Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
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.
At home all day. There dined with me Sir William Batten and his lady and daughter, Sir W. Pen, Mr. Fox (his lady being ill could not come), and Captain Cuttance.
The first dinner I have made since I came hither. This cost me above 5l., and merry we were — only my chimney smokes.
In the afternoon Mr. Hater bringing me my last quarter’s salary, which I received of him, and so I have now Mr. Barlow’s money in my hands.
The company all go away, and by and by Sir Wms. both and my Lady Batten and his daughter come again and supped with me and talked till late, and so to bed, being glad that the trouble is over.
A bat is ill, since
my chimney smokes.
I quarter him in my hands—
a bat bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 24 January 1660/61.
Dearest one, how could I forget
how long this jaunt has lasted?
We crossed and recrossed the little
passages, shielded the small
golden flowers from the approaching
haboob. We argued with the moon
and her hundred incarnations.
No one drowned on our watch,
only stumbled from craning up
so much toward the darkness.
I think it is no weakness
to confess our love
of starry configurations,
how we plot our movements
by the shambled remnants
of their distant light.
In response to Via Negativa: Primary sources.
To the office all the morning. My wife and people at home busy to get things ready for tomorrow’s dinner. At noon, without dinner, went into the City, and there meeting with Greatorex, we went and drank a pot of ale. He told me that he was upon a design to go to Teneriffe to try experiments there. With him to Gresham Colledge (where I never was before), and saw the manner of the house, and found great company of persons of honour there.
Thence to my bookseller’s, and for books, and to Stevens, the silversmith, to make clean some plate against to-morrow, and so home, by the way paying many little debts for wine and pictures, &c., which is my great pleasure.
Home and found all things in a hurry of business, Slater, our messenger, being here as my cook till very late.
I in my chamber all the evening looking over my Osborn’s works and new Emanuel Thesaurus Patriarchae.
So late to bed, having ate nothing to-day but a piece of bread and cheese at the ale-house with Greatorex, and some bread and butter at home.
The city: a great experiment,
there where I never found
a clean plate against tomorrow,
paying many little debts
and all things in a hurry of business.
As cook, looking over my work,
I ate nothing but bread and cheese
and bread and butter.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 23 January 1660/61.
It collapsed upon itself from so much complexity.
The leaves that formed the hedges, uniform in size and shape, decided to grow new veins and stippled variations.
Someone installed a mobile of paper cranes under the blue awning of sky.
One way traffic, all left turns.
X marks the spot where, a long time ago, a red sweater came unravelled.
Every once in a while a peacock flashes its jeweled fan; this is called flirting.
Persistence is rewarded by a flask of ginebra and a matadora’s muleta.
Danger lurks where you most expect it.
The soil is your nearest radio station: this is why they say Keep your ear to the ground.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
To the Comptroller’s house, where I read over his proposals to the Lord Admiral for the regulating of the officers of the Navy, in which he hath taken much pains, only he do seem to have too good opinion of them himself. From thence in his coach to Mercer’s Chappell, and so up to the great hall, where we met with the King’s Councell for Trade, upon some proposals of theirs for settling convoys for the whole English trade, and that by having 33 ships (four fourth-rates, nineteen fifths, ten sixths) settled by the King for that purpose, which indeed was argued very finely by many persons of honour and merchants that were there.
It pleased me much now to come in this condition to this place, where I was once a petitioner for my exhibition in Paul’s School; and also where Sir G. Downing (my late master) was chairman, and so but equally concerned with me.
From thence home, and after a little dinner my wife and I by coach into London, and bought some glasses, and then to Whitehall to see Mrs. Fox, but she not within, my wife to my mother Bowyer, and I met with Dr. Thomas Fuller, and took him to the Dog, where he tells me of his last and great book that is coming out: that is, his History of all the Families in England; and could tell me more of my own, than I knew myself. And also to what perfection he hath now brought the art of memory; that he did lately to four eminently great scholars dictate together in Latin, upon different subjects of their proposing, faster than they were able to write, till they were tired.
And by the way in discourse tells me that the best way of beginning a sentence, if a man should be out and forget his last sentence (which he never was), that then his last refuge is to begin with an Utcunque.
From thence I to Mr. Bowyer’s, and there sat a while, and so to Mr. Fox’s, and sat with them a very little while, and then by coach home, and so to see Sir Win. Pen, where we found Mrs. Martha Batten and two handsome ladies more, and so we staid supper and were very merry, and so home to bed.
Settling pleased me
where I was once a petitioner
for my master.
My wife a fox
and I a dog of great families,
I knew myself in Latin—
the best way to bow.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 22 January 1660/61.
One line for all
the caravans of the internet—
its wavy shadow.
Looking at bird tracks,
I feel a certain anxiety
of influence.
I chew on a piece
of congealed black cherry sap
from a head-sized burl.
This morning Sir W. Batten, the Comptroller and I to Westminster-hall, to the Commissioners for paying off the Army and Navy, where the Duke of Albemarle was; and we sat with our hats on, and did discourse about paying off the ships and do find that they do intend to undertake it without our help; and we are glad of it, for it is a work that will much displease the poor seamen, and so we are glad to have no hand in it.
From thence to the Exchequer, and took 200l. and carried it home, and so to the office till night, and then to see Sir W. Pen, whither came my Lady Batten and her daughter, and then I sent for my wife, and so we sat talking till it was late. So home to supper and then to bed, having eat no dinner to-day.
It is strange what weather we have had all this winter; no cold at all; but the ways are dusty, and the flyes fly up and down, and the rose-bushes are full of leaves, such a time of the year as was never known in this world before here. This day many more of the Fifth Monarchy men were hanged.
We sat with
our hats and
our paying hips,
our glad work
that will please
poor seamen,
glad we sat in
bed in strange
weather—all
this winter,
dust and flies
and rose-
bushes full
of leaves.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 21 January 1660/61.
And I had not kissed the melting snows
on the edge of a foreign river, nor walked
yet in the chill of frost-layered fields—
so when birds called in the plaza, it was
their chorus purpled of bells and market
smells that brought me to tears—
The heat that rose from the cobblestones
was saffron and sawdust, mantling our heels
and their calloused cupolas—
And it was the women, old and young or ageless,
the way they bent their heads conversing
over laundry, braiding each other’s hair—
How familiar was everything, at the same
time how strange and swift in passing,
in their utter transformation—
One moment the crisp and beautiful sleeve
all starched and white, the next a curtain
tossing violently in icy wind—
In response to thus: small stone (264).
In the owl’s flight
as in the conifers it left:
that silence.
It’s enormous,
the frozen carcass of a cow
eaten by chickadees.
O trees like forks,
the sky too is a dish
best served cold.