Poems & poem-like things – Page 779

January 28, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Kitchen romance

(Lord’s day). Before I rose, letters come to me from Portsmouth, telling me that the Princess is now well, and my Lord Sandwich set sail with the Queen and her yesterday from thence for France. To church, leaving my wife sick of her menses at home, a poor dull sermon of a stranger. Home, and at dinner was very angry at my people’s eating a fine pudding (made me by Slater, the cook, last Thursday) without my wife’s leave. To church again, a good sermon of Mr. Mills, and after sermon Sir W. Pen and I an hour in the garden talking, and he did answer me to many things, I asked Mr. Coventry’s opinion of me, and Sir W. Batten’s of my Lord Sandwich, which do both please me. Then to Sir W. Batten’s, where very merry, and here I met the Comptroller and his lady and daughter (the first time I ever saw them) and Mrs. Turner, who and her husband supped with us here (I having fetched my wife thither), and after supper we fell to oysters, and then Mr. Turner went and fetched some strong waters, and so being very merry we parted, and home to bed.
This day the parson read a proclamation at church, for the keeping of Wednesday next, the 30th of January, a fast for the murther of the late King.

O mouth,
we set sail on a fine pudding,
made by a cook and an oven
which both please me, the first
time I ever saw my wife—
we fell
to oyster bed.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 27 January 1660/61.

January 28, 2014January 28, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Cold Country

This entry is part 16 of 23 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2013-14

We slept in rooms that were but thin
partitions against the cold— bare
wood, tin roofs, and with our coats
unlined; yet we had no word for winter
in our dictionary. That year I learned
to eat fermented things, learned to drink
coffee sweetened with sugar, lightened with milk
from a can. No children had come yet but I knew
the press of stones against the swelling riverbank,
the shale that cut through loam. I divined then
what the herbalist meant when she whispered
as her hands worked to massage the chill
out of my limbs: There is a space beneath
the ribs where hearth stones lie close
to rub against each other— take care
their heat does not go out.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

January 28, 2014February 4, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Walking the line

This entry is part 5 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

High winds. I press an ear
to the trunk of a ridge-top oak
and hear nothing but wind.

My footprints in the snow
are more than erased;
they’re raised up, scattered like ashes.

The woodpecker must hear any sound
an oak can make.
It taps out a response.

January 27, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Made

Within all the morning. About noon comes one that had formerly known me and I him, but I know not his name, to borrow 5l. of me, but I had the wit to deny him.
There dined with me this day both the Pierces and their wives, and Captain Cuttance, and Lieutenant Lambert, with whom we made ourselves very merry by taking away his ribbans and garters, having made him to confess that he is lately married.
The company being gone I went to my lute till night, and so to bed.

Within me, one
that had formerly known me—
but I know not his name.
(I had the wit to deny him.)

We made ourselves
by taking away art.
Made to confess,
I married the company.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 26 January 1660/61.

January 27, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Evidence

There is always an animal
in the grass: fox or weasel,
snake; marriage of tongue
to adder, fork to tine.

Keep one eye on the damp
boundary between all realms
though no satin bridesmaid
dress has caught in the branches,

no face floats in the shallows
like a page from a pale narcissus.
The wind erases all trace of encounter:
whatever was taken here or hunted hard.

In response to Via Negativa: Nuthatch .

January 27, 2014February 4, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Haustorial

This entry is part 4 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

The sound of porcupine teeth
in the oak’s crown,
as lethal as mistletoe.

Ahead of me on the path,
the tracks of three deer
braiding and unbraiding.

I reach inside my coat
and find a twig. It’s happening
sooner than I thought.

January 26, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Parsing

This entry is part 15 of 23 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2013-14

When was the last time you felt
the white glisten of tears before their

harvest in a vial; or the random
punctuation provided by birds swarming

electrical lines? Across the valley
that winter the cold made the almonds

shrivel, the citrus crops shrink
their promise of little suns.

In the yard next door, a girl read
a passage aloud from a book using

that way of talking: lilt at the end
of each phrase, question where there is

no question. Overhearing, I wanted
to strip the rosemary of leaves,

offer a brittle handful— as if
they could be used as pauses;

as if the faint languor of scent
that remained in each virgule

might bring a different
nuance to the horizon.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

January 26, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

That time of year thou mayst

At the office all the morning. Dined at home and Mr. Hater with me, and so I did make even with him for the last quarter. After dinner he and I to look upon the instructions of my Lord Northumberland’s, but we were interrupted by Mr. Salisbury’s coming in, who came to see me and to show me my Lord’s picture in little, of his doing. And truly it is strange to what a perfection he is come in a year’s time. From thence to Paul’s Churchyard about books, and so back again home. This night comes two cages, which I bought this evening for my canary birds, which Captain Rooth this day sent me. So to bed.

I hate to look upon
the land—to see how
strange a perfection
is a year’s time.

From the yard
this night comes.
Age is my canary,
a root sent to bed.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 25 January 1660/61.

January 26, 2014February 4, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Nuthatch

This entry is part 3 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

Nuthatch at the window,
probing under the sill
for frozen bugs and pupae,

one eye on the glass
where, behind the bare trees,
my bare face swims up—

that odd ice
on a sideways pond
with its year-round winter…

January 25, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Hearth Song

If you can read, you can cook:
my mothers’ motto from the day
I learned to crack an egg on the rim
of a bowl and separate the whites
from yolks. Powders to leaven and sift,
oils to ease; sugar to make sweet, salt
to temper all with a trace of tears—
Cake for the kitchen gods; but for you,
burnt crust at the bottom of the pan
to remind the greedy mouth
of the world’s tough hide
and bitter rind.

In response to Via Negativa: Short order cook.