Knowing our place

Up (though slept well) and made some water in the morning [as] I used to do, and a little pain returned to me, and some fears, but being forced to go to the Duke at St. James’s, I took coach and in my way called upon Mr. Hollyard and had his advice to take a glyster.
At St. James’s we attended the Duke all of us. And there, after my discourse, Mr. Coventry of his own accord begun to tell the Duke how he found that discourse abroad did run to his prejudice about the fees that he took, and how he sold places and other things; wherein he desired to appeal to his Highness, whether he did any thing more than what his predecessors did, and appealed to us all. So Sir G. Carteret did answer that some fees were heretofore taken, but what he knows not; only that selling of places never was nor ought to be countenanced. So Mr. Coventry very hotly answered to Sir G. Carteret, and appealed to himself whether he was not one of the first that put him upon looking after this taking of fees, and that he told him that Mr. Smith should say that he made 5000l. the first year, and he believed he made 7000l.. This Sir G. Carteret denied, and said, that if he did say so he told a lie, for he could not, nor did know, that ever he did make that profit of his place; but that he believes he might say 2500l. the first year. Mr. Coventry instanced in another thing, particularly wherein Sir G. Carteret did advise with him about the selling of the Auditor’s place of the stores, when in the beginning there was an intention of creating such an office. This he confessed, but with some lessening of the tale Mr. Coventry told, it being only for a respect to my Lord Fitz-Harding.
In fine, Mr. Coventry did put into the Duke’s hand a list of above 250 places that he did give without receiving one farthing, so much as his ordinary fees for them, upon his life and oath; and that since the Duke’s establishment of fees he had never received one token more of any man; and that in his whole life he never conditioned or discoursed of any consideration from any commanders since he came to the Navy.
And afterwards, my Lord Barkeley merrily discoursing that he wished his profit greater than it was, and that he did believe that he had got 50,000l. since he came in, Mr. Coventry did openly declare that his Lordship, or any of us, should have not only all he had got, but all that he had in the world (and yet he did not come a beggar into the Navy, nor would yet be thought to speak in any contempt of his Royall Highness’s bounty), and should have a year to consider of it too, for 25,000l..
The Duke’s answer was, that he wished we all had made more profit than he had of our places, and that we had all of us got as much as one man below stayres in the Court, which he presently named, and it was Sir George Lane! This being ended, and the list left in the Duke’s hand, we parted, and I with Sir G. Carteret, Sir J. Minnes, and Sir W. Batten by coach to the Exchange, and there a while, and so home, and whether it be the jogging, or by having my mind more employed (which I believe is a great matter) I know not, but I do now piss with much less pain and begin to be suddenly well; at least, better than I was. So home and to dinner, and thence by coach to the Old Exchange, and there cheapened some laces for my wife, and then to Mr.—— the great laceman in Cheapside, and bought one cost me 4l. more by 20s. than I intended, but when I came to see them I was resolved to buy one worth wearing with credit, and so to the New Exchange, and there put it to making, and so to my Lord’s lodgings and left my wife, and so I to the Committee of Tangier, and then late home with my wife again by coach, beginning to be very well, and yet when I came home and tried to shit, the little straining which I thought was no strain at all at the present did by and by bring me some pain for a good while.
Anon, about 8 o’clock, my wife did give me a clyster which Mr. Hollyard directed, viz., a pint of strong ale, 4 oz. of sugar, and 2 oz. of butter. It lay while I lay upon the bed above an hour, if not two, and then thinking it quite lost I rose, and by and by it began with my walking to work, and gave me three or four most excellent stools and carried away wind, put me in excellent ease, and taking my usual walnut quantity of electuary at my going into bed I had about two stools in the night and pissed well. Voided some wind.

a place is more than a predecessor
we know

selling places never ought to be
countenanced in the first place

particularly selling
a place of ore

when in the beginning the only place for life
came as a beggar into the void


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 12 October 1663.

Always, the women get their hands dirty

Who’s afraid of blood? Not me,
I say to the women stuffing gut

casings with minced pork, with onions,
with congealed pork blood, with peppers,

with vinegar, with salt. Their nail beds
are dark from the work they do: muralists

of blood, they plunge whole hands into
basins of glistening meat, lifting

and pinching, packing, tamping,
twisting. They’ll hang them up to dry

then smoke them darkly— whole rosaries
herbed with fat. Roasted, the first slice

goes to the hidden gods: the ones whose thirst
we’ll carefully slake with drops of water

or wine shaken onto the ground, the ones
who speak in riddles and only through toothless

mediums; the ones who never deign to tell us anything
about that future whose smell we already know.

