Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
i follow my mother’s tracks
following a porcupine
where it dragged a tree-
filled belly over
the snow striped with shadows
like the sky striped with clouds
the black-and-white
of woodpecker wings
on the horizon the other
end of this very mountain
curled like a blue cat
in the January sun
To Westminster Hall, where it was full term. Here all the morning, and at noon to my Lord Crew’s, where one Mr. Templer (an ingenious man and a person of honour he seems to be) dined; and, discoursing of the nature of serpents, he told us some that in the waste places of Lancashire do grow to a great bