Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
The refrigerator hums; ice
crescents fall through
the night in a tray.
Soft lint gathers in the mouth
of the trap, as heat tumbles
our clothes dry.
By the front steps, spikes
of rosemary. Even in almost-winter,
their scent curls into the underground.
The paradox of distance is
it can always be halved
and halved again.
A rice grain falls
without sound. A hundred
of them make the sound of rain.
To Whitehall, and there finding Mons. Eschar to be gone, I sent my letters by a porter to the posthouse in Southwark to be sent by despatch to the Downs. So to dinner to my Lord Crew’s by coach, and in my way had a stop of above an hour and a half, which is a great trouble this Parliament time, but it cannot be helped. However I got thither before my Lord come from the House, and so dined with him, and dinner done, home to the office, and there sat late and so home.
gone south
to stop time
I cannot help
my house of ice
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 10 December 1661.
I know that a group of buffalos
is called an obstinacy, and a group
of owls is a parliament. I learned
Pangea is the name of a continent
that existed 200 million years ago,
and how to write a five-paragraph theme.
From high school I remember the Pythagorean
theorem, but not the formula for the quadratic
equation or the slope-intercept form of a line.
I know there are questions no one has found
a proper answer for— like, is there any thought
that's truly original? or, where do things
we have forgotten go? Now and then someone
asks about what the difference is between prose
and poetry. One could talk about structures
like sentences and paragraphs vs. lines and stanzas,
patterns that repeat according to the design dictated
by meaning and metaphor. Emily Dickinson said
poetry is what made her feel the top of her head
had been taken off; and Mary Oliver wrote about
how the language of the poem is the language of
particulars. In either prose or poetry, one
could write of a column of chickens or an armory
of aardvarks, and somewhere in there is the little
frisson of pleasure from rubbing two sticks together.
There's no flame but there's fire, leaping from word
to image to some surprising view of the world.
To Whitehall, and thence to the Rhenish wine-house, where I met Mons. Eschar and there took leave of him, he being to go this night to the Downs towards Portugall, and so spent all the morning. At noon to dinner to the Wardrobe; where my Lady Wright was, who did talk much upon the worth and the desert of gallantry; and that there was none fit to be courtiers, but such as have been abroad and know fashions. Which I endeavoured to oppose; and was troubled to hear her talk so, though she be a very wise and discreet lady in other things. From thence Mr. Moore and I to the Temple about my law business with my cozen Turner, and there we read over T. Trice’s answer to my bill and advised thereupon what to do in his absence, he being to go out of town to-morrow. Thence he and I to Mr. Walpole, my attorney, whom I never saw before, and we all to an alehouse hard by, and there we talked of our business, and he put me into great hopes, but he is but a young man, and so I do not depend so much upon his encouragement. So by coach home, and to supper, and to bed, having staid up till 12 at night writing letters to my Lord Sandwich and all my friends with him at sea, to send to-morrow by Mons. Eschar, who goes tomorrow post to the Downs to go along with the fleet to Portugall.
at noon on a desert road
out in the absence of tomorrow
I saw a great sea
go down with the fleet
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 9 December 1661.
(Lord’s day). In bed all the morning thinking to take physique, but it being a frost my wife would not have me. So to dinner at the Wardrobe, and after a great deal of good discourse with my Lady after dinner, and among other things of the great christening yesterday at Mr. Rumbell’s, and courtiers and pomp that was there, which I wonder at, I went away up and down into all the churches almost between that place and my house, and so home. And then came my brother Tom, and staid and talked with me, and I hope he will do very well and get money. So to supper and to bed.
This morning as I was in bed, one brings me T. Trice’s answer to my bill in chancery from Mr. Smallwood, which I am glad to see, though I am afraid it will do me hurt.
frost on the thin Christ
there on the church
between us one morning
one small hurt
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 8 December 1661.
I remember prayer as a rising
in my blood, the resonance
that leaves the mouth of a bell
rung in a nearby tower.
When I close my eyes I can feel
the coolness of water I touched
to my brow, the space below
my heart, my shoulders— left, right.
Every nave holds a congregation:
heart, shoulders (left, right);
brow and space below
the coolness of water I touch
when I close my eyes. I can feel
rung in a nearby tower,
leaves in the mouth of a bell.
My blood, the resonance.
I remember prayer as a rising.