Letter to life

“The purpose of life is to be defeated
by greater and greater things.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Zirconia, the jeweler says, not even blinking.
You get the feeling most of the heirloom jewelry you’ve brought,
xanthic in its drab velvet pouch, has mostly sentimental
worth. You slip them back into your purse, a little shame-faced.
Vacancy signs flap in the wind as you exit into the street,
unease following; as if it’s you and your life that’s been appraised, not
the assortment of gold chains, brooches, earrings and rings, pearls
set in triads: your mother’s gifts when last you parted from her.
Remembering what Rilke said in the clutch of letters he wrote,
quelling that young poet’s anxieties— oh what you’d give for antidote to
panic— Do not draw too hasty conclusions from what happens to you….
Otherwise, you start to look accusingly (that is, morally) upon your past.

No one you know speaks openly of their difficulties, or if they have the same
morbid fears as you: and yet, how could they never have been in such throes?
Luck as elusive as light, as exceptional as faith. Meanwhile, I’ve
kept believing in the wages of hard work: that I’ve not been forgotten,
just unintentionally overlooked— pawn on the checkered board,
inching my way through obstacles, pausing often to weep and reflect.
Haven’t I done all I could to ensure not just my own happiness?
Guilt is exquisite— every mother’s secret, priceless raiment.
From year to year as I’ve drawn up figures on my ledger,
each accrual comes with its corresponding page of more rapid
disbursals. Is this what you mean when you speak of being over-
come by larger and larger things? But I am so tired tonight;
benighted, belittled by what comes to me and tells me is my fate.
All I want is sometimes to not have to plead or struggle so much.

Rumination

(Lord’s day). And was mightily pleased to see my house clean and in good condition, but something coming into my wife’s head, and mine, to be done more about bringing the green bed into our chamber, which is handsomer than the red one, though not of the colour of our hangings, my wife forebore to make herself clean to-day, but continued in a sluttish condition till to-morrow. I after the old passe, all the day within doors, I finding myself neither to fart nor go to stool after one stool in the morning, the effect of my electuary last night. And the greatest of my pain I find to come by my straining to get something out backwards, which strains my yard and cods, so as to put me to a great and long pain after it, and my pain and frequent desire to make water; what I must therefore forbear.
For all this I eat with a very good stomach, and as much as I use to do, and so I did this noon, and staid at home discoursing and doing things in my chamber, altering chairs in my chamber, and set them above in the red room, they being Turkey work, and so put their green covers upon those that were above, not so handsome.
At night fell to reading in the Church History of Fuller’s, and particularly Cranmer’s letter to Queen Elizabeth, which pleases me mightily for his zeal, obedience, and boldness in a cause of religion.
After supper to bed as I use to be, in pain, without breaking wind and shitting.

after a day within doors
I get a great desire to eat a stomach
green and full
as an old religion


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 11 October 1663, erased while listening to Brain Tentacles.

Black thumb

Up, and not in any good ease yet, but had pain in making water, and some course. I see I must take besides keeping myself warm to make myself break wind and go freely to stool before I can be well, neither of which I can do yet, though I have drank the other bottle of Mr. Hollyard’s against my stomach this morning.
I did, however, make shift to go to the office, where we sat, and there Sir J. Minnes and Sir W. Batten did advise me to take some juniper water, and Sir W. Batten sent to his Lady for some for me, strong water made of juniper. Whether that or anything else of my draught this morning did it I cannot tell, but I had a couple of stools forced after it and did break a fart or two; but whether I shall grow better upon it I cannot tell.
Dined at home at noon, my wife and house in the dirtiest pickle that ever she and it was in almost, but in order, I hope, this night to be very clean.
To the office all the afternoon upon victualling business, and late at it, so after I wrote by the post to my father, I home.
This evening Mr. Hollyard sends me an electuary to take (a walnut quantity of it) going to bed, which I did. ‘Tis true I slept well, and rose in a little ease in the morning.

so rank the yard that morning cannot break

I shall grow the dirtiest rose


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 10 October 1663.

Notturno

“Inaudible language of the secret…” ~ Edmund Jabès

What I cannot say, weather sometimes makes explicit. I wish
for language to make myself vivid as a wing, magnetic as a current.

On the London Bridge road, still flooded a day after the hurricane: pumpkins
float from a nearby farm, lit by the surreal glow of distant headlights.

In the night, rivers heave themselves up through audible silences made
by rain. Everything says Shh, shh, everything a restlessness spilled open.

The tools I hold feel useless in my hands. I cannot chisel nor buff,
I cannot join. My heart jangles in time with the tilting winds.

