Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
full of water, my hair full of dreams
that rush away, faster than fish
in the river— My clavicle like a book
some unseen hand holds open at the spine,
my fingers curled around another’s—
My eyes two almond hulls now anchored
in this face— And if we’ve met before
and will meet yet again, I’ll listen
for those currents that sound most
like light careening off an edge—
In response to Via Negativa: Carnivore.
“My mother.
The common axe
pierces, singing…”
~ D. Bonta
What’s your lucky number? Let’s play it
at the lottery. It’s Sunday. It’s the day
the boys peddling tickets line up
outside church, vying for the attentions
of the faithful. One ticket? Two?
A whole row, a page, a winning booklet
could get you anywhere on this sweet earth
short of that paradise in the afterlife.
Let me put this ring around your finger.
Don’t balk. Spend it all, spend it now.
Tie your wrist to a balloon and float
above the park’s green periphery,
above the rows of houses in the town,
with their lopsided chimneys, their peeled
fences, their cracked trash bins and
dilapidated windows. The curtains
might be yellowed but look
at all their lace, those looped
edges made somehow more beautiful
by the stains of time. Come back at dusk
and let’s drink from the fountains
which have not yet run dry.
Put your hair up and tell each day
I love you again, no matter what.
In response to Via Negativa: Plaint.
Left my wife at Mrs. Hunt’s and I to my Lord’s, and from thence with judge Advocate Fowler, Mr. Creed, and Mr. Sheply to the Rhenish Wine-house, and Captain Hayward of the Plymouth, who is now ordered to carry my Lord Winchelsea, Embassador to Constantinople. We were very merry, and judge Advocate did give Captain Hayward his Oath of Allegiance and Supremacy. Thence to my office of Privy Seal, and, having signed some things there, with Mr. Moore and Dean Fuller to the Leg in King Street, and, sending for my wife, we dined there very merry, and after dinner, parted. After dinner with my wife to Mrs. Blackburne to visit her. She being within I left my wife there, and I to the Privy Seal, where I despatch some business, and from thence to Mrs. Blackburne again, who did treat my wife and me with a great deal of civility, and did give us a fine collation of collar of beef, &c.
Thence I, having my head full of drink from having drunk so much Rhenish wine in the morning, and more in the afternoon at Mrs. Blackburne’s, came home and so to bed, not well, and very ill all night.
I hunt a hen at a hen-house, hay-ward,
give a leg to my leg, and send
for my wife and a great collar of beef,
my head full of night.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 9 August 1660.
emerges from wherever
it was hiding in the night
and this is all that matters:
you do not need to know
how many shifts it took
to move the axle of the world
to grind the axe that whittles
wood to sliver, string to shiver
waking sigh sifted on the wind—
In response to Via Negativa: Plaint.
We met at the office, and after that to dinner at home, and from thence with my wife by water to Catan Sterpin, with whom and her mistress Pye we sat discoursing of Kate’s marriage to Mons. Petit, her mistress and I giving the best advice we could for her to suspend her marriage till Mons. Petit had got some place that may be able to maintain her, and not for him to live upon the portion that she shall bring him. From thence to Mr. Butler’s to see his daughters, the first time that ever we made a visit to them. We found them very pretty, and Coll. Dillon there, a very merry and witty companion, but methinks they live in a gaudy but very poor condition. From thence, my wife and I intending to see Mrs. Blackburne, who had been a day or two again to see my wife, but my wife was not in condition to be seen, but she not being at home my wife went to her mother’s and I to the Privy Seal. At night from the Privy Seal, Mr. Woodson and Mr. Jennings and I to the Sun Tavern till it was late, and from thence to my Lord’s, where my wife was come from Mrs. Blackburne’s to me, and after I had done some business with my Lord, she and I went to Mrs. Hunt’s, who would needs have us to lie at her house to-night, she being with my wife so late at my Lord’s with us, and would not let us go home to-night.
We lay there all night very pleasantly and at ease, I taking my pleasure with my wife in the morning, being the first time after her being eased of her pain.
From wife to mistress
I live on wit, gaudy but poor.
Intending to see my wife, I was not I
but a moth to the sun:
I burn, taking my pleasure
in the morning pain.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 8 August 1660.
Baguio in the early ’80s: there were no birth preparation classes when I was about
to become a young mother so I bought books— Dr. Spock, Lamaze— feeling out of my water.
This Lamaze “natural” method was the latest thing from abroad, and I read avidly,
but stopped to panic at the parts on episiotomies and the breaking of the water.
At pre-natal checkups, my doctor was maternal, reassuring: The body is more
resilient than you think, she said. They often slide out of you just like water;
some pop out without effort: think of the way you push your head
through a turtleneck sweater. Slide out of me just like water?
