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Up, and to my office, where busy all the morning, and then with my two clerks home to dinner, and so back again to the office, and there very late very busy, and so home to supper and to bed.
up and off her busy din again
the late bus home
Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 21 October 1665.
its rust-reds and purples
in season at last
corrugated pipe
shelf fungi
growing at right angles
since the tree fell over
with such deep-veined hearts
you’d expect three-winged fruit
wild yam
young hepatica leaves
white hair’s in style now
I hear
Up, and had my last night’s letters brought back to me, which troubles me, because of my accounts, lest they should be asked for before they come, which I abhorr, being more ready to give than they can be to demand them: so I sent away an expresse to Oxford with them, and another to Portsmouth, with a copy of my letter to Mr. Coventry about my victualling business, for fear he should be gone from Oxford, as he intended, thither. So busy all the morning and at noon to Cocke, and dined there. He and I alone, vexed that we are not rid of all our trouble about our goods, but it is almost over, and in the afternoon to my lodging, and there spent the whole afternoon and evening with Mr. Hater, discoursing of the business of the office, where he tells me that among others Thomas Willson do now and then seem to hint that I do take too much business upon me, more than I can do, and that therefore some do lie undone. This I confess to my trouble is true, but it arises from my being forced to take so much on me, more than is my proper task to undertake. But for this at last I did advise to him to take another clerk if he thinks fit, I will take care to have him paid. I discoursed also much with him about persons fit to be put into the victualling business, and such as I could spare something out of their salaries for them, but without trouble I cannot, I see, well do it, because Thomas Willson must have the refusal of the best place which is London of 200l. per annum, which I did intend for Tooker, and to get 50l. out of it as a help to Mr. Hater. How[ever], I will try to do something of this kind for them.
Having done discourse with him late, I to enter my Tangier accounts fair, and so to supper and to bed.
last night brought back
in the mouth of my fear
we are not rid of our trouble
our whole hate business
where a lie is true
it is so much rope
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 20 October 1665.
Before they make that last
resort move called filing
for chapter 13 bankruptcy,
the debt settlement agent
instructs her on what to say
to the credit collectors: she’s
given a few lines to practice
and they go over the script
as though she’ll be auditioning for
a role in a play though she
doesn’t really want to be in it.
When she feels ready, the agent rings
the 1-800 number and tells her she’ll
be listening; but will jump in only if
she needs additional support. This is
the part where she has to tell
the credit card people that yes
she knows she’s behind in pay-
ments; but see, they’re at a real
difficult time in their lives—
Things got out of hand, but they want
to get back on their feet. Eventually
they’re sure they can do it but only
if they would see how to cut them
some kind of break. They make
this kind of call four, five
times and before it’s over she’s
in tears. From the way it sounds,
the next step is likely
bankruptcy court, a place
that before this time she’s only
ever heard about on shows like Judge
Joe Brown or Judge Judy. It won’t
matter that they’ve come here legal,
it won’t matter that they’ve tried
to do everything by the book. It won’t
matter that they didn’t go on vacations
to save up for that elusive American
Dream whose price tag seems to vary
depending on the kind of immigrant you are.
road-bank beech tree
skinny roots hanging on
to each other
an exclusive crowd of beeches
smart gray bark
yet to canker
inward-looking
a beech tree’s eye-
shaped scars
even by day
the beech grove retains
something of the moon
The first time I take
my then youngest child
with me on a trip is also
the first time I’m not
traveling abroad alone.
It’s hard to manage two
carry-on wheelies &
a kindergartener who’s never
been on an escalator. Step.
Yes, step. Quickly before
the next one swallows
the one before it. This is
before the days of complicated
TSA checks & we’re still
on local soil so an airport
orderly helps. I buy a bag
of peanut butter cookies
& a bottle of water.
We wait to board the plane.
My child is restless and skips
from one window to another,
humming under her breath.
There are foreigners of course:
in Hawaiian shirts, smelling
like suntan lotion, probably
back from Boracay or Cebu. One
of them, a white man, stoops
to talk to her, then folds
a ten dollar bill into a square
then tucks it swiftly into
the pocket of her sweater. He’s
nondescript: khakis, knit polo,
a little grey around the temples.
She’s six; pert, unafraid, makes
eye contact. He turns to me
without preamble, says he’s back
from the province where he’s gone
to meet the family of his lady
friend. He looked up a bureau,
got access to their catalogs
& this way found a nice girl
he’ll marry & take back
to a little town just outside
of Michigan. He says: by the way,
I gave her a little something
to keep safe for me until
next time. I gather up my child,
our things, as thankfully
the doors open for boarding.
The slow and yielding River Marne
slips past an open, spacious and exhausted land
where sleeping villages hatch from the grass
like stars appearing in the sky.
Here, nature has resumed her careless dreaming,
a white workhorse labours at the plough
while old folk wander through a mottled view of vines,
roses still bloom on an autumnal bush,
a greedy goat is tangled in a bramble patch,
the grapes have been gathered in, the hillside sleeps.
Nothing now bears witness to that inhuman business
except a mound that may hide the shape of a body.
This silent soil embraces all the heroes, broken
by fatigue and hunger, who, knowing they would never
see its end, gave their all in the Battle of the Marne.
The land has covered them. We do not know their names.
They have only the grass and the wind to talk to.
They have entered our dreams.
Beyond these hills and hollows, the muffled,
swooning sound of cannon-fire sinks into the ether.
Night begins to fall. The now infamous river,
forever heedless of what happened here,
soaks up the languor of twilight and falls asleep.
Dazed by the shock of fate, my eyes absorb
the indelible glory and calm possessed by things,
even when men are dead.
October 1916
La Marne, lente et molle, en glissant accompagne
Un paysage ouvert, éventé, spacieux.
On voit dans l’herbe éclore, ainsi qu’un astre aux cieux,
Les villages légers et dormants de Champagne.
La Nature a repris son rêve négligent,
Attaché à la herse un blanc cheval travaille.
Les vignobles jaspés ont des teintes d’écaille
A travers quo l’on voit rôder de vieilles gens.
Un automnal buisson porte encore quelques roses.
Une chèvre s’enlace au roncier qu’elle mord.
Les raisins sont cueillis, le coteau se repose,
Rien ne témoigne plus d’un surhumain effort
Qu’un tertre soulevé par la forme d’un corps.
– Dans ce sol, sans éclat et sans écho, s’incarnent
Les héros qui, rompus de fatigue et de faim,
Connaissant que jamais ils ne sauront la fin
De l’épique bataille à laquelle ils s’acharnent,
Ont livré hardiment les combats de la Marne.
La terre les recouvre. On ne sait pas leur nom.
Ils ont l’herbe et le vent avec lesquels ils causent.
Nous songeons.
Par delà les vallons et les monts
On entend le bruit sourd et pâmé du canon
S’écrouler dans l’éther entre deux longues pauses.
Et puis le soir descend. Le fleuve au grand renom,
A jamais ignorant de son apothéose,
S’emplit de la langueur du crépuscule, et dort.
Je regarde, les yeux hébétés par le sort,
La gloire indélébile et calme qu’ont les choses
Alors que les hommes sont morts.
Octobre 1916
Painting: Bords de la Marne by Camille Pissarro, 1866
another ash I never noticed
lit up by the sun
its death let in
for so many years
I saw it as an eye
island in the stream
don’t call them Indian graves
these mounds
that once held roots
God or microbes
everywhere you look
undiscovered
Up, and to my accounts again, and stated them very clear and fair, and at noon dined at my lodgings with Mr. Hater and W. Hewer at table with me, I being come to an agreement yesterday with my landlady for 6l. per month, for so many rooms for myself, them, and my wife and mayde, when she shall come, and to pay besides for my dyett. After dinner I did give them my accounts and letters to write against I went to the Duke of Albemarle’s this evening, which I did; and among other things, spoke to him for my wife’s brother, Balty, to be of his guard, which he kindly answered that he should. My business of the Victualling goes on as I would have it; and now my head is full how to make some profit of it to myself or people. To that end, when I came home, I wrote a letter to Mr. Coventry, offering myself to be the Surveyor Generall, and am apt to think he will assist me in it, but I do not set my heart much on it, though it would be a good helpe. So back to my office, and there till past one before I could get all these letters and papers copied out, which vexed me, but so sent them away without hopes of saving the post, and so to my lodging to bed.
I hate myself for my diet
victualing as an offering
my heart on paper
exed out
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 19 October 1665.
Up, and after some pleasant discourse with my wife (though my head full of business) I out and left her to go home, and myself to the office, and thence by water to the Duke of Albemarle’s, and so back again and find my wife gone. So to my chamber at my lodgings, and to the making of my accounts up of Tangier, which I did with great difficulty, finding the difference between short and long reckonings where I have had occasion to mix my moneys, as I have of late done my Tangier treasure upon other occasions, and other moneys upon that. However, I was at it late and did it pretty perfectly, and so, after eating something, to bed, my mind eased of a great deal of figures and castings.
my head full of outback
I am with great difficulty finding
the difference between short and long
I have occasion
to mix my occasions
another me to cast
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 18 October 1665.