Category: Poems & poem-like things

Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Tragedy

river in November light between bare woods and mountain 
The story is that an eagle mistook 
Aeschylus' bald head for a rock, 
and dropped a tortoise upon it. 
Did it shatter his skull or give
him a giant concussion? In any case,
he was supposed to have died instantly. 
Aeschylus, described as the father of 
tragedy, wrote: He who learns must suffer. 
And even in our sleep, pain that cannot 
forget falls drop by drop upon the heart. 
What of the tortoise— did it incur any 
injuries? In Maso Finiguerra's pen-and-
sepia-ink drawing of the scene, the idea 
of catastrophe makes a light impression. 
There's the writer, seated placidly by 
a stream, book on one knee, nodding off 
perhaps because of the leaves rustling in 
the grove. Strangely, the before and 
after of the turtle's fall is rendered 
in the drawing. One moment it hovers 
mid-air like a cartoon alien ship. 
In the next, it's landed smack 
on its back on the artist's head. 
The eagle itself wears an expression
of mild dismay, perhaps having just 
then realized it aimed at the wrong 
target. But such is the nature of tragedy— 
how the small, seemingly inconsequential 
thing leads to the undoing.
Posted on by Dave Bonta

Ratty

Sam Pepys and me

At the office all the morning setting about business, and after dinner to it again, and so till night, and then home looking over my Brampton papers against to-morrow that we are to meet with our counsel on both sides toward an arbitration, upon which I was very late, and so to bed.

setting out after dinner

night in my ear
on both sides

a rat


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 4 December 1662.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Off the map

Sam Pepys and me

Called up by Commissioner Pett, and with him by water, much against my will, to Deptford, and after drinking a warm morning draft, with Mr. Wood and our officers measuring all the morning his New England masts, with which sight I was much pleased for my information, though I perceive great neglect and indifference in all the King’s officers in what they do for the King.
That done, to the Globe, and there dined with Mr. Wood, and so by water with Mr. Pett home again, all the way reading his Chest accounts, in which I did see things did not please me; as his allowing himself 1300 for one year’s looking to the business of the Chest, and 150l. per annum for the rest of the years. But I found no fault to him himself, but shall when they come to be read at the Board.
We did also call at Limehouse to view two Busses that are building, that being a thing we are now very hot upon. Our call was to see what dimensions they are of, being 50 feet by the keel and about 60 tons.
Home and did a little business, and so taking Mr. Pett by the way, we walked to the Temple, in our way seeing one of the Russia Embassador’s coaches go along, with his footmen not in liverys, but their country habits; one of one colour and another of another, which was very strange.
At the Temple spoke with Mr. Turner and Calthrop, and so walked home again, being in some pain through the cold which I have got to-day by water, which troubles me.
At the office doing business a good while, and so home and had a posset, and so to bed.

after all the information
I perceive one globe
in two dimensions

taking a walk
our aches go along

one of one color
and another of another

turn a walk into
a good while


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 3 December 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Cynicism

river in November light between bare woods and mountain 
My student was talking about a film 
he described as terrible— about terrible 

human beings and how they did terrible things 
to each other, with no relief at the end. Not 

even a shot panning away from the broken window-
pane and into the shadowed hills, not even the noises 

animals make in the woods, magnified by the dark. Why 
even does it exist, he asked? why do people watch it? 

A movie can be like a poem, and a poem like a movie.
Nested images, personae, mood, some kind of setting. 

A poem can seem to have several movies nested inside 
it. But even the bleakest poem couldn't have complete

cynicism: otherwise, why was it turned into a poem?
Someone took all the koi out of the small pools

by the entrance to a battleship— nine guns, three
main gun turrets— now turned into a museum.  

We recall seeing the flash of orange and gold
scales as fish darted through moss-green water.

