Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
And what of the monk who asked to be buried
in the cedar box where he sat, lotus-legged,
until his body was exhumed, pried
loose from its yellow silk wrappers,
a full 75 years from the event? The five
cavities of the face gently blurred,
the ears that had not lost their
articulation— After all this time
beneath the loam, skin and joints,
unsalted loaf of the body still soft,
surprisingly pliable; though the yeast
had long since dissolved in the ordinary mud.
To my Lord’s and thence to the Treasurer’s of the Navy, with Mr. Creed and Pierce the Purser to Rawlinson’s, whither my uncle Wight came, and I spent 12s. upon them. So to Mr. Crew’s, where I blotted a new carpet that was hired, but got it out again with fair water.
By water with my Lord in a boat to Westminster, and to the Admiralty, now in a new place.
After business done there to the Rhenish wine-house with Mr. Blackburne, Creed, and Wivell.
So to my Lord’s lodging and to my father’s, and to bed.
A sure creed: I am blotted
with fair water, water
(now a new wine).
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 13 June 1660.
In the afternoon heat
I stood with clippers, sweat
streaming down my neck. I trimmed
the bushes back, cut the dead
heads of roses, eased the burden
of hydrangeas. Had I helped
stave off one more day
in this eventual hurtling
toward ruin? Had I helped
wage a little war here
against chance, exchanged
their lightening for my own?
In response to Via Negativa: Self-reflection.
Visited by the two Pierces, Mr. Blackburne, Dr. Clerk and Mr. Creed, and did give them a ham of bacon.
So to my Lord and with him to the Duke of Gloucester. So to Mr. Crews and look over my papers and business to set them in order a little; very hot weather. The two Dukes dined at the Speakers this day and I saw there a fine entertainment and dined with the pages.
To Mr. Crew’s, whither came Mr. Greatorex, and with him to the Faithornes, and so to the Devils tavern. To my Lord’s and staid till 12 at night about business. So to my father’s, my father and mother in bed, who had been with my uncle Fenner, &c., and my wife all day and expected me. But I found Mr. Cook there, and so to bed.
Sit. Give bacon
in hot weather
and dine at
the devil’s tavern
till 12 at night.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 12 June 1660.
Not between the proverbial rock
and a hard place, but between
the softer and the harder
impermanence: therefore,
everything’s improvisation,
the voice thrown against
a closet wall, into a room,
into the rifts between rock.
And each time, a slight echo
returns: little eddy
and reminder, little
reverberation—
The train in passing goes.
Light dips beyond the trees.
A hand, lifted in that slow-
motion gesture of waving.
In response to Morning Porch and thus: such tender emptiness.
Betimes to my Lord. Extremely much people and business. So with him to Whitehall to the Duke.
Back with him by coach and left him in Covent Garden. I back to Will’s and the Hall to see my father. Then to the Leg in King Street with Mr. Moore, and sent for L’Impertinent to dinner with me. After that with Mr. Moore about Privy Seal business. To Mr. Watkins, so to Mr. Crew’s. Then towards my father’s met my Lord and with him to Dorset House to the Chancellor. So to Mr. Crew’s and saw my Lord at supper, and then home, and went to see Mrs. Turner, and so to bed.
Me: my extreme business.
I see my father, that wit,
the war with chance.
My lord Me, we turn.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 11 June 1660.
Made heavy by rain,
the heads of hydrangea
droop to the ground.
I do not come
looking for trouble—
Nor do I want to take away
your joy. Leaves
of the dogwood tipped
silver, leaves
of the ginkgo
spliced open
like fans—
At a certain hour,
one by one, each
evening almost
like a birthday:
street lamps
flicker on.
In response to Via Negativa: Birthday of Desire.
(Lord’s day.) At my father’s found my wife and to walk with her in Lincoln’s Inn walks.
O my fat found wife to walk with!
In, in I walk.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 10 June 1660.
“…A lost horse
to carry me
to the tomb.”
~ “Hard Ride,” Dave Bonta
The teacher said, Mind the tempo of the beat—
and I started, thinking I’d heard The tempo of the beast,
which made me recall Yeats’ poem with that creature slouching
toward a famous middle eastern city to be born. Man or beast,
outcast in the dead of winter; the world in shambles, the world
a gyre with broken teeth on whose temple steps lie beasts
in their own blood. But if he slunk toward the fabled city,
toward the hour of his birth, that could only mean this beast
was its own ungainly steed, its own doula, primigravida. Who can tell
now womb from maw when terror and all manner of beastly
rapes are foisted off as amusement, cheap thrills, entertainment? The lost
and wounded limp through these deserts filled with dying bees.
Our noses to the ground, we try to keep company, our saddlebags light:
one step in front of the other, sights trained ahead, stumbling after the beat.
In response to Via Negativa: Hard Ride.
Up betimes. 25s the reckoning for very beer. Paid the house and by boats to London, six boats. Mr. Moore, W. Howe and I, and then the child in the room of W. Howe.
Landed at the Temple. To Mr. Crews. To my father’s and put myself into a handsome posture to wait upon my Lord. Dined there.
To Mr. Crews again. In the way met Dr Clerke and Mr. Pierce.
To White-Hall with my Lord and Mr. Edw. Montagu. Found the King in the parke. There walked. Gallantry great.
To Will How till 10 at night. Back and to my fathers.
Bet for beer, I put
the white king
in the park at night.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 9 June 1660.