This morning comes Captain Ferrers and the German, Emanuel Luffe, who goes as one of my Lord’s footmen, though he deserves a much better preferment, to take their leave of me, and here I got the German to play upon my theorbo, which he did both below and in my wife’s chamber, who was in bed. He plays bravely. I find by him that my lute is a most excellent lute. I did give them a mince pie and a collar of brawn and some wine for their breakfast, and were very merry, and sent for Mr. Adams our neighbour to drink Mr. Shepley’s health. At last we all parted, but within a quarter of an hour after they were gone, and my wife and I were talking about buying of a fine scallop which is brought her this morning by a woman to be sold, which is to cost her 45s., in comes the German back again, all in a goare of blood, which I wondered at, and tells me that he is afeard that the Captain is killed by the watermen at Towre Stayres; so I presently went thither, and found that upon some rude pressing of the watermen to ply the Captain, he struck one of them with his cane, which they would not take, but struck him again, and then the German drew his sword and ran at one of them, but they were both soundly beaten. The Captain is, however, got to the hoy that carries him and the pages to the Downs, and I went into the alehouse at the Stayres and got them to deliver the Captain’s feathers, which one from the Captain was come to demand, and went home again, and there found my wife dressing of the German’s head, and so did [give] him a cravett for his neck, and a crown in his purse, and sent him away again. Then came Mr. Moore, and he and I to Westminster and to Worcester House to see Mr. Montagu before he goes away (this night), but could not see him, nor do I think he has a mind to see us for fear of our demanding of money of him for anything. So back to Whitehall, and eat a bit of meat at Wilkinson’s, and then to the Privy Seal, and sealed there the first time this month; and, among other things that passed, there was a patent for Roger Palmer (Madam Palmer’s husband) to be Earl of Castlemaine and Baron of Limbricke in Ireland; but the honour is tied up to the males got of the body of this wife, the Lady Barbary: the reason whereof every body knows. That done, by water to the office, when I found Sir W. Pen had been alone all the night and was just rose, and so I to him, and with him I found Captain Holmes, who had wrote his case, and gives me a copy, as he hath many among his friends, and presented the same to the King and Council. Which I shall make use of in my attempt of writing something concerning the business of striking sail, which I am now about. But he do cry out against Sir John Minnes, as the veriest knave and rogue and coward in the world, which I was glad to hear, because he has given out bad words concerning my Lord, though I am sorry it is so. Here Captain Cox then came in, and he and I staid a good while and so good night. Home and wrote by the post to my father, and so to bed.
in my wine an ink
in my blood wonder
word and sound
feather my head
crown this body of water
with many a cry
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 7 December 1661.
When I am lonely I pray to the gods
of my childhood to come back
with one of their remedies. They could fix
anything: they pounded cloves of garlic
into a paste and anointed the soles
of my feet; every crease in my elbows,
the short hill of my nape. No matter
how far lost I was in the thickets
of fevered hallucination, somehow
their vigil allowed me to find my way
back to my body, seething then cooled
in the sheets. They floated rice
grains in a bowl of water, cracked
an egg into it. I want to learn these
mysteries, how they coaxed my spirit
back to health when it was languishing.
Their faces hover above me in bed,
smelling of the elemental: soil, crushed
roots. They wrap vines that climb in the dark
around my wrists so I can rise and follow.
Lay long in bed, and then to Westminster Hall and there walked, and then with Mr. Spicer, Hawly, Washington, and little Mr. Ashwell (my old friends at the Exchequer) to the Dog, and gave them two or three quarts of wine, and so away to White Hall, where, at Sir G. Carteret’s, Sir Williams both and I dined very pleasantly; and after dinner, by appointment, came the Governors of the East India Company, to sign and seal the contract between us (in the King’s name) and them. And that done, we all went to the King’s closet, and there spoke with the King and the Duke of York, who promise to be very careful of the India trade to the utmost. So back to Sir G. Carteret’s and ended our business, and so away homewards, but Sir W. Batten offering to go to the 3 Tuns at Charing Cross, where the pretty maid the daughter of the house is; I was saying that, that tickled Sir W. Pen, he seemed to take these words very captiously and angrily, which I saw, and seemed indifferent to go home in his coach with them, and so took leave to go to the Council Chamber to speak with my Lord Privy Seal, which I did, but they did stay for me, which I was pleased at, but no words passed between him and me in all our way home. So home and to bed.
with my old dog wine
with wayward words
with the sea hey
for now
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 6 December 1661.
When some plants need repotting,
they send out signals: drops of moisture
along a leaf blade, a sudden autumn
of leaves at their base. No one says
this is metaphor, though I too have taken
such liberties, assigning meaning where
it did not necessarily originate. But
when it comes, it brings with it a shock
of recognition. Other times, I look dumbly
at the face in front of me, wondering where
I first encountered it. The girl at the grocery
checkout counter prompts me to enter my phone
number; I stare at my reflection on the chrome
surfaces, my fingers hovering over the keypad.