Chained by two anchors, the ship almost doesn't 
seem connected to something as terrible as war.
Posted on by Dave Bonta

Malignant

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Before I went to the office my wife and I had another falling out about Sarah, against whom she has a deadly hate, I know not for what, nor can I see but she is a very good servant. Then to my office, and there sat all the morning, and then to dinner with my wife at home, and after dinner did give Jane a very serious lesson, against we take her to be our chamber-maid, which I spoke so to her that the poor girl cried and did promise to be very dutifull and carefull. So to the office, where we sat as Commissioners for the Chest, and so examined most of the old accountants to the Chest about it, and so we broke up, and I to my office till late preparing business, and so home, being cold, and this night first put on a wastecoate. So to bed.

falling dead is a lesson
we take to the poor

if a full chest
cold is a waste


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 2 December 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Deep Cleaning

river in November light between bare woods and mountain 
 
Behind the small folding bookshelf
in the guest room, I find three
canvasses. Each one bears traces 
of the start of a project— landscape, 
portrait, indeterminate still life; 
none of them complete beyond a first 
thin layer. I must have seen things 
then that beckoned as finished visions, 
but that now I must conjure if I want 
to complete them. Not to make 
a copy of the thing, but to manifest 
the heat that cut through the distance— 
wheel of yellow, bowl teeming with fruit; 
girl blowing a profusion of dandelion 
seeds into the wide open sky.
Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

The Ministry of Anti-Corruption

river in November light between bare woods and mountain 
Such an office has been established and forgotten  
and revived too many times to count. Smaller variants
exist— Whistleblower Hotline, Consumer Complaint 
Department, Ombudsman's Office, Ethics Committee.
It's a ministry because it's almost a vocation
to which you swear a vow: to transparency and
accountability, freedom of speech and of the press,
observation of due process, establishment of sanctions.
But it's growing a global network, staffed with  
the compassionate and civic-minded. They are not 
allowed to take bribes nor award ghost contracts 
while looking the other way. They will visit families 
whose dwellings have been swallowed by flood, and 
document the absence of well-built dikes, dams, 
and bridges despite billboards along the highway 
lauding progressive infrastructure. They cause 
warrants to be issued for officials and businessmen, 
and demand scrutiny of financial records. After 
following the money, it should become clear who 
enabled and who signed off on, who claimed they were 
only following orders while tucking millions into bank 
accounts. They receive reports leaking secret 
conversations about the launching of torpedos against 
small sailing vessels. They gather in the hundreds, 
blocking garages before illegal enforcement units 
can get into their vehicles to make yet another raid 
on ordinary civilians— the ones they've been ordered 
to bring to private detention facilities whose earnings 
rake in hundreds of millions a year. Sometimes they 
are actual ministers: a pastor brandishing a bible 
in the faces of those who dared to enter a church 
with evil intent. Most times they peacefully organize 
food and coat drives; they chant or play music, 
hold up signs on the periphery of courthouses.
Posted on by Dave Bonta

Frosted

Sam Pepys and me

Up and by coach with Sir John Minnes and Sir W. Batten to White Hall to the Duke’s chamber, where, as is usual, my Lord Sandwich and all of us, after his being ready, to his closett, and there discoursed of matters of the Navy, and here Mr. Coventry did do me the great kindness to take notice to the Duke of my pains in making a collection of all contracts about masts, which have been of great use to us. Thence I to my Lord Sandwich’s, to Mr. Moore, to talk a little about business; and then over the Parke (where I first in my life, it being a great frost, did see people sliding with their skeates, which is a very pretty art), to Mr. Coventry’s chamber to St. James’s, where we all met to a venison pasty, and were very merry, Major Norwood being with us, whom they did play upon for his surrendering of Dunkirk.
Here we staid till three or four o’clock; and so to the Council Chamber, where there met the Duke of York, Prince Rupert, Duke of Albemarle, my Lord Sandwich, Sir Wm. Compton, Mr. Coventry, Sir J. Minnes, Sir R. Ford, Sir W. Rider, myself, and Captain Cuttance, as Commissioners for Tangier. And after our Commission was read by Mr. Creed, who I perceive is to be our Secretary, we did fall to discourse of matters: as, first, the supplying them forthwith with victualls; then the reducing it to make way for the money, which upon their reduction is to go to the building of the Mole; and so to other matters, ordered as against next meeting.
This done we broke up, and I to the Cockpitt, with much crowding and waiting, where I saw “The Valiant Cidd” acted, a play I have read with great delight, but is a most dull thing acted, which I never understood before, there being no pleasure in it, though done by Betterton and by Ianthe, And another fine wench that is come in the room of Roxalana nor did the King or queen once smile all the whole play, nor any of the company seem to take any pleasure but what was in the greatness and gallantry of the company.
Thence to my Lord’s, and Mr. Moore being in bed I staid not, but with a link walked home and got thither by 12 o’clock, knocked up my boy, and put myself to bed.

