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 Dave Bonta

One-percenter

To the Paynter’s and sat and had more of my picture done; but it do not please me, for I fear it will not be like me. At noon from thence to the Wardrobe, where dinner not being ready Mr. Moore and I to the Temple about my little business at Mr. Turner’s, and so back again, and dinner being half done I went in to my Lady, where my Lady Wright was at dinner with her, and all our talk about the great happiness that my Lady Wright says there is in being in the fashion and in variety of fashions, in scorn of others that are not so, as citizens’ wives and country gentlewomen, which though it did displease me enough, yet I said nothing to it. Thence by water to the office through bridge, being carried by him in oars that the other day rowed in a scull faster than my oars to the Towre, and I did give him 6d. At the office all the afternoon, and at night home to read in “Mare Clausum” till bedtime, and so to bed, but had a very bad night by dreams of my wife’s riding with me and her horse throwing her and breaking her leg, and then I dreamt that I had one of my testicles swelled, and I in such pain that I waked with it, and had a great deal of pain there a very great while till I fell asleep again, and such apprehension I had of it that when I rose and trussed up myself thinking that it had been no dream. Till in the daytime I found myself very well at ease, and remembered that I did dream so, and that Mr. Creed was with me, and that I did complain to him of it, and he said he had the same pain in his left that I had in my right testicle which pleased me much to remember.

Like noon in a temple,
our happiness is
a fashion, in scorn of others
that are not us.
I dream of a wing breaking,
dream of a rose
trussed up in
my left testicle.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 3 December 1661.

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Found

I didn’t expect to be seen by anyone,
caught down by the creek, damp
and muddy knees before the dawn,

sleeves shoved up above my elbows,
both hands plunged beneath, fingers
raking sediment below the eddies —

I could offer some excuse, tell you
my wedding ring was loose upon my
finger, slipped into the water, and I’m

dredging for loop of silver, small
missing symbol of all that matters —
but that would not be the truth.

Truth is I only came to listen,
a pre-dawn prayer that’s less an act
of asking, more of waiting

for some sense of direction to reveal
itself, burn off the fog, burnish me
with sunlight’s permeating clarity,

but I’m not so good at meditation,
I’m still prone to distraction, and what’s
really happening is just small bliss:

December creek-water, cold
and almost crunchy, floating flecks
of ice that bump and scrape my wrists,

a contrast to the smoothness of stones
beneath my palms, elusive silt between
them velvety, responsive to the touch.

—Laura M Kaminski
12 04 2014
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “Process.”

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Process

I want to know: what keeps you
stirring up the liquid in the tray;

again and again, plunging your hand
to the shallow bottom to unsettle

sediment, just when the water
is so close to clear? Today began

in fog: not even the outlines of trees
emerged until the sun was past its prime.

In the end, however gradually,
everything delivers itself from need.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Resynchronization

the house was empty when they woke
the absence a tangible thing, a raw place
where a comfortable companionship

sat content last night between them
borrowing a bit the corner of her afghan,
reading unobtrusively over his shoulder

but it slipped out before the dawn, left
the length of the breakfast table longer,
two glasses of cold orange juice, apart

in silence, they pulled on shoes, light
jackets, went down to the beach, reset
the timing of their heartbeats

to the metronome of breaking waves
returned together to together

—Laura M Kaminski
12 02 2014
in response to/inspired by “Ocean view”

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Ocean view

To Savill the painter’s, but he not being well I could do nothing there, and so I returned home, and in my way met Mr. Moore and took him with me home; where we staid and talked all the morning, and he dined with me, and after dinner went away to the Privy Seal, this being our first day this month. By and by called on by Mr. Sanchy and his mistress, and with them by coach to the Opera, to see “The Mad Lover,” but not much pleased with the play. That done home all to my house, where they staid and supped and were merry, and at last late bid good night and so we to bed.

To paint the sea is to see
the mad lover,
not the house where we
at last bid good night.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 2 December 1661.

