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

Omen

Office day. At noon came Mr. Creed to me, whom I took along with me to the Feathers in Fish Street, where I was invited by Captain Cuttance to dinner, a dinner made by Mr. Dawes and his brother. We had two or three dishes of meat well done; their great design was to get me concerned in a business of theirs about a vessel of theirs that is in the service, hired by the King, in which I promise to do them all the service I can. From thence home again with Mr. Creed, where I finding Mrs. The. Turner and her aunt Dike I would not be seen but walked in the garden till they were gone, where Mr. Spong came to me and Mr. Creed, Mr. Spong and I went to our music to sing, and he being gone, my wife and I went to put up my books in order in closet, and I to give her her books. After that to bed.

Feathers in fish invite awe—
a sign that the king cannot see.
We sing, my wife and I.
We put my books and her books to bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 17 October 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Heartwood

The inspector came back and said There is a live tree root growing in the middle of your crawl space and someone will have to dig to trace which way it grows out into the yard, then cut it. I know such growth won’t be rapid, but that unchecked it will crack the concrete foundation, lift the posts from the earth, tilt the beautiful polished floorboards away from the beams. What I want to know is what kind of tree, even if I already know not camphor, not eucalyptus, not acacia, not pine.

*

Not eucalyptus, not pine, not the branches that rattle our dreams at night. Flying to San Francisco, I see the thick indigo nets of cloud beyond the window, and a single gash of bright orange where the light pushes through before it sinks. Evening star, says the mother to her fretful child who pulls at his ears and is about to bawl. Oh wait, that’s another plane. How many mistakes did early explorers make, tracking the oceans for routes to gold and spice? We are always mistaking one thing for another but it’s alright: I make a wish anyway.

*

I make a wish though I believe in love and work more than in superstition. But I will bathe your limbs in oil of eucalyptus and water where cinnamon bark has steeped. I will bring trays of eggs and my petitions to a chapel where nuns in pink habits kneel day and night in prayer chains. I have slit the skins of sacrifice and danced on coals on orders of the gods. O beloved in this inscrutable universe, do not let the demons of distrust dissuade. Pitch your strongest root beneath the dome of heaven: not even the four winds could uproot you.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Conceivable.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Tailor’s son

This morning my brother Tom came to me, with whom I made even for my last clothes to this day, and having eaten a dish of anchovies with him in the morning, my wife and I did intend to go forth to see a play at the Cockpit this afternoon, but Mr. Moore coming to me, my wife staid at home, and he and I went out together, with whom I called at the upholsters and several other places that I had business with, and so home with him to the Cockpit, where, understanding that “Wit without money” was acted, I would not stay, but went home by water, by the way reading of the other two stories that are in the book that I read last night, which I do not like so well as it.
Being come home, Will. told me that my Lord had a mind to speak with me to-night; so I returned by water, and, coming there, it was only to enquire how the ships were provided with victuals that are to go with him to fetch over the Queen, which I gave him a good account of.
He seemed to be in a melancholy humour, which, I was told by W. Howe, was for that he had lately lost a great deal of money at cards, which he fears he do too much addict himself to now-a-days. So home by water and to bed.

My clothes and I go forth
to see a play, or call
at places that understand wit
without money.
We are like ships that fetch
the queen of melancholy
for a lost card.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 16 October 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Conceivable

Office all the morning. My wife and I by water; I landed her at Whitefriars, she went to my father’s to dinner, it being my father’s wedding day, there being a very great dinner, and only the Fenners and Joyces there. This morning Mr. Carew was hanged and quartered at Charing Cross; but his quarters, by a great favour, are not to be hanged up.
I was forced to go to my Lord’s to get him to meet the officers of the Navy this afternoon, and so could not go along with her, but I missed my Lord, who was this day upon the bench at the Sessions house. So I dined there, and went to White Hall, where I met with Sir W. Batten and Pen, who with the Comptroller, Treasurer, and Mr. Coventry (at his chamber) made up a list of such ships as are fit to be kept out for the winter guard, and the rest to be paid off by the Parliament when they can get money, which I doubt will not be a great while.
That done, I took coach, and called my wife at my father’s, and so homewards, calling at Thos. Pepys the turner’s for some things that we wanted. And so home, where I fell to read “The Fruitless Precaution” (a book formerly recommended by Dr. Clerke at sea to me), which I read in bed till I had made an end of it, and do find it the best writ tale that ever I read in my life. After that done to sleep, which I did not very well do, because that my wife having a stopping in her nose she snored much, which I never did hear her do before.

