Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
The hive was many cells
multiplied, transparent
grid of bullet
casings—
Gone now, the wasps
that lived within
the window’s dark
recesses—
Pennant left behind,
dried strip of black
and yellow from
a jacket—
Partitions thin as paper:
don’t touch the barb,
venomous in the wall
of winter—
In response to Via Negativa: Provisioning.
With Sir W. Batten and Pen by water to White Hall, where a meeting of the Dukes of York and Albemarle, my Lord Sandwich and all the principal officers, about the Winter Guard, but we determined of nothing. To my Lord’s, who sent a great iron chest to White Hall; and I saw it carried, into the King’s closet, where I saw most incomparable pictures. Among the rest a book open upon a desk, which I durst have sworn was a reall book, and back again to my Lord, and dined all alone with him, who do treat me with a great deal of respect; and after dinner did discourse an hour with me, and advise about some way to get himself some money to make up for all his great expenses, saying that he believed that he might have any thing that he would ask of the King.
This day Mr. Sheply and all my Lord’s goods came from sea, some of them laid of the Wardrobe and some brought to my Lord’s house.
From thence to our office, where we met and did business, and so home and spent the evening looking upon the painters that are at work in my house.
This day I heard the Duke speak of a great design that he and my Lord of Pembroke have, and a great many others, of sending a venture to some parts of Africa to dig for gold ore there. They intend to admit as many as will venture their money, and so make themselves a company. 250l. is the lowest share for every man. But I do not find that my Lord do much like it.
At night Dr. Fairbrother (for so he is lately made of the Civil Law) brought home my wife by coach, it being rainy weather, she having been abroad today to buy more furniture for her house.
White winter: a mine of nothing,
a great iron book.
I dine alone with the lord of paint
and send to Africa for gold ore.
I do not find my fair
late wife.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 3 October 1660.
The fractured arm’s a corridor
leading away but always to the heart.
The ache in the side makes a carpet
to dull all other noise.
The cheeks will be pillows for stone
birds that water calcified.
The ear’s a funnel sifting sand and
sugar, salt and wind and sand.
The eyes shutter open
to a finger’s leverage.
The chest shines out, brave as any brittle
figurehead of carved and painted wood.
The brow bends to the earth to kiss
a pebble of humility.
In response to Via Negativa: Water Way.
With Sir Wm. Pen by water to Whitehall, being this morning visited before I went out by my brother Tom, who told me that for his lying out of doors a day and a night my father had forbade him to come any more into his house, at which I was troubled, and did soundly chide him for doing so, and upon confessing his fault I told him I would speak to my father.
At Whitehall I met with Captain Clerk, and took him to the Leg in King Street, and did give him a dish or two of meat, and his purser that was with him, for his old kindness to me on board. After dinner I to Whitehall, where I met with Mrs. Hunt, and was forced to wait upon Mr. Scawen at a committee to speak for her husband, which I did. After that met with Luellin, Mr. Fage, and took them both to the Dog, and did give them a glass of wine. After that at Will’s I met with Mr. Spicer, and with him to the Abbey to see them at vespers. There I found but a thin congregation already. So I see that religion, be it what it will, is but a humour, and so the esteem of it passeth as other things do. From thence with him to see Robin Shaw, who has been a long time ill, and I have not seen him since I came from sea. He is much changed, but in hopes to be well again. From thence by coach to my father’s, and discoursed with him about Tom, and did give my advice to take him home again, which I think he will do in prudence rather than put him upon learning the way of being worse.
So home, and from home to Major Hart, who is just going out of town to-morrow, and made much of me, and did give me the oaths of supremacy and allegiance, that I may be capable of my arrears.
So home again, where my wife tells me what she has bought to-day, namely, a bed and furniture for her chamber, with which very well pleased I went to bed.
Water is a door
to a thin religion:
see a sea change
and learn the way
of being worse.
Art is in arrears.
Tell me, what furniture
am I to be?
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 2 October 1660.
is possibly why stone slabs
have been used as pillows,
the body significantly tensed
for consequence even in sleep;
is possibly why each night,
the body unrolls the beddings,
lies down across the floor
as if anticipating siege.
In response to Via Negativa: Civilian.
Early to my Lord to Whitehall, and there he did give me some work to do for him, and so with all haste to the office.
Dined at home, and my father by chance with me.
After dinner he and I advised about hangings for my rooms, which are now almost fit to be hung, the painters beginning to do their work to-day. After dinner he and I to the Miter, where with my uncle Wight (whom my father fetched thither), while I drank a glass of wine privately with Mr. Mansell, a poor Reformado of the Charles, who came to see me.
Here we staid and drank three or four pints of wine and so parted.
I home to look after my workmen, and at night to bed.
The Commissioners are very busy disbanding of the army, which they say do cause great robbing. My layings out upon my house in furniture are so great that I fear I shall not be able to go through them without breaking one of my bags of 100l., I having but 200l. yet in the world.
To the office. I advise
about hanging the poor.
I miss the army—
robbing, laying out fear,
breaking the world.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 1 October 1660.
Here are the days
that fold into the cool
and tumble, coppered,
toward the end of the year.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
of makeshift covers, of inner tubes
that keep the clapboard houses
from scattering in mildest wind—
Give thanks for light, unbilled,
that comes through holes drilled
into iron roofs and plastic bottles
filled with water and bleach—
Give thanks for the width and girth
of flood tunnels underground,
where the homeless can lie down
on castoff furniture and pallets—
Give thanks for the forgotten sentinel
hoisted on a pedestal outside, who opens
her arms of chipped paint and plaster
in mercy above the Blue Angel Motel—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
I made another short video from a poem in my new collection, Breakdown: Banjo Poems. If you missed the other two, I created a new album on Vimeo for Breakdown videos. Or simply scroll down through the latest posts in the Videopoetry category here.
The music for this one, found once again on SoundCloud, is by Tem Noon (tabla) and Christen Napier (banjo), one of seven improvisations they recorded, all licenced under a Creative Commons Attribution Licence.
Thanks to the Prelinger Archives once again for the public-domain footage: a 1928 short documentary called Queerosities: A Negro Baptism (yes, the framing was ever so slightly racist) and two untitled home movies of church camps, one also from 1928 and one from 1970. I wanted to include both Southern whites and African Americans in the scenes of religious enthusiasm, since the banjo, like Pentecostalism, has such a potent history with both groups. I don’t know if it matters that the different source materials in the video are so easily distinguishable in quality. My hope is that that just lends it more of a documentary feel.
Thanks also to Rachel for critiquing an earlier version of this video. (If you’re one of the three other people who watched it before 10:00 PM East Coast time tonight, please watch again.) I think it tells a more coherent story now. I also turned down the volume of the music just a bit.
(Lord’s day). To our Parish church both forenoon and afternoon all alone.
At night went to bed without prayers, my house being every where foul above stairs.
Lord’s day is
for no one. I
went without
prayers, my
house being
everywhere.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 30 September 1660.