white and close to life
frost is a pretty art

surrendering to the mission
of the mole in his pit

where light is dull
to take any pleasure


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 1 December 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

The Mills of the Gods

river in November light between bare woods and mountain 
The former leader of a small 
southeast Asian nation sits 
in a jail cell awaiting trial 
at the Hague. Well-appointed, 
with its own kitchenette, but 
jail nontheless. When the petition 
for his interim release is denied,
his followers weep and embrace
carboard standees. Elsewhere,
families of victims in his "war
on drugs" follow the news by video
link, and clap. They clutch pictures
to their chests too— of husbands 
and children felled by bullets 
fired by death squads, masked 
and riding tandem on motorcycles.
Posted on by Dave Bonta

Drawing in

Sam Pepys and me

(Lord’s day). To church in the morning, and Mr. Mills made a pretty good sermon. It is a bitter cold frost to-day. Dined alone with my wife to-day with great content, my house being quite clean from top to bottom. In the afternoon I to the French church here in the city, and stood in the aisle all the sermon, with great delight hearing a very admirable sermon, from a very young man, upon the article in our creed, in order of catechism, upon the Resurrection. Thence home, and to visit Sir W. Pen, who continues still bed-rid. Here was Sir W. Batten and his Lady, and Mrs. Turner, and I very merry, talking of the confidence of Sir R. Ford’s new-married daughter, though she married so strangely lately, yet appears at church as brisk as can be, and takes place of her elder sister, a maid.
Thence home and to supper, and then, cold as it is, to my office, to make up my monthly accounts, and I do find that, through the fitting of my house this month, I have spent in that and kitchen 50l. this month; so that now I am worth but 660l., or thereabouts. This being done and fitted myself for the Duke to-morrow, I went home, and to prayers and to bed. This day I first did wear a muffe, being my wife’s last year’s muffe, and now I have bought her a new one, this serves me very well.
Thus ends this month; in great frost; myself and family all well, but my mind much disordered about my uncle’s law business, being now in an order of being arbitrated between us, which I wish to God it were done.
I am also somewhat uncertain what to think of my going about to take a woman-servant into my house, in the quality of a woman for my wife. My wife promises it shall cost me nothing but her meat and wages, and that it shall not be attended with any other expenses, upon which termes I admit of it; for that it will, I hope, save me money in having my wife go abroad on visits and other delights; so that I hope the best, but am resolved to alter it, if matters prove otherwise than I would have them.
Publique matters in an ill condition of discontent against the height and vanity of the Court, and their bad payments: but that which troubles most, is the Clergy, which will never content the City, which is not to be reconciled to Bishopps: the more the pity that differences must still be.
Dunkirk newly sold, and the money brought over; of which we hope to get some to pay the Navy: which by Sir J. Lawson’s having dispatched the business in the Straights, by making peace with Argier, Tunis, and Tripoli (and so his fleet will also shortly come home), will now every day grow less, and so the King’s charge be abated; which God send!

alone with the afternoon light
you sit still as an urn

risk an old kitchen prayer
‘I wish to god it were done’

some uncertain
quality of the light
matters most

which must now
every day grow
less and so
abate


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 30 November 1662.