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Loosening

do not tell her how to be
or how to feel, what turns to take
along a road you have not traveled —
she is walking ground as yet uncharted
hold your tongue

steady her steps

she can no longer tolerate
the travel for the harvest celebration,
the winter gathering of family —
the cutting, dragging in, the trimming
of the tree

too symbolic

she no longer opens holiday
letters, doesn’t slit the envelopes
to set warm wishes, peace to swirl —
the air around her chills, she is loosening
her tethers

—Laura M Kaminski
12 02 2014
in response to/inspired by Dave Bonta’s “Morale-building exercise” and Luisa A. Igloria’s “Instructions for the long march”

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Morale-building exercise

(Lord’s day). In the morning at church and heard Mr. Mills. At home dined and with me by appointment Mr. Sanchy, who should have brought his mistress, Mrs. Mary Archer, of Cambridge, but she could not come, but we had a good dinner for him. And so in the afternoon my wife went to church, and he and I stayed at home and drank and talked, and he stayed with me till night and supped with me, when I expected to have seen Jack Cole and Lem. Wagstaffe, but they did not come.
We this day cut a brave collar of brawn from Winchcombe which proves very good, and also opened the glass of girkins which Captain Cocke did give my wife the other day, which are rare things.
So at night to bed.
There hath lately been great clapping up of some old statesmen, such as Ireton, Moyer, and others, and they say, upon a great plot, but I believe no such thing; but it is but justice that they should be served as they served the poor Cavaliers; and I believe it will oftentimes be so as long as I live, whether there be cause or no.
This evening my brother Tom was with me, and I did talk again to him about Mr. Townsend’s daughter, and I do intend to put the business in hand. I pray God give a good end to it.

In the morning mill,
who but the brawn and glass

captain clapping?
They serve the poor

a long, no-brother talk
about business and God.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 1 December 1661.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Instructions for the long march

You will not need all that clothing
lying in heaps on the shelves,
hanging like skins gathered in
a different season.

And you will have to do
certain tasks that used to be
fulfilled by others, or that you
only read about in manuals

for long-term care. But
in all things, you must learn
gentleness— which is a little
like but more than just

dimming the lights to soften
the glare, or reaching around
the body to unhook stays
that bind or support.

Give yourself to what will sustain
the most, what will boost the quality
of breath in the most interior room.
When everything without

grows fuller and more crowded with noise,
discard all unnecessary furniture. Watch
the landscape expand with what you
remember of water and light and air.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Unreal estate

In the morning to the Temple, Mr. Philips and Dr. Williams about my several law matters, and so to the Wardrobe to dinner, and after dinner stole away, my Lady not dining out of her chamber, and so home and then to the office all the afternoon, and that being done Sir W. Batten and I and Captain Cock got a bottle of sack into the office, and there we sat late and drank and talked, and so home and to bed.
I am this day in very good health, only got a little cold. The Parliament has sat a pretty while. The old condemned judges of the late King have been brought before the Parliament, and like to be hanged. I am deep in Chancery against Tom Trice, God give a good issue; and myself under great trouble for my late great expending of money vainly, which God stop for the future. This is the last day for the old State’s coyne to pass in common payments, but they say it is to pass in publique payments to the King three months still.

The law stole my home—
that batten of here and pretty
condemned
like a chance god
or the last state’s coin.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 30 November 1661.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Making the bed

Lie in the bed you’ve made,
I was told: shorthand for all
that we supposedly could not

take back: the word or pledge
that others came to witness,
after which a cake was cut

with one beribboned knife,
and mouths were stuffed
to gagging with sugary

crumbs amid laughter
and drunken cheers.
Later, when the bed

was sheathed in anger
and hot tears, I tried
to figure out how virtue

lay in waiting for what
might not ever change.
Every morning I sought

to tuck the corners in
as tight as I was able—
By then I had daughters.

By then I could not
afford to wait for some
questionable deliverance.

 

In response to Via Negatia: Sailor's wife.