on the clock face start over.
The frozen world breaks into dew.

In response to Via Negativa: Thaw.

February 20, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Purchase

By coach to Whitehall with Colonel Slingsby (carrying Mrs. Turner with us) and there he and I up into the house, where we met with Sir G. Carteret: who afterwards, with the Duke of York, my Lord Sandwich, and others, went into a private room to consult: and we were a little troubled that we were not called in with the rest. But I do believe it was upon something very private. We staid walking in the gallery; where we met with Mr. Slingsby, that was formerly a great friend of Mons. Blondeau, who showed me the stamps of the King’s new coyne; which is strange to see, how good they are in the stamp and bad in the money, for lack of skill to make them. But he says Blondeau will shortly come over, and then we shall have it better, and the best in the world.
The Comptroller and I to the Commissioners of Parliament, and after some talk away again and to drink a cup of ale. He tells me, he is sure that the King is not yet married, as it is said; nor that it is known who he will have. To my Lord’s and found him dined, and so I lost my dinner, but I staid and played with him and Mr. Child, &c., some things of four parts, and so it raining hard and bitter cold (the first winter day we have yet had this winter), I took coach home and spent the evening in reading of a Latin play, the “Naufragium Joculare.” And so to bed.

I carry a private trouble on a walk:
a new coin, good in the stamp
and bad in the money.
I have my dinner with it—
hard and cold.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 19 February 1660/61.

Year: 2014