Displaced

Sam Pepys and me

Early to coach again and to Kingston, where we baited a little, and presently to coach again and got early to London, and I found all well at home, and Mr. Hunt and his wife had dined with my wife to-day, and been very kind to my wife in my absence. After I had washed myself, it having been the hottest day that has been this year, I took them all by coach to Mrs. Hunt’s, and I to Dr. Clerke’s lady, and gave her her letter and token. She is a very fine woman, and what with her person and the number of fine ladies that were with her, I was much out of countenance, and could hardly carry myself like a man among them; but however, I staid till my courage was up again, and talked to them, and viewed her house, which is most pleasant, and so drank and good-night. And so to my Lord’s lodgings, where by chance I spied my Lady’s coach, and found her and my Lady Wright there, and so I spoke to them, and they being gone went to Mr. Hunt’s for my wife, and so home and to bed.

present in my absence
having been a number

I count myself a man
among lodgings
where I hunt for a home


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 2 May 1662.

Meditation on Lightning, with Lichtenberg Figures

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
At least twice in the recent past, the man 
I love said he felt like he'd just been
struck by lightning; both times, he walked
in the door, holding a piece of paper
with bad news. Approximately 90% of people
struck by lightning survive. The first time
was a job loss no one saw coming. The second,
a medical diagnosis— and we still have no
idea how it will play out. And I don't know
anyone actually struck by lightning, whether
or not they survived. I used to wonder, if you
keep thinking of something, will it happen?
Some people call it coincidence. Some call it
foresight or premonition. Others say that's
bullshit; but if you believe it,
it may turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy.
When lightning strikes a person or object,
electrical current either zaps the body
with such speed, it may not even leave a mark. Or,
in something called a flashover, it moves
just across and over the skin's
moist surface— in this instance, there's a higher
chance of survival. In the late 1700s,
Lichtenberg kept scrapbooks of branching,
fern-like patterns in the wake of lightning
strikes— Pictures that, keranographists beieve,
resemble objects in the vicinity—
a towering pine, lamp-post, or ship's mast;
the jagged silhouette of rocks and scrub.
The spine of a half-eaten fish.

Walking it off

Sam Pepys and me

Sir G. Carteret, Sir W. Pen, and myself, with our clerks, set out this morning from Portsmouth very early, and got by noon to Petersfield; several officers of the Yard accompanying us so far. Here we dined and were merry.
At dinner comes my Lord Carlingford from London, going to Portsmouth: tells us that the Duchess of York is brought to bed of a girl, at which I find nobody pleased; and that Prince Rupert and the Duke of Buckingham are sworn of the Privy Councell.
He himself made a dish with eggs of the butter of the Sparagus, which is very fine meat, which I will practise hereafter.
To horse again after dinner, and got to Gilford, where after supper I to bed, having this day been offended by Sir W. Pen’s foolish talk, and I offending him with my answers. Among others he in discourse complaining of want of confidence, did ask me to lend him a grain or two, which I told him I thought he was better stored with than myself, before Sir George. So that I see I must keep a greater distance than I have done, and I hope I may do it because of the interest which I am making with Sir George.
To bed all alone, and my Will in the truckle bed.

noon field
I find nobody and a horse

after foolish talk
the discourse of rain

I told myself I must keep
a greater distance


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 1 May 1662.

Rainmaker

Sam Pepys and me

This morning Sir G. Carteret came down to the yard, and there we mustered over all the men and determined of some regulations in the yard, and then to dinner, all the officers of the yard with us, and after dinner walk to Portsmouth, there to pay off the Success, which we did pretty early, and so I took leave of Sir W. Pen, he desiring to know whither I went, but I would not tell him. I went to the ladies, and there took them and walked to the Mayor’s to show them the present, and then to the Dock, where Mr. Tippets made much of them, and thence back again, the Doctor being come to us to their lodgings, whither came our supper by my appointment, and we very merry, playing at cards and laughing very merry till 12 o’clock at night, and so having staid so long (which we had resolved to stay till they bade us be gone), which yet they did not do but by consent, we bade them good night, and so past the guards, and went to the Doctor’s lodgings, and there lay with him, our discourse being much about the quality of the lady with Mrs. Pierce, she being somewhat old and handsome, and painted and fine, and had a very handsome maid with her, which we take to be the marks of a bawd. But Mrs. Pierce says she is a stranger to her and met by chance in the coach, and pretends to be a dresser. Her name is Eastwood. So to sleep in a bad bed about one o’clock in the morning.
This afternoon after dinner comes Mr. Stephenson, one of the burgesses of the town, to tell me that the Mayor and burgesses did desire my acceptance of a burgess-ship, and were ready at the Mayor’s to make me one. So I went, and there they were all ready, and did with much civility give me my oath, and after the oath, did by custom shake me all by the hand. So I took them to a tavern and made them drink, and paying the reckoning, went away. They having first in the tavern made Mr. Waith also a burgess, he coming in while we were drinking. It cost me a piece in gold to the Town Clerk, and 10s. to the Bayliffes, and spent 6s.

how to play cards
hand in hand
with chance

pretend to be woods
and shake all hands
having gold


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 30 April 1662.

Imperishable

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
Closer to thought 
than to sense or even
sensation— the idea

that what was rent
may never piece
together again.

Gold is
used for certain
kinds of mending—

malleable and
moldable, precious
commodity. In war-

time, you'd bury it
beside a tree or
swallow it

whole to make
it part
of you.

Drinker

Sam Pepys and me

At the pay all the morning, and so to dinner; and then to it again in the afternoon, and after our work was done, Sir G. Carteret, Sir W. Pen and I walked forth, and I spied Mrs. Pierce and another lady passing by. So I left them and went to the ladies, and walked with them up and down, and took them to Mrs. Stephens, and there gave them wine and sweetmeats, and were very merry; and then comes the Doctor, and we carried them by coach to their lodging, which was very poor, but the best they could get, and such as made much mirth among us. So I appointed one to watch when the gates of the town were ready to be shut, and to give us notice; and so the Doctor and I staid with them playing and laughing, and at last were forced to bid good night for fear of being locked into the town all night. So we walked to the yard, designing how to prevent our going to London tomorrow, that we might be merry with these ladies, which I did. So to supper and merrily to bed.

afternoon passing
the wine and me

lodging in a hut
we invent tomorrow


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 29 April 1662.

Not Yet

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
At the bottom of any bright glass you might hear a slow fizz;
bubbles going flat, the air gone pfft and stale. You worry

constantly about how much time is left— down the apex,
down the drain, careening grains of sand. You harrow

every plot that's been handed to you; no good at improv,
fake it till you make it. Or at least you try. Like kudzu

grown wild, your sorrows would thicken given the slightest
helping hand. Instead, you sharpen drawing pencils,

index the contents of notebooks (and also the refrigerator).
Just keep your head down nine to five, neuf à cinq;

keep your ducks in a row, your nose to the whetstone. Skip
lactose-laced drinks and put in some daily cardio.

Mind over matter sometimes works (ha, like for an abecedarian).
Never thought you'd get here, but here you are, madam.

O for days that promise endlessness outside the archival;
plush nights before everyone is marched into the ark—

quartets playing in the background could render a long hajj
reasonably pleasant. Send a scout to look for nuclei,

seeds, and an island on which to engineer a new start. High
tea at 4 after labor. Not yet time to pre-empt dying.

Use it or lose it, but mind what you choose says the bailiff.
Vanquish the vapors, toggle letters to turn bad to bud.

When you do come to the end, it'll feel and taste like the end—
Xanthic clouds and burned cities; time of the apocalyptic.

You're not quite there yet, though. Outside the tomb,
zest from citrus orchards still wafts up to the azotea.

Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 17

Poetry Blogging Network

A personal selection of posts from the Poetry Blogging Network and beyond. Although I tend to quote my favorite bits, please do click through and read the whole posts. You can also browse the blog digest archive at Via Negativa or, if you’d like it in your inbox, subscribe on Substack (where the posts might be truncated by some email providers).

This week: plastic dragons, writing for the bees, earwig spiracles, the planet as a prayer wheel, and much more. Enjoy.

Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 17”

Appendage

Sam Pepys and me

The Doctor and I begun philosophy discourse exceeding pleasant. He offers to bring me into the college of virtuosoes and my Lord Brouncker’s acquaintance, and to show me some anatomy, which makes me very glad; and I shall endeavour it when I come to London. Sir W. Pen much troubled upon letters came last night. Showed me one of Dr. Owen’s to his son, whereby it appears his son is much perverted in his opinion by him; which I now perceive is one thing that hath put Sir William so long off the hooks. By coach to the Pay-house, and so to work again, and then to dinner, and to it again, and so in the evening to the yard, and supper and bed.

gun show me
some anatomy

a pen is a pinion
I am off and up


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 28 April 1662.

Field Guide to Street Festivals

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
They come together in spring or summer, 
recalling the old timbre of brass bands,

the vision of younger sisters waking at dawn
to put on majorette's costumes and high boots.

Their towns' most handsome will smile and wave
from flower-bedecked floats, and queens touch

the edges of butterfly sleeves, lightly holding
the pearl of a smile. Though now in other climes,

neither frost nor sun dampen the shine of chrome
nor the flourish of cornets and euphoniums. Saints

dressed as children or carpenters, farmers or
fishermen are borne aloft in the streets, gems

of paste winking from foil-covered crowns. Rice
grains turned into petals dyed yellow and green

curtain each window looking out— not over fields
and volcanoes but train tracks and city skylines.