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

Self-starter

To the Wardrobe, and there again spoke with my Lord, and saw W. Howe, who is grown a very pretty and is a sober fellow. Thence abroad with Mr. Creed, of whom I informed myself of all I had a mind to know. Among other things, the great difficulty my Lord hath been in all this summer for lack of good and full orders from the King; and I doubt our Lords of the Councell do not mind things as the late powers did, but their pleasures or profit more. That the Juego de Toros is a simple sport, yet the greatest in Spain. That the Queen hath given no rewards to any of the captains or officers, but only to my Lord Sandwich; and that was a bag of gold, which was no honourable present, of about 1400l. sterling. How recluse the Queen hath ever been, and all the voyage never come upon the deck, nor put her head out of her cabin; but did love my Lord’s musique, and would send for it down to the state-room, and she sit in her cabin within hearing of it. That my Lord was forced to have some clashing with the Council of Portugall about payment of the portion, before he could get it; which was, besides Tangier and a free trade in the Indys, two millions of crowns, half now, and the other half in twelve months. But they have brought but little money; but the rest in sugars and other commoditys, and bills of exchange. That the King of Portugall is a very fool almost, and his mother do all, and he is a very poor Prince.
After a morning draft at the Star in Cheapside, I took him to the Exchange, thence home, but my wife having dined, I took him to Fish Street, and there we had a couple of lobsters, and dined upon them, and much discourse. And so I to the office, and that being done, Sir W. Pen and I to Deptford by water to Captain Rooth’s to see him, he being very sick, and by land home, calling at Halfway house, where we eat and drank. So home and to bed.

How I inform myself!
A mind to know
is no mind—
sand to the Indies,
the morning star to a fish.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 24 May 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Border studies

Eat, says the matriarch. Have you eaten?
say the elders in lieu of hello. It takes years
before you understand: each grain under the tongue,
each mouthful of rice wine protects— Since your breath
has warmed the pocked bowl of the spoon, the goats
will take salt from your hands. Clotheslines sag
with the weight of damp coats and ghost hands.
You know when the sky turns milky, when the house
fills with the sound of mandibles clicking. Eat,
they tell you again. Our troubles are nothing.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Surfeit.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Strung along

At the office good part of the morning, and then about noon with my wife on foot to the Wardrobe. My wife went up to the dining room to my Lady Paulina, and I staid below talking with Mr. Moore in the parley, reading of the King’s and Chancellor’s late speeches at the proroguing of the Houses of Parliament. And while I was reading, news was brought me that my Lord Sandwich is come and gone up to my Lady, which put me into great suspense of joy, so I went up waiting my Lord’s coming out of my Lady’s chamber, which by and by he did, and looks very well, and my soul is glad to see him. He very merry, and hath left the King and Queen at Portsmouth, and is come up to stay here till next Wednesday, and then to meet the King and Queen at Hampton Court.
So to dinner, Mr. Browne, Clerk of the House of Lords, and his wife and brother there also; and my Lord mighty merry; among other things, saying that the Queen is a very agreeable lady, and paints still. After dinner I showed him my letter from Teddiman about the news from Argier, which pleases him exceedingly; and he writ one to the Duke of York about it, and sent it express.
There coming much company after dinner to my Lord, my wife and I slunk away to the Opera, where we saw “Witt in a Constable,” the first time that it is acted; but so silly a play I never saw I think in my life. After it was done, my wife and I to the puppet play in Covent Garden, which I saw the other day, and indeed it is very pleasant. Here among the fidlers I first saw a dulcimere played on with sticks knocking of the strings, and is very pretty. So by water home, and supped with Sir William Pen very merry, and so to bed.

The good foot is put
into a suspense of joy:
out and up. Am I
a lunk to think
my life as a puppet
is pleasant,
among mere sticks
knocking the strings?


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 23 May 1662.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Green Enchantment (Verde Embeleso) by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

This entry is part 2 of 38 in the series Poetry from the Other Americas


Watch on Vimeo.

Green enchantment of every human life,
mad hope, delirious golden fever,
convoluted sleep of the sleepless
where dream and treasure are equally elusive;

soul of this world, leafy senescence,
decrepit fantasy of green
that the happy call today
and the unhappy, tomorrow:

let those who wear green glasses
and see everything just as their desire paints it
chase your shadow in search of a new morning.

For my part, I’ll give fate the greater latitude,
keep eyes in both my hands
and look no farther than I can touch.

My translation of the sonnet “Verde embeleso de la vida humana” (1688) by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. I first shared it in a blog post back in 2007: “Through green glasses.” Rather than simply re-posting it, I decided to add value by making a videopoem, and roped in my Via Negativa co-author Luisa Igloria to contribute a reading for the soundtrack. The norm for videopoems of translated texts is to put the original language in the soundtrack and the translation in subtitles, but I decided to reverse that here, just as an experiment. I wanted to make the poem feel less foreign to an English-language audience.