Or a flame. I chip away in secret, embroider in silence.
Easier to sing when the light is like sweetness, not dark.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Creature.

Self-medication

And did keep my bed most of this morning, my body I find being still bound and little wind, and so my pain returned again, though not so bad, but keeping my body with warm clothes very hot I made shift to endure it, and at noon sent word to Mr. Hollyard of my condition, that I could neither have a natural stool nor break wind, and by that means still in pain and frequent offering to make water. So he sent me two bottles of drink and some syrup, one bottle to take now and the other to-morrow morning. So in the evening, after Commissioner Pett, who came to visit me, and was going to Chatham, but methinks do talk to me in quite another manner, doubtfully and shyly, and like a stranger, to what he did heretofore. After I saw he was gone I did drink one of them, but it was a most loathsome draught, and did keep myself warm after it, and had that afternoon still a stool or two, but in no plenty, nor any wind almost carried away, and so to bed. In no great pain, but do not think myself likely to be well till I have a freedom of stool and wind.
Most of this day and afternoon my wife and I did spend together in setting things now up and in order in her closet, which indeed is, and will be, when I can get her some more things to put in it, a very pleasant place, and is at present very pretty, and such as she, I hope, will find great content in.
So to bed.

keeping my body in a bottle
to take and talk to
I drink myself warm
I think myself a very pleasant present


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 9 October 1663.

Geology in brief

So, keeping myself warm, to the office, and at noon home to dinner, my pain coming again by breaking no wind nor having any stool. So to Mr. Holliard, and by his direction, he assuring me that it is nothing of the stone, but only my constitution being costive, and that, and cold from without, breeding and keeping the wind, I took some powder that he did give me in white wine, and sat late up, till past eleven at night, with my wife in my chamber till it had done working, which was so weakly that I could hardly tell whether it did work or no. My mayds being at this time in great dirt towards getting of all my house clean, and weary and having a great deal of work to do therein to-morrow and next day, were gone to bed before my wife and I, who also do lie in our room more like beasts than Christians, but that is only in order to having of the house shortly in a cleaner, or rather very clean condition.
Some ease I had so long as this did keep my body loose, and I slept well.

no wind in a stone
only cold and time

dirt getting all weary work to do
like us is loose


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 8 October 1663.

If an indio is on horseback

and the priest is on foot, the indio
should get down off the horse.

In these suits whoever wins loses his shirt.
Every snot-nose goes to Europe.

He unleashed curses against the century,
the lack of respect, the nascent irreligiosity.

Before he died he spoke in Latin.
A cow was tied to the rope, a nest of birds between its horns.

She spied a doorway with a sentry and tried to get inside.
They say that one appeared with her habit soaking wet, all in tatters.

What is that supposed to mean, he whispered.
That was a dream, and in this world you don’t live in a dream.

My dear little one, the strongest spirit I know is ammonia.
Come to me and I will help you avenge your ancestors.

How many women left their embroidered chinelas in the mud?
A cow was tied to the rope, a nest of birds between its horns.

From here one moves into the arena, which is called the ring.
The hour of danger has arrived.

What should I say to those who sent me?
What else can I say but yes?

What drew his attention most was dried seeds of the amor seco
stuck to the shirt collar. You who will see it, welcome it for me.

*

~ a found poem, based on readings of Jose Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere, trans. Harold Augenbraum; Penguin Classics, 2006

Far from Anywhere

“Like Magellan, let us find our islands
To die in, far from home, from anywhere
Familiar.” ~ Mary Oliver, “Magellan”

When we do expire— far
from the islands we can hardly
claim now except by blood—

will there be songs for those
who raised the masts and sailed
seasick months in the hold,

imagining the vessel turned
eastward, as if with the sun?
And who will string with laurels

the nameless, risk’s own
sons and daughters, even those
who never left their inlet

by the sea? They woke one morning
to hear bells tolling, smelled
the countryside turned into

a burning wilderness. Cartographers
drew archipelagoes in the shape
of bare-breasted sirens, mermaids,

monsters of the deep. Possessively
outlined in sepia, in violent hues
of midnight and vermillion,

an isthmus curves like an arm.
Once I read: not a day goes by
that we don’t find an unfound

body to bemoan.* Perhaps
its parts, if not the whole—
hands twitching among sleek

particles on the cutting floor,
a rosary of knots on the backs
of migrants moving down

rows of asparagus or corn.
You know such stories: the letter
never delivered, the body crumpling

to the pavement. Ayah or maid, exile
in the desert. The blur and waver, ripple
in the air before she falls to earth.

* Larissa Szporluk, “Death of Magellan”