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 Luisa A. Igloria

Disintegrate

This entry is part 16 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

(a partly found poem)

“The death toll could still climb higher, with an additional 1,000 cadaver bags sent to provinces, the disaster council announced as search-and-rescue operations continued in Tacloban City.” ~ from a news report on the aftermath of Typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines

Different cells die at different rates.
Hair and nails continue to grow a little
while, but nature is more efficient.

In the air decomposition is twice as fast
as when the body is under water, four times
more than underground. Clostridia

and coliforms, enzymes; greens and blues
that blister. Methane and mercaptans,
sulfides. More rapid in the tropics,

where the sun brings everything up
to a melon boil. Bluebottle flies,
carrion flies, ants and beetles

and maggots and wasps. Nails and teeth
detach, their ivory falling, letter
after letter that will never

again be sent. After weeks, a month,
a year, a decade: rags and bones,
motes indistinguishable

from dust. Finally
everything the body held,
burst open like a secret.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Letter to Audrey Hepburn

This entry is part 15 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

So many yards of cloth:
good cotton, polyester, rayon;
prim edge of childhood’s
Peter Pan collars, chaste tents
of A-line skirts that crept
up and up as silhouettes tightened
and searched for the key
in any keyhole neckline,
the getaway boat in any bateau.
I was no exception: I could not
bind a blanket stitch,
would not feather a herringbone.
What chance did I have without
the curved swan of your neck,
my feet shod but shoddy
in ballerinas, un-dainty from birth,
limbs decorated with scars or scabs,
stitched together with dark
needle and thread? And so I flew
the nest right after breakfast,
kissed the first tear-shaped bar
of light from the chandelier,
hurried to find myself
a fit bustle. I do, I do,
I do regret more than a few
things: but guess what, finally
I’m old enough to admit I don’t
rue it all! —though you hit it
right on the head when you said
those things about the sky
being vague and empty— Marriage
(whatever that means), or what you give
yourself to, can be like that: just a country
where the thunder goes and things disappear
sometimes, but not forever.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Geomancy

Up early to my father’s, where by appointment Mr. Moore came to me, and he and I to the Temple, and thence to Westminster Hall to speak with Mr. Wm. Montagu about his looking upon the title of those lands which I do take as security for 3000l. of my Lord’s money.
That being done Mr. Moore and I parted, and in the Hall I met with Mr. Fontleroy (my old acquaintance, whom I had not seen a long time), and he and I to the Swan, and in discourse he seems to be wise and say little, though I know things are changed against his mind.
Thence home by water, where my father, Mr. Snow, and Mr. Moore did dine with me. After dinner Mr. Snow and I went up together to discourse about the putting out of 80l. to a man who lacks the money and would give me 15l. per annum for 8 years for it, which I did not think profit enough, and so he seemed to be disappointed by my refusal of it, but I would not now part with my money easily.
He seems to do it as a great favour to me to offer to come in upon a way of getting of money, which they call Bottomry, which I do not yet understand, but do believe there may be something in it of great profit.
After we were parted I went to the office, and there we sat all the afternoon, and at night we went to a barrel of oysters at Sir W. Batten’s, and so home, and I to the setting of my papers in order, which did keep me up late. So to bed.

I speak with the land,
which seems to be wise
and say little, though things change—
ore to money, money to profit,
the afternoon to paper.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 16 November 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Going to the sun

To Westminster, and it being very cold upon the water I went all alone to the Sun and drank a draft of mulled white wine, and so to Mr. de Cretz, whither I sent for J. Spicer (to appoint him to expect me this afternoon at the office, with the other 1000l. from Whitehall), and here we staid and did see him give some finishing touches to my Lord’s picture, so at last it is complete to my mind, and I leave mine with him to copy out another for himself, and took the original by a porter with me to my Lord’s, where I found my Lord within, and staid hearing him and Mr. Child playing upon my Lord’s new organ, the first time I ever heard it.
My Lord did this day show me the King’s picture, which was done in Flanders, that the King did promise my Lord before he ever saw him, and that we did expect to have had at sea before the King came to us; but it came but to-day, and indeed it is the most pleasant and the most like him that ever I saw picture in my life.
As dinner was coming on table, my wife came to my Lord’s, and I got her carried in to my Lady, who took physic to-day, and was just now hiring of a French maid that was with her, and they could not understand one another till my wife came to interpret. Here I did leave my wife to dine with my Lord, the first time he ever did take notice of her as my wife, and did seem to have a just esteem for her. And did myself walk homewards (hearing that Sir W. Pen was gone before in a coach) to overtake him and with much ado at last did in Fleet Street, and there I went in to him, and there was Sir Arnold Brames, and we all three to Sir W. Batten’s to dinner, he having a couple of Servants married to-day; and so there was a great number of merchants, and others of good quality on purpose after dinner to make an offering, which, when dinner was done, we did, and I did give ten shillings and no more, though I believe most of the rest did give more, and did believe that I did so too.
From thence to Whitehall again by water to Mr. Fox and by two porters carried away the other 1000l.. He was not within himself, but I had it of his kinsman, and did give him 4l.. and other servants something.
But whereas I did intend to have given Mr. Fox himself a piece of plate of 50l. I was demanded 100l., for the fee of the office at 6d. a pound, at which I was surprised, but, however, I did leave it there till I speak with my Lord.
So I carried it to the Exchequer, where at Will’s I found Mr. Spicer, and so lodged it at his office with the rest.
From thence after a pot of ale at Will’s I took boat in the dark and went for all that to the old Swan, and so to Sir Wm. Batten’s, and leaving some of the gallants at cards I went home.
Where I found my wife much satisfied with my Lord’s discourse and respect to her, and so after prayers to bed.

