Poems & poem-like things – Page 695

February 21, 2015May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Tip for travelers

All the morning putting things in my house in order, and packing up glass to send into the country to my father, and books to my brother John, and then to my Lord Crew’s to dinner; and thence to Mr. Lewes Philip’s chamber, and there at noon with him for business, and received 80l. upon Jaspar Trice’s account, and so home with it, and so to my chamber for all this evening, and then to bed.

Things I use
in a glass country:
lips for business
and rice for a bed.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 21 February 1661/62.

February 21, 2015May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

At sunset

packing up glass
to send into the country—
an amber evening

Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 21 February 1661/62.

February 20, 2015May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Enclosure

This morning came Mr. Child to see me, and set me something to my Theorbo, and by and by come letters from Tangier from my Lord, telling me how, upon a great defete given to the Portuguese there by the Moors, he had put in 300 men into the town, and so he is in possession, of which we are very glad, because now the Spaniard’s designs of hindering our getting the place are frustrated. I went with the letter inclosed to my Lord Chancellor to the House of Lords, and did give it him in the House. And thence to the Wardrobe with my Ladys, and there could not stay dinner, but went by promise to Mr. Savill’s, and there sat the first time for my picture in little, which pleaseth me well. So to the office till night and then home.

Morning on the moor:
the town is in possession
of no place, enclosed it
and could not stay
the night.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 20 February 1661/62.

February 20, 2015February 20, 2015 by Luisa A. Igloria

Not One or the Other but Other

I too dislike it— having it pointed out
that my books are nowhere in the Literature or Poetry section
of Barnes and Noble (if they were, they’d be somewhere
between Horace or Henry James and James Joyce)—

and perhaps it would be a good idea to let the purchasing
department know, except they would have to commit
to only a few copies; you know, because of the demographic
for this kind of readership, and the no

return policy for unsold copies—
And did I tell you about the time I received
a rejection letter saying “We’re sorry but your poems
just seem very (almost too?) American” (by which

I was made to understand there must have been
some confusion because wait with this kind of a surname
shouldn’t I have been writing instead about exile
and villages undressed by a hurricane, or dark-haired

mail order brides who wind up in the county morgue?
But I too thought I was writing about other, larger things
even when I slipped a river stone into a line, or a chorus
of frogs and the burnt smell of certain mornings—

And I had hoped to make art more than the taste of guilt
or reparation, more than the plea to take seriously
my fear of oblivion, here in the space between the margins
where white grows whiter and whiter, and dark is always darker.

— after Tony Hoagland’s “Write Whiter”

February 19, 2015February 19, 2015 by Luisa A. Igloria

Milk and Honey

She offers a photograph of herself as a young war bride, smiling and holding on to the railing of the ship minutes before they disembarked. In the background, the rust-red pylons of the famous bridge. She’s never left home before this time, except to go into town for doctor visits, or to find a dress for her sister’s wedding. She is a farmer’s daughter, but she’s taught herself stenography, a little bookkeeping. She sews her own clothes, has learned a bit of tailoring. At this time, she has not yet learned the names of trees in this new world. And it is nearly winter, so their branches rattle along the avenue. This is her welcome parade: no flags of green, the wind from the bay whipping her cotton skirt around her knees; gulls fighting for scraps on the pier. She laughs at the memory of a phrase she’d heard: milk and honey, they’d said. The streets don’t run with it. And inside the brick houses with heavy drapes, women like her scrubbed the heart of the wood with vinegar and water, their accents falling on tile when no one was listening.

In response to Via Negativa: Armchair Activist.

February 19, 2015May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Armchair activist

Musique practice: thence to the Trinity House to conclude upon our report of Sir N. Crisp’s project, who came to us to answer objections, but we did give him no ear, but are resolved to stand to our report; though I could wish we had shewn him more justice and had heard him.
Thence to the Wardrobe and dined with my Lady, and talked after dinner as I used to do, and so home and up to my chamber to put things in order to my good content, and so to musique practice.

I practice objection,
give ear
to an ear
to the war—
a din after dinner.
I put things in order,
content
to practice.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 19 February 1661/62.