What about C-sections, breech births, babies born with cauls wrapped around
their heads? My mothers watched carefully what I ate and drank: water,
lots of water, they encouraged. And soups: clear gingered broth of steamed clams,
mussels. But no eggplant (limp, dull purply-brown), no taro (hairy). Freshwater
fish and rice, dips of vinegar and soy. I craved salty and sweet by turns,
smacked sour mangos dipped in paste of shrimps. When finally the fabled water
broke, I woke from sleep seized with shame I’d lost control of my bladder
(or so I thought). My first and other births through the years were fluid
as water though not without pain. Each dark-haired daughter came in her own way
down that corridor and up into the world, each mouth full of syllables and water.
I try to keep them grounded while pushing them further onto the lip of the world,
with all its cares. I give them stories, gifts of song, of fire and earth and water.
* For Josephine Anne (Ina), on her birthday, 10 August 2013;
but also for Jennifer Patricia, Julia Katrina, and Gabriela Aurora
In response to Via Negativa: Taking the Waters.
A man on a beach near the mouth of the Firth of Forth is reading to the sea. He stands about ten feet out with his trousers rolled up to his knees reading aloud from a large book, turning first to the left, then to the right and then to face the horizon.
When Rachel tells this story later, our friend the musician says: maybe it’s the man’s wife. Maybe he scattered her ashes out there.
They reminisce about sound artists they’ve known who worked the shore. Recording underwater is apparently a simple matter of putting a condom on a microphone and dangling it off the end of a pier. But what must the other fishermen think?
Walking the beach at dusk, a low surf of sand flies rises in front of us with every step. Listen, says the musician, and holds his video camera down to capture it: a whisper, like dry rain. We’re near the ruins of an old spa where ailing Victorians came to float in saltwater pools. The red sandstone blocks in the ancient wall behind us have thinned almost to nothing, some of them, under the sea’s corrosive treatments. They are scooped and scalloped. The sunset light like a hermit crab creeps in.
This morning to Whitehall to the Privy Seal, and took Mr. Moore and myself and dined at my Lord’s with Mr. Sheply. While I was at dinner in come Sam. Hartlibb and his brother-in-law, now knighted by the King, to request my promise of a ship for them to Holland, which I had promised to get for them. After dinner to the Privy Seal all the afternoon. At night, meeting Sam. Hartlibb, he took me by coach to Kensington, to my Lord of Holland’s; I staid in the coach while he went in about his business. He staying long I left the coach and walked back again before on foot (a very pleasant walk) to Kensington, where I drank and staid very long waiting for him. At last he came, and after drinking at the inn we went towards Westminster.
Here I endeavoured to have looked out Jane that formerly lived at Dr. Williams’ at Cambridge, whom I had long thought to live at present here, but I found myself in an error, meeting one in the place where I expected to have found her, but she proved not she though very like her.
We went to the Bullhead, where he and I sat and drank till 11 at night, and so home on foot. Found my wife pretty well again, and so to bed.
This morning too was art,
a ship for a seal.
I walked back to where
I had long thought to live:
in error, like the bull
at home on foot.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 7 August 1660.
This morning at the office, and, that being done, home to dinner all alone, my wife being ill in pain a-bed, which I was troubled at, and not a little impatient. After dinner to Whitehall at the Privy Seal all the afternoon, and at night with Mr. Man to Mr. Rawlinson’s in Fenchurch Street, where we staid till eleven o’clock at night. So home and to bed, my wife being all this day in great pain.
This night Mr. Man offered me 1000l. for my office of Clerk of the Acts, which made my mouth water; but yet I dare not take it till I speak with my Lord to have his consent.
Ill
in pain: im-
patient.
All
night and
all this day in
great pain.
Off
me.
My mouth dare
not speak
my consent.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 6 August 1660.
Lord’s day. My wife being much in pain, I went this morning to Dr. Williams (who had cured her once before of this business), in Holborn, and he did give me an ointment which I sent home by my boy, and a plaster which I took with me to Westminster (having called and seen my mother in the morning as I went to the doctor), where I dined with Mr. Sheply (my Lord dining at Kensington).
After dinner to St. Margaret’s, where the first time I ever heard Common Prayer in that Church. I sat with Mr. Hill in his pew; Mr. Hill that married in Axe Yard and that was aboard us in the Hope. Church done I went and Mr. Sheply to see W. Howe at Mr. Pierces, where I staid singing of songs and psalms an hour or two, and were very pleasant with Mrs. Pierce and him. Thence to my Lord’s, where I staid and talked and drank with Mr. Sheply. After that to Westminster stairs, where I saw a fray between Mynheer Clinke, a Dutchman, that was at Hartlibb’s wedding, and a waterman, which made good sport. After that I got a Gravesend boat, that was come up to fetch some reed on this side the bridge, and got them to carry me to the bridge, and so home, where I found my wife.
After prayers I to bed to her, she having had a very bad night of it. This morning before I was up Will came home pretty well again, he having been only weary with riding, which he is not used to.
My pain, give me
an ointment, a plaster.
My mother.
The common axe
pierces, singing
between wedding and grave.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 5 August 1660.