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

From Empire: Triolet for Daughters Born in a Third World Country

4

As the elders taught, I saved the stumps of their umbilical cords,
then dried and strung them through a safety pin to keep them close.
And I named them, oiled their limbs, called the spirits to watch over them—
As the elders taught, I dried and saved the stumps of their umbilical cords.
As they grew, they saw how life cuts through the gourd; I gave them words
for power stirred from the gut, words for kindness, words to dress like bones.
As the elders taught, I saved the stumps of their umbilical cords,
then dried and strung them through a safety pin to keep them close.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Homeless.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Imperial Official

Sat at our office to-day, and my father came this day the first time to see us at my new office. And Mrs. Crisp by chance came in and sat with us, looked over our house and advised about the furnishing of it. This afternoon I got my 50l., due to me for my first quarter’s salary as Secretary to my Lord, paid to Tho. Hater for me, which he received and brought home to me, of which I am full glad.
To Westminster and among other things met with Mr. Moore, and took him and his friend, a bookseller of Paul’s Churchyard, to the Rhenish Winehouse, and drinking there the sword-bearer of London (Mr. Man) came to ask for us, with whom we sat late, discoursing about the worth of my office of Clerk of the Acts, which he hath a mind to buy, and I asked four years’ purchase. We are to speak more of it to-morrow. Home on foot; and seeing him at home in Butlersbury, he lent me a torch, which Will carried; and so home.

At my new office, paid
to hate, I am full
of sword and torch.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 30 July 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

More from Empire: School Triolet

3

We stretched out both arms and knelt on dried beans—
exquisite punishment meted out in our schools
when we weren’t reciting in unison or cleaning latrines.
In first grade we knelt on dried mung beans
for not learning the right greeting routines,
for having dirty fingernails, or breaking some other rule.
A book balanced in each hand, we knelt on dried beans—
who invented these punishments meted out in our schools?

 

In response to Via Negativa: Tribute.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

From Empire: Two Triolets

1

If a lie is half-truth is it easier to forgive?
Those ships never came for just pepper and spice.
In the hold, mapmakers were ready with cubits and cursive.
If a lie is half-truth is it easier to forgive?
In their chronicles, they wrote of the breasts of natives,
of their short stature or propensity to violence or lies.
If a lie is half-truth is it easier to forgive?
Those ships never came for just pepper and spice.

2

Grandmother smoked cigarillos with the lit ends in her mouth.
I wondered why milk came in paper-wrapped cans imprinted with “Marca Oso,”
why cheese was queso, why cloth napkins were servilletas. Even in her youth,
grandmother smoked cigarillos with the lit ends in her mouth.
Cousins twice removed cut sugarcane or harvested fruit down south;
they grew dark in the sun and spoke a kind of creole called Chavacano.
Grandmother smoked cigarillos with the lit ends in her mouth;
not all could afford the milk wrapped in cans with “Marca Oso.”

 

In response to Via Negativa: By Any Other Name.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Imperfect Ode

Give thanks for the wobble of the wheel
and the limp of the pulley, the tiny pop
in the heart of a lightbulb as it goes out—

Give thanks for the pause that loosens the noose
around the rushing hours, for serifs of rain
ticking down the blue gradations of a chain—

And give thanks for the call of a dove
that has lost its mate, and so tinges
your day with the blue of this reminder—

Forgive the stumble of the bow across the strings,
the hair of one note that flies away from the score:
give thanks for our common imperfection.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Homeless

Lord’s day. I and my boy Will to Whitehall, and I with my Lord to White Hall Chappell, where I heard a cold sermon of the Bishop of Salisbury’s, and the ceremonies did not please me, they do so overdo them.
My Lord went to dinner at Kensington with my Lord Camden. So I dined and took Mr. Birfett, my Lord’s chaplain, and his friend along with me, with Mr. Sheply at my Lord’s.
In the afternoon with Dick Vines and his brother Payton, we walked to Lisson Green and Marybone and back again, and finding my Lord at home I got him to look over my accounts, which he did approve of and signed them, and so we are even to this day. Of this I was glad, and do think myself worth clear money about 120l. Home late, calling in at my father’s without stay. To bed.

I bury a friend at the green
bone of the day.
I think myself one without a bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 29 July 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

By Any Other Name

Early in the morning rose, and a boy brought me a letter from Poet Fisher, who tells me that he is upon a panegyrique of the King, and desired to borrow a piece of me; and I sent him half a piece.
To Westminster, and there dined with Mr. Sheply and W. Howe, afterwards meeting with Mr. Henson, who had formerly had the brave clock that went with bullets (which is now taken away from him by the King, it being his goods). I went with him to the Sun Tavern and sent for Mr. Butler, who was now all full of his high discourse in praise of Ireland, whither he and his whole family are going by Coll. Dillon’s persuasion, but so many lies I never heard in praise of anything as he told of Ireland. So home late at night and to bed.

Early morning rose—
a poet desired it,
but so many lies I never heard
in praise of anything.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 28 July 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Scottish beasts

Arranzilla

tapping & tugging
at the side of the tent
early morning wind

*

around the headland
from the seal sculpture
this one moves

*

at the Osprey Center
a crowd gathers to watch
squirrels on the feeder

*

no does to herd
the solitary stag haunts
a caravan park

*

blood-red sunset
I raise the midge net
to take a nip

*

with each wingbeat
another yelp
oystercatcher

*

Phil Bennison
Dry Stone Walling
Mole Control

*

out of the water
a black guillemot totters
on its big red feet

*

rock pipit on the beach
meadow pipit on the moor
that same restless tail

*

these hill-walkers
with their lurid greens & yellows!
lizard, tiger beetle

*

on the far hill
white boulders have infiltrated
a herd of sheep

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Vita Brevis

What they say of beauty
is that it never makes apology
for itself— But isn’t this true
as well for plainness, for calamity,
for sorrow, for disappointment?

Here is a jar of coins
I’ve rescued through the months
from coat pockets, from the lint
trap in the laundry, from the folds
and linings of our purses.

What can you buy with a roll
of pennies these days, with a hand-
ful of crumpled bills? Come then, let’s lay
the good china on the table, the silverware,
the napkins; let’s feast on what we have.

I used to draw up columns in a ledger:
for every purchase, a sacrifice
forestalling each small pleasure
for the days— I rue now how
I used to only say don’t get

too happy: don’t rest, don’t choose
the window light, the comfort of the armchair
with the pillows; don’t put the little sweet
into your mouth. Too dear, too rapidly,
the dwindling days don’t know delay.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Sacrificial.