I thought of the poem only after I filmed the meadow footage featured in the video. (That’s my parents’ front lawn. Dad always waits to mow until after the dandelions and ajuga are done blooming; they share my general preference for weeds over boring grass.) I love films with long, stationary or slowly panning shots in which the world is simply going about its business, and the original plan for this videopoem was to have that, the titling, and nothing else. But mid-way through the editing process, I woke up early one morning with the idea of adding crowds of people as an overlay. One thing led to another, I found some crazy-ass 1960s TV ads in the Prelinger Archives, and by last night I finally had something I was happy with. For the music, I used a public-domain guitar interpretation of Albéniz from Wikimedia, reasoning that something from the 19th century would help bridge the gap between the 17th and 21st centuries. For the same reason, I used a contemporary-looking font with serifs.

To my mind, a videopoem that doesn’t reinterpret the text in a manner different from what its author intended isn’t a real videopoem. But as Lorca much later showed, verde (green) is one of those words with an almost unlimited number of connotations. So this is more than a translation; it’s a complete re-imagining. Then again, human nature hasn’t changed in the last 400 years, and deciding to live in the moment rather than living in hope is, if anything, wiser than ever.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Epicurean lament

This morning comes an order from the Secretary of State, Nicholas, for me to let one Mr. Lee, a Councellor, to view what papers I have relating to passages of the late times, wherein Sir H. Vane’s hand is employed, in order to the drawing up his charge; which I did, and at noon he, with Sir W. Pen and his daughter, dined with me, and he to his work again, and we by coach to the Theatre and saw “Love in a Maze.” The play hath little in it but Lacy’s part of a country fellow, which he did to admiration. So home, and supped with Sir W. Pen, where Sir W. Batten and Captn. Cocke came to us, to whom I have lately been a great stranger. This night we had each of us a letter from Captain Teddiman from the Streights, of a peace made upon good terms, by Sir J. Lawson, with the Argier men, which is most excellent news. He hath also sent each of us some anchovies, olives, and muscatt; but I know not yet what that is, and am ashamed to ask.
After supper home, and to bed, resolving to make up this week in seeing plays and pleasure, and so fall to business next week again for a great while.

This morning paper
is raw theater—
love in a maze
of strange straits.
A peace made
upon good terms
is news.
Each of us lives
but is ashamed to be,
resolving to see
pleasure fall.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 22 May 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

The Momentary

This entry is part 17 of 19 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2015

Pressed into a corner, she could not decline.
At the moment of greatest vulnerability,

was there another more blameworthy than herself?
For instance, the parent that had run to the store.

The emptiness of spare rooms, inhabited only
by furniture. That she liked pockets, hiding

away in a corner with a board book in hand?
How was she to know the welcome from

the unwelcome advance? Memory, such
an unreliable witness. And yet

every thin ferrule of grass hides a blade
springing up in the after-passage.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Husbandry

My wife and I by water to Westminster, and after she had seen her father (of whom lately I have heard nothing at all what he does or her mother), she comes to me to my Lord’s lodgings, where she and I staid walking in White Hall garden. And in the Privy-garden saw the finest smocks and linnen petticoats of my Lady Castlemaine’s, laced with rich lace at the bottom, that ever I saw; and did me good to look upon them. So to Wilkinson’s, she and I and Sarah to dinner, where I had a good quarter of lamb and a salat. Here Sarah told me how the King dined at my Lady Castlemaine’s, and supped, every day and night the last week; and that the night that the bonfires were made for joy of the Queen’s arrivall, the King was there; but there was no fire at her door, though at all the rest of the doors almost in the street; which was much observed: and that the King and she did send for a pair of scales and weighed one another; and she, being with child, was said to be heaviest. But she is now a most disconsolate creature, and comes not out of doors, since the King’s going.
But we went to the Theatre to “The French Dancing Master,” and there with much pleasure gazed upon her (Lady Castlemaine); but it troubles us to see her look dejectedly and slighted by people already. The play pleased us very well; but Lacy’s part, the Dancing Master, the best in the world.
Thence to my brother Tom’s, in expectation to have met my father to-night come out of the country, but he is not yet come, but here we found my uncle Fenner and his old wife, whom I had not seen since the wedding dinner, nor care to see her. They being gone, my wife and I went and saw Mrs. Turner, whom we found not well, and her two boys Charles and Will come out of the country, grown very plain boys after three years being under their father’s care in Yorkshire. Thence to Tom’s again, and there supped well, my she cozen Scott being there and my father being not come, we walked home and to bed.

Water comes
to my garden
in the finest coat
laced with rich lace.

And on the night of the fire,
all the doors in the street
dancing with light…

The world is an old wife
not seen since the wedding.
We turn a country into a cot
and not a bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 21 May 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Rogue Theatre

Come and see— one night only, all
the time: various forms of subtle
humiliation, scintillating acts.
Rolling with the punches, still
pretending, getting by and making
do. Buy a ticket, many tickets,
while your pocket throws every
caution to the winds. The sun
passes overhead, leaves its gash
across the furrows. Fish retreat
into the murky depths. Hear
the sad riff from harmonicas,
see men with familiar faces
touch fingertips to hat-brims
before jumping off the train.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Cold comfort.