I went to my father’s wedding
as a long white winter, a doubt,
a fruitless precaution.
Life did not stop.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 15 October 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Populist

(Lord’s day). Early to my Lord’s, in my way meeting with Dr. Fairbrother, who walked with me to my father’s back again, and there we drank my morning draft, my father having gone to church and my mother asleep in bed. Here he caused me to put my hand among a great many honorable hands to a paper or certificate in his behalf.
To White Hall chappell, where one Dr. Crofts made an indifferent sermon, and after it an anthem, ill sung, which made the King laugh. Here I first did see the Princess Royal since she came into England. Here I also observed, how the Duke of York and Mrs. Palmer did talk to one another very wantonly through the hangings that parts the King’s closet and the closet where the ladies sit.
To my Lord’s, where I found my wife, and she and I did dine with my Lady (my Lord dining with my Lord Chamberlain), who did treat my wife with a great deal of respect.
In the evening we went home through the rain by water in a sculler, having borrowed some coats of Mr. Sheply. So home, wet and dirty, and to bed.

I put my hand among
many hands, indifferent
to the king. Who
did I respect?
The rain.
Dirt.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 14 October 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Groundbreaking

We went today
to measure walls
and turn the soil;

we sorted stones
that floated into
our buckets

from the well.
I thought it a good
omen that a fig tree,

copper-clad,
drowsed in the middle
of the driveway.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Tendril

This entry is part 11 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

It is the Past’s supreme italic
makes the Present mean—

~ Emily Dickinson, “Glass was the Street— in Tinsel Peril” (#1518)

My cities and estates are made of smoke
and poems, my résumé laced with ample
culs-de-sac. You must have known

I could not trade my mountains
for plains so desolate in the heat.
I longed for the absolving rain, erasure

of missteps: poor choices, my rush
to cash the currency before its prime.
But now the sight of any small

tenderness moves more than grief
that runs its salt into the soil:
a flower smaller than my finger-

nail bursts white upon the sill
then shrivels; and yet it gifts
its fragrance like a signature.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard

This entry is part 10 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

Once dressed in green, no hopes
fly south; instead they burn
their orange prayer flags.

*

The mallet and the string,
the shawm and the oboe. The single
reed that stirs when the water stirs.

*

And the cornets of brass, bright
relatives to the sickle: its rusted
bronze curve leaning against the wall.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Shelves

To my Lord’s in the morning, where I met with Captain Cuttance, but my Lord not being up I went out to Charing Cross, to see Major-general Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered; which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition. He was presently cut down, and his head and heart shown to the people, at which there was great shouts of joy. It is said, that he said that he was sure to come shortly at the right hand of Christ to judge them that now had judged him; and that his wife do expect his coming again.
Thus it was my chance to see the King beheaded at White Hall, and to see the first blood shed in revenge for the blood of the King at Charing Cross. From thence to my Lord’s, and took Captain Cuttance and Mr. Sheply to the Sun Tavern, and did give them some oysters. After that I went by water home, where I was angry with my wife for her things lying about, and in my passion kicked the little fine basket, which I bought her in Holland, and broke it, which troubled me after I had done it.
Within all the afternoon setting up shelves in my study. At night to bed.

In the morning to see a general
hanged, drawn and quartered,
his head and heart shown to the people,
great shouts of joy sure
to come shortly to the Lord.

Home, where I was angry with my wife
and kicked the basket I bought her
in Holland and broke it.

All afternoon setting up shelves.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 13 October 1660.