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

Dumbwaiter

Around the table, they spoke
of their great accomplishments
and honors— A woman fished
a string of beads out of her jeans
pocket and pointed to each in turn,
naming the taverns and bars
where she’d stumbled onto the stage,
microphone or no, to read her verse.
One whispered there were at least half
a dozen moist narratives growing in his crotch
and armpits; he was merely their vessel,
obedient slave. Another combed and plaited
her muscular hair with a clutch of long dashes.
All night they ate platters of words
served out of season; all night they drank
of what was freely appropriated, wines
forced from fruit not certain of their vintage.
When they copulated and gave birth to offspring,
they were so moved by the originality of this
achievement that new industries were built
around their need to find footwear
or skins of leather equal to or greater in value
than their own flesh and blood. But there were others
who walked among them filling glasses, folding linen,
answering the summons of a buzzer laid in the floor
beneath the dining table, dusting the long-untuned
grand piano, the books unread in the library.
There were others who relished the dusk
and the solitude it delivered, the quiet
like a seed one is tempted take in the mouth
in order to stay elsewhere, underground.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Headless.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Sailor’s Psalm

All the morning the Officers and Commissioners of the Navy, we met at Sir G. Carteret’s chamber, and agreed upon orders for the Council to supersede the old ones, and empower us to act.
Dined with Mr. Stephens, the Treasurer’s man of the Navy, and Mr. Turner, to whom I offered 50l. out of my own purse for one year, and the benefit of a Clerk’s allowance beside, which he thanked me for; but I find he hath some design yet in his head, which I could not think of.
In the afternoon my heart was quite pulled down, by being told that Mr. Barlow was to enquire to-day for Mr. Coventry; but at night I met with my Lord, who told me that I need not fear, for he would get me the place against the world.
And when I came to W. Howe, he told me that Dr. Petty had been with my Lord, and did tell him that Barlow was a sickly man, and did not intend to execute the place himself, which put me in great comfort again.
Till 2 in the morning writing letters and things for my Lord to send to sea. So home to my wife to bed.

I miss me.
Out of my head
with fear, against
the world, I am sick.
Tend to me: a thing
to send to sea.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 3 July 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Loveliest, Lord,

is such abundance:
dust I gather without cease
from every corner, dust I sweep

into the yard. So many we’ve loved
have gone to sod, their hair
frozen into salt,

their fingernails chipped to points
of light. They’ve chiseled
their bones for furniture:

each line bleached
like balsa, minimal as art.
You said The light

after rain, how lovely
in the trees: how the world
is loveliest made strange.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Uncommon Prayer.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Headless

Infinite of business that my heart and head and all were full.
Met with purser Washington, with whom and a lady, a friend of his, I dined at the Bell Tavern in King Street, but the rogue had no more manners than to invite me and to let me pay my club. All the afternoon with my Lord, going up and down the town; at seven at night he went home, and there the principal Officers of the Navy, among the rest myself was reckoned one. We had order to meet to-morrow, to draw up such an order of the Council as would put us into action before our patents were passed. At which my heart was glad.
At night supped with my Lord, he and I together, in the great dining-room alone by ourselves, the first time I ever did it in London. Home to bed, my maid pretty well again.

My head and I dined, but
the rogue had no manners
and went home, at which
my heart was glad—
he and I together, alone
by ourselves, the first time ever.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 2 July 1660.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Uncommon Prayer

This morning came home my fine Camlett cloak, with gold buttons, and a silk suit, which cost me much money, and I pray God to make me able to pay for it. I went to the cook’s and got a good joint of meat, and my wife and I dined at home alone.
In the afternoon to the Abbey, where a good sermon by a stranger, but no Common Prayer yet.
After sermon called in at Mrs. Crisp’s, where I saw Mynheer Roder, that is to marry Sam Hartlib’s sister, a great fortune for her to light on, she being worth nothing in the world. Here I also saw Mrs. Greenlife, who is come again to live in Axe Yard with her new husband Mr. Adams. Then to my Lord’s, where I staid a while. So to see for Mr. Creed to speak about getting a copy of Barlow’s patent. To my Lord’s, where late at night comes Mr. Morland, whom I left prating with my Lord, and so home.

I pray God for a good joint of meat and a stranger life.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 1 July 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Crossing

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
che la diritta via era smarrita

Dante, The Divine Comedy (Canto 1, Part 1, Inferno)

Past the middle, by imperfect calculus:
as in the tale which starts with the boat
descending into the river’s mouth—

The waters with their dark pearl sheen,
mile after mile traveled back through time
that cannot be recovered except as dream.

And it is true the body is its own freight,
pulling everything it’s touched and burned for
in its wake: grass, cricket song, paper

and thorn; lantern lights, flesh and its robe
the color of smoke and clouds. Wherever I go,
I’ll feel the pulse of that beacon signaling

always ahead of arrival, invisible thread
drawn from foot-sole and up through crown
of the head. O long-lost love, bear me safely

across the chasm; seat me at your table.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Ranter.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Desperate

By times to Sir R. Fanshawe to draw up the preamble to my Lord’s Patent.
So to my Lord, and with him to White Hall, where I saw a great many fine antique heads of marble, that my Lord Northumberland had given the King. Here meeting with Mr. De Cretz, he looked over many of the pieces, in the gallery with me and told me [by] whose hands they were, with great pleasure.
Dined at home and Mr. Hawly with me upon six of my pigeons, which my wife has resolved to kill here.
This day came Will, my boy, to me; the wench continuing lame, so that my wife could not be longer without somebody to help her. In the afternoon with Sir Edward Walker, at his lodgings by St. Giles Church, for my Lord’s pedigree, and carried it to Sir R. Fanshawe.
To Mr. Crew’s, and there took money and paid Mrs. Anne, Mrs. Jemima’s maid, off quite, and so she went away and another came to her. To White Hall with Mr. Moore, where I met with a letter from Mr. Turner, offering me 150l. to be joined with me in my patent, and to advise me how to improve the advantage of my place, and to keep off Barlow.
To my Lord’s till late at night, and so home.

Time to draw heads
and hands on pigeons,
to kill somebody for a fan

or join with me in my patent
to improve the night?


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 30 June 1660.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Hum

In the high grass that rippled like a sea, we played at finding, hiding, disappearing. In and out of the shadows, the sun flickered like a lazy fish, a silken flag, a golden eye whose tears spooled thin into a bowstring. Straight down we slid, and down again, to where the ground dipped like presentiment of treachery to court that sharp frisson of danger: rocks to tatter our clothes, any abrupt edge to catapult us through the humid air— We touched and tasted salt of our sweat, whelped cries from our furious labor to break through circles that ringed our homes: bees in their hive, the honey-fat queen glued fast in her cell. All the drones circling and circling, sentinels divested of their sting.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Sound of the Sea.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Ranter

This day or two my maid Jane has been lame, that we cannot tell what to do for want of her. Up and to White Hall, where I got my warrant from the Duke to be Clerk of the Acts. Also I got my Lord’s warrant from the Secretary for his honour of Earle of Portsmouth, and Viscount Montagu of Hinchingbroke.
So to my Lord, to give him an account of what I had done. Then to Sir Geffery Palmer, to give them to him to have bills drawn upon them, who told me that my Lord must have some good Latinist to make the preamble to his Patent, which must express his late service in the best terms that he can, and he told me in what high flaunting terms Sir J. Greenville had caused his to be done, which he do not like; but that Sir Richard Fanshawe had done General Monk’s very well.
Back to Westminster, and meeting Mr. Townsend in the Palace, he and I and another or two went and dined at the Leg there. Then to White Hall, where I was told by Mr. Hutchinson at the Admiralty, that Mr. Barlow, my predecessor, Clerk of the Acts, is yet alive, and coming up to town to look after his place, which made my heart sad a little. At night told my Lord thereof, and he bade me get possession of my Patent; and he would do all that could be done to keep him out. This night my Lord and I looked over the list of the Captains, and marked some that my Lord had a mind to have put out. Home and to bed. Our wench very lame, abed these two days.

I rant. My mouth must have
some good Latin to flaunt,
like a monk in the palace
coming to look after his mind.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 29 June 1660.