Fresh holes gape in a maple trunk,
as if from some Roman
soldier’s lance.
The new, smooth ground of ice and sleet
hasn’t quite set;
I keep breaking through.
Cardinals peck at the plowed road,
gathering faux teeth
for their reliquaries.
Family night
Washing-day. My wife and I by water to Westminster. She to her mother’s and I to Westminster Hall, where I found a full term, and here I went to Will’s, and there found Shaw and Ashwell and another Bragrave (who knew my mother wash-maid to my Lady Veere), who by cursing and swearing made me weary of his company and so I went away. Into the Hall and there saw my Lord Treasurer (who was sworn to-day at the Exchequer, with a great company of Lords and persons of honour to attend him) go up to the Treasury Offices, and take possession thereof; and also saw the heads of Cromwell, Bradshaw, and Ireton, set up upon the further end of the Hall.
Then at Mrs. Michell’s in the Hall met my wife and Shaw, and she and I and Captain Murford to the Dog, and there I gave them some wine, and after some mirth and talk (Mr. Langley coming in afterwards) I went by coach to the play-house at the Theatre, our coach in King Street breaking, and so took another. Here we saw Argalus and Parthenia, which I lately saw, but though pleasant for the dancing and singing, I do not find good for any wit or design therein.
That done home by coach and to supper, being very hungry for want of dinner, and so to bed.
My mother’s cursing
and swearing take
possession of the heads
in the hall.
The dog and I play
at theater, dancing,
hungry for want of dinner.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 5 February 1660/61.
Enemy
Not enough
to kill—
Will try
with kindness
looking
in the eye;
will try
without
flinching,
clench heart
around
hand, around
the smallest
pebble,
inscribe
on it
any word
for thanks.
In response to Via Negativa: Snow plow.
Snow plow
Our neighbor plows
down-hollow and back,
his wife riding shotgun.
The old plow truck hasn’t left
the mountain in years,
bound to its one road.
In each yard,
it raises white ramparts
from the fallen enemy.
Luisa Igloria wins the 2014 May Swenson Poetry Award
I want to congratulate my Via Negativa co-blogger Luisa A. Igoria for winning the 2014 May Swenson Poetry Award. Her manuscript Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser was chosen by Mark Doty, a poet I greatly admire, from among 25 finalists — which had in turn been winnowed by preliminary readers from a field of nearly 700 entries. It will be published in hardcover, paperback and ebook later this year, with a preface from Mr. Doty.
Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser will be Luisa’s 15th full-length book of poetry, and her third (with The Saints of Streets and Night Willow, forthcoming from Phoenicia Publishing) to include poems from this website. Luisa estimates that about 75 percent of the poems in the book first saw light of day at Via Negativa. That includes the title poem.
Needless to say, this is another huge vindication for Luisa’s daily poem-writing practice. I hope it might encourage other poets to be a bit more open about sharing poems on blogs, as well, and to stop worrying that A) writing every day might mean compromising quality, or that B) regular online self-publishing might preclude other opportunities. Personally, I know I wouldn’t be writing either as much or as well without Luisa’s daily example as a guide and inspiration. I hope she’ll continue to share her work on Via Negativa as long as she is able.
If you’d like to study writing with Luisa and her colleagues—John McManus, Michael Pearson, Janet Peery, Sheri Reynolds, and Tim Seibles—at Old Dominion University, their MFA Creative Writing Program is currently accepting applications for next fall (deadline: March 1).
Funny tastes
Early up to Court with Sir W. Pen, where, at Mr. Coventry’s chamber, we met with all our fellow officers, and there after a hot debate about the business of paying off the Fleet, and how far we should join with the Commissioners of Parliament, which is now the great business of this month more to determine, and about which there is a great deal of difference between us, and then how far we should be assistants to them therein. That being done, he and I back again home, where I met with my father and mother going to my cozen Snow’s to Blackwall, and had promised to bring me and my wife along with them, which we could not do because we are to go to the Dolphin to-day to a dinner of Capt. Tayler’s. So at last I let my wife go with them, and I to the tavern, where Sir William Pen and the Comptroller and several others were, men and women; and we had a very great and merry dinner; and after dinner the Comptroller begun some sports, among others the naming of people round and afterwards demanding questions of them that they are forced to answer their names to, which do make very good sport. And here I took pleasure to take the forfeits of the ladies who would not do their duty by kissing of them; among others a pretty lady, who I found afterwards to be wife to Sir W. Batten’s son.
Home, and then with my wife to see Sir W. Batten, who could not be with us this day being ill, but we found him at cards, and here we sat late, talking with my Lady and others and Dr. Whistler, who I found good company and a very ingenious man. So home and to bed.
Ice and snow
go into a tavern—
people demand them.
I kiss a lady on a card
and talk with a whistle.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 4 February 1660/61.
Spell
Nothing you’ve learned has taught you
how to bring back the dead
father so you can thank him
for the only inheritance
he could leave you—
dubious talent for stringing
words in every weather: twigs
dark as grief to rub together
in heartbreak, vowels shredded
for kindling or confetti; short-lived
brilliance to loft like soap
bubbles above a clothesline
before the wind breaks them open
and the sidewalk’s printed
with a line of Os, their ink
disappearing along the road
he used to walk with you,
mornings, to take you to school.
In response to Via Negativa: Secondary school.
Rabid
The gray fox sat
and gazed at us like an angel—
one that foamed at the mouth.
I refuse to write
another poem about
the goddamn crows.
Holding a rifle
is like holding an infant,
wary of setting it off.
Public servant
(Lord’s day). This day I first begun to go forth in my coat and sword, as the manner now among gentlemen is. To Whitehall. In my way heard Mr. Thomas Fuller preach at the Savoy upon our forgiving of other men’s trespasses, shewing among other things that we are to go to law never to revenge, but only to repayre, which I think a good distinction. So to White Hall; where I staid to hear the trumpets and kettle-drums, and then the other drums, which are much cried up, though I think it dull, vulgar musique. So to Mr. Fox’s, unbid; where I had a good dinner and special company. Among other discourse, I observed one story, how my Lord of Northwich, at a public audience before the King of France, made the Duke of Anjou cry, by making ugly faces as he was stepping to the King, but undiscovered. And how Sir Phillip Warwick’s lady did wonder to have Mr. Darcy send for several dozen bottles of Rhenish wine to her house, not knowing that the wine was his.
Thence to my Lord’s; where I am told how Sir Thomas Crew’s Pedro, with two of his countrymen more, did last night kill one soldier of four that quarrelled with them in the street, about 10 o’clock. The other two are taken; but he is now hid at my Lord’s till night, that he do intend to make his escape away.
So up to my Lady, and sat and talked with her long, and so to Westminster Stairs, and there took boat to the bridge, and so home, where I met with letters to call us all up to-morrow morning to Whitehall about office business.
I go forth
in my coat and sword
to drums and other drums,
a vulgar audience
making ugly faces,
not knowing the wine
where I kill the clock
that talked on
about business.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 3 February 1660/61.
Last Call
“Let the pursers and clerks
make up their accounts…” – D. Bonta
Will it be held against me
that I have three rhinestone hairpins,
red Converse sneakers, and not a single
karaoke machine? Who will testify
to the justness of keeping a half-
slip embroidered with rosebuds
in the bottom of the sock drawer,
or that it was last worn at a First
Communion? Will the Bank of Final
and Never-to-be-Repeated Disastrous
Experiences agree to cashing one
more check, or better still, absolving
all debt? And when all offices close
for the rest of the season, will they
let me wait with a hopefully handsome
escort in the gazebo, instead of
in the sauna of no return?
In response to Via Negativa: Initiation.