Being very cold, I went
all alone to the sun,
which was at sea, like
a dinner coming on table
that I could not interpret,
or the first walk on water
by a dark swan.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 15 November 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Lush life

(Office day). But this day was the first that we do begin to sit in the afternoon, and not in the forenoon, and therefore I went into Cheapside to Mr. Beauchamp’s, the goldsmith, to look out a piece of plate to give Mr. Fox from my Lord, for his favour about the 4,000l., and did choose a gilt tankard. So to Paul’s Churchyard and bought “Cornelianum. dolium.” So home to dinner, and after that to the office till late at night, and so Sir W. Pen, the Comptroller, and I to the Dolphin, where we found Sir W. Batten, who is seldom a night from hence, and there we did drink a great quantity of sack and did tell many merry stories, and in good humours we were all. So home and to bed.

The first gin
and here I am in the ice.
Here is night in a sack.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 14 November 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

On trying to reach the poet who had no phone or e-mail

When I tried to reach
the poet-farmer, I was told
that I must write a letter

in the old-fashioned way
for he had no phone, no email,
no computer, and only relied

on the post office which he
walked to and from every day
since it was just a mile or so

up the road from where he lived
in a tiny rural town tucked into
the eastern part of south central

but modern-day America—
And being from a small town myself,
a hill station in the northern outposts

of the Philippine cordillera, I felt
an immediate affinity for that kind
of natural isolation; so immediately

I took a pen and wrote what I had to say
—my letter of invitation, the inked
words drawn in neat lines

on a clear rectangle of paper,
today’s date, then the salutation
and the complimentary close

and then my name, my signature,
before I folded the paper once
and then once over, slid it

into an envelope, sealed it
then sent it off, hoping the gesture
would end in meaningful connection,

the way it might feel
to bear a little water cupped
in one’s hands to the sea.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Offering.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Offering

Early going to my Lord’s I met with Mr. Moore, who was going to my house, and indeed I found him to be a most careful, painful, and able man in business, and took him by water to the Wardrobe, and shewed him all the house; and indeed there is a great deal of room in it, but very ugly till my Lord hath bestowed great cost upon it.
So to the Exchequer, and there took Spicer and his fellow clerks to the Dog tavern, and did give them a peck of oysters, and so home to dinner, where I found my wife making of pies and tarts to try her oven with, which she has never yet done, but not knowing the nature of it, did heat it too hot, and so a little overbake her things, but knows how to do better another time.
At home all the afternoon. At night made up my accounts of my sea expenses in order to my clearing off my imprest bill of 30l. which I had in my hands at the beginning of my voyage; which I intend to shew to my Lord to-morrow. To bed.

I took water
to the sea
in my hands.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 13 November 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Ghazal for the Dead: In Tacloban

Processed but not identified: scattered by wind,
splintered, battered where the flood left them in Tacloban.

The dark is a cave is the mouth of God or the unfathomable—
O for sleep without such helpless waking in Tacloban.

How many baubles and stolen billions will bring lives back? Ask
the former First Lady, who attended Holy Infant Academy in Tacloban.

The mayor was lashed to a coconut tree. The mayor was the coconut in the tree.
The tree was in a ballroom. This is not about the oral tradition in Tacloban.

In the midst of calamity, would you have time to worry about your shoes?
Through the waters, a typhoon victim bore a general on his back in Tacloban.

Why were the military first on the scene? Why did it take so long for relief
to arrive? The dead are past blame, the dead are past games in Tacloban.

The actors and actresses turned politicians flash smiles at the camera
while the living vomit with grief, hunger, dysentery, in Tacloban.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

(10 More:) Afterwards

is the gasp and the catch of ten thousand mouths singing wordless as they come up for air

is the burn of brine and the salt that streams and streams in the lungs afterwards

is a muddy hem and the sleeve of what once was a tree or a door that opens the chest

is the buoy or the bell or the shape of the coast or the bodice of a church folded at the seams

is the thread of a voice that left its hungry tongue at the door of the ear

is the staircase spiraling down to the floor of the sea where the ghost of a ship explores

is the room in the school where people sleep under blankets of powdered chalk

is chicken coop wire unrolled like a carpet in the plaza where statues have been bent

is red and red and brown and red and blue and sheets of lime in the open grave

is the scar that climbs the trellis to rest on the cheek of the moon