February 18, 2015May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

The birth of tragedy

Lay long in bed, then up to the office (we having changed our days to Tuesday and Saturday in the morning and Thursday at night), and by and by with Sir W. Pen, Mr. Kennard, and others to survey his house again, and to contrive for the alterations there, which will be handsome I think.
After we had done at the office, I walked to the Wardrobe, where with Mr. Moore and Mr. Lewis Phillips after dinner we did agree upon the agreement between us and Prior and I did seal and sign it.
Having agreed with Sir Wm. Pen and my wife to meet them at the Opera, and finding by my walking in the streets, which were every where full of brick-battes and tyles flung down by the extraordinary wind the last night (such as hath not been in memory before, unless at the death of the late Protector), that it was dangerous to go out of doors; and hearing how several persons had been killed to-day by the fall of things in the streets, and that the pageant in Fleetstreet is most of it blown down, and hath broke down part of several houses, among others Dick Brigden’s; and that one Lady Sanderson, a person of quality in Covent Garden, was killed by the fall of the house, in her bed, last night; I sent my boy home to forbid them to go forth. But he bringing me word that they are gone, I went thither and there saw “The Law against Lovers,” a good play and well performed, especially the little girl’s (whom I never saw act before) dancing and singing; and were it not for her, the loss of Roxalana would spoil the house. So home and to musique, and so to bed.

We change our days to night
and survey the alterations:
war into opera,
streets into dangerous doors
and blown sand into the word Love,
for dancing and singing
would spoil the music.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 18 February 1661/62.

February 18, 2015 by Luisa A. Igloria

Filigree

This entry is part 19 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2014-15

What to do on a day of snow with more on the way? I read and marked my papers, washed all the laundry that could be washed then put a pot to simmer on the stove; I gave the jasmine in the window bay its drink of water, turned all drawers inside out to clean and straighten, and closets too— And the floor was cold but I wanted to feel the grain of the wood smooth against my insteps. Outside, light wove its feeble nets and raised them higher above the trees. It was so quiet, and the glint of ice so bright and milky, pearling on the backs of deck chairs like crowns of baby teeth. I folded blankets and sorted scarves threaded with linen floss, lavish with vines and buds; and found cunning hoops of brass still in their folds of thinnest tissue. I held up what I’d kept or hoarded then found anew— I knew what I’d paid for, why I’d wanted the touch, the shimmer or shape of whatever it was that charmed and broke apart from its backdrop in that store window— A gift I’d bring to you in perfect time; its meaning, that I have not forsaken.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

February 17, 2015May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Deprivation addict

This morning, both Sir Williams, myself, and Captain Cocke and Captain Tinker of the Convertine, which we are going to look upon (being intended to go with these ships fitting for the East Indys), down to Deptford; and thence, after being on shipboard, to Woolwich, and there eat something. The Sir Williams being unwilling to eat flesh, Captain Cocke and I had a breast of veal roasted. And here I drank wine upon necessity, being ill for want of it, and I find reason to fear that by my too sudden leaving off wine, I do contract many evils upon myself.
Going and coming we played at gleeke, and I won 9s. 6d. clear, the most that ever I won in my life. I pray God it may not tempt me to play again.
Being come home again we went to the Dolphin, where Mr. Alcock and my Lady and Mrs. Martha Batten came to us, and after them many others (as it always is where Sir W. Batten goes), and there we had some pullets to supper. I eat though I was not very well, and after that left them, and so home and to bed.

Look upon
these hips fit
for a board
and eat.
Unwilling flesh,
breast of necessity—
being ill for
want of it
I fear a clear life,
pray it may
not tempt me
to eat not.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 17 February 1661/62.

February 17, 2015 by Luisa A. Igloria

Authorship

This entry is part 18 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2014-15

Who owns the high-pitched whistle of waxwings
and the feathered cheques they serve to the air?

Who owns the sheets that ice the roads
to bring to a halt the commerce in towns?

Who owns the traps set in the wood
that snap at the sudden weight of snow?

And who owns the hands that labor all day
before they touch the pillow or the pen?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.