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

Church

Lord’s day). To the Parish church in the morning, where a good sermon by Mr. Mills.
After dinner to my Lord’s, and from thence to the Abbey, where I met Spicer and D. Vines and others of the old crew. So leaving my boy at the Abbey against I came back, we went to Prior’s by the Hall back door, but there being no drink to be had we went away, and so to the Crown in the Palace Yard, I and George Vines by the way calling at their house, where he carried me up to the top of his turret, where there is Cooke’s head set up for a traytor, and Harrison’s set up on the other side of Westminster Hall. Here I could see them plainly, as also a very fair prospect about London. From the Crown to the Abbey to look for my boy, but he was gone thence, and so he being a novice I was at a loss what was become of him. I called at my Lord’s (where I found Mr. Adams, Mr. Sheply’s friend) and at my father’s, but found him not. So home, where I found him, but he had found the way home well enough, of which I was glad. So after supper, and reading of some chapters, I went to bed. This day or two my wife has been troubled with her boils in the old place, which do much trouble her.
Today at noon (God forgive me) I strung my lute, which I had not touched a great while before.

The morning sermon
a crow calling
all the way home


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 21 October 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Oir (videopoem)

I was surprised and pleased this morning to see this stunning new videopoem by my friend Marc Neys, A.K.A. Swoon, for another poem in Luisa Igloria’s new book, The Saints of Streets. She wrote “Oir” back on January 7, 2012, sparked by that day’s entry in The Morning Porch.

As with his previous collaboration with Luisa, Mortal Ghazal, Marc has blogged some very interesting process notes incorporating remarks from Luisa in his narrative. I’ll just quote from the first part of his post:

Some weeks ago we’ve had a thunderstorm at night. I recorded it, added some sounds and improvised piano…
For some reason I thought about the recording of ‘Oir’ Luisa sent me earlier. I combined them all and forwarded the result to Luisa.

I very much love the broody thunderstorm background and the improvised piano. I like the sound of rain very much. A hard rain on tin roofs is a particularly strong memory trace I have from my growing up in a tropical country. Anyway, for me rain has the capacity for both amplifying and muffling/softening the atmosphere. It’s full of emotional portent,

she replied.

Luisa also gave me the idea of using ‘café-ambient’ noises and provided me with some insights about the poem;

…but in part the poem is partly triggered by a conversation I had in a cafe. We talked about work, creative nonfiction essays, family…
As usual the cafe was crowded and noisy. it struck me then but perhaps more afterward, when I was writing the poem, that in the spaces that teem with so much everyday life, activity, business as usual, we strive to hollow out spaces for the intimate to be enacted and reenacted.

Read the rest.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Persistent Triolet

We love the things we love for what they are—
the knot’s tight fist which fingers coax to feather out,
chipped tooth, false gold, hesitant smile faint beacon from afar;
and yet we love the things we love, difficult for what they are.
Imperfect shape perennially arising from the bath, embarrassed for its scars:
surrender to the ardor that persists, one way or other undeterred by doubt.
This is the way we come to love the things we love for what they are
—the knot’s tight fist which fingers coax to feather out.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Omen.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Converted window

This morning one came to me to advise with me where to make me a window into my cellar in lieu of one which Sir W. Batten had stopped up, and going down into my cellar to look I stepped into a great heap of turds by which I found that Mr. Turner’s house of office is full and comes into my cellar, which do trouble me, but I shall have it helped.
To my Lord’s by land, calling at several places about business, where I dined with my Lord and Lady; when he was very merry, and did talk very high how he would have a French cook, and a master of his horse, and his lady and child to wear black patches; which methought was strange, but he is become a perfect courtier; and, among other things, my Lady saying that she would have a good merchant for her daughter Jem., he answered, that he would rather see her with a pedlar’s pack at her back, so she married a gentleman, than she should marry a citizen.
This afternoon, going through London, and calling at Crowe’s the upholster’s, in Saint Bartholomew’s, I saw the limbs of some of our new traitors set upon Aldersgate, which was a sad sight to see; and a bloody week this and the last have been, there being ten hanged, drawn, and quartered. Home, and after writing a letter to my uncle by the post, I went to bed.

I make a window into my cellar.
My cellar is full, a land where I have
a French cook and a horse—
black, but a perfect courtier.
My daughter would rather marry a crow.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 20 October 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Instant nostalgia

Office in the morning. This morning my dining-room was finished with green serge hanging and gilt leather, which is very handsome.
This morning Hacker and Axtell were hanged and quartered, as the rest are.
This night I sat up late to make up my accounts ready against to-morrow for my Lord. I found him to be above 80l. in my debt, which is a good sight, and I bless God for it.

This morning was green and gilt.
Hands this morning were art.
This night, late to make up my accounts, I sigh for it.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 19 October 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Triolet for One Coming Back from the Dead

He ran away, skipped town, bolted the chains
that kept the rest of us rowing in the hold.
Soon no one remembered his many names.
Because he ran away, skipped town, bolted the chains,
all deeds declared him dead, erased his number and his names.
The state will not forgive his ghost that saunters in one day from the cold:
no pension for him that ran away, skipped town, bolted the chains
that kept all the rest of us rowing in the hold.

—Luisa A. Igloria

Posted on by Dave Bonta

The Silent Banjo (videopoem)

This entry is part 5 of 34 in the series Breakdown: The Banjo Poems


Watch on YouTube

My eighth video using a text from Breakdown: Banjo Poems. (If you missed some of the others, they’re all collected on my author website in the order in which they appear in the book.) The images come from a 1956 documentary about St. Louis, The Big City, directed by Charles Guggenheim and now in the public domain. The soundtrack uses two-thirds of a track from SoundCloud, “Uchina noir: The Cocktail Party” by Yoshimasu Kamiya, licenced Attribution-ShareAlike under the Creative Commons. The banjo-like instrument is actually not a banjo but a sanshin, a three-stringed instrument from Okinawa.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Tapas Triolet

A tuber, diced and quartered, from the field;
an olive, green and pitted, from the tree.
When times were fallow, love was pressed to yield
a tuber, diced and quartered, from the field.
What one mouth sought, another filled.
That silver integer of fish that burgeoned far from sea.
A tuber, diced and quartered, from the field;
an olive, green and pitted, from the tree.

—Luisa A. Igloria

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Condemned man

This morning, it being expected that Colonel Hacker and Axtell should die, I went to Newgate, but found they were reprieved till to-morrow. So to my aunt Fenner’s, where with her and my uncle I drank my morning draft.
So to my father’s, and did give orders for a pair of black baize linings to be made me for my breeches against to-morrow morning, which was done. So to my Lord’s, where I spoke with my Lord, and he would have had me dine with him, but I went thence to Mr. Blackburne, where I met my wife and my Will’s father and mother (the first time that ever I saw them), where we had a very fine dinner. Mr. Creed was also there. This day by her high discourse I found Mrs. Blackburne to be a very high dame and a costly one.
Home with my wife by coach. This afternoon comes Mr. Chaplin and N. Osborn to my house, of whom I made very much, and kept them with me till late, and so to bed.
At my coming home, I did find that The. Turner hath sent for a pair of doves that my wife had promised her; and because she did not send them in the best cage, she sent them back again with a scornful letter, with which I was angry, but yet pretty well pleased that she was crossed.

This morning
I should die,
but reprieved till tomorrow
I order a pair of black breeches
and a black, costly coach,
find a dove in the best cage,
lease a cross.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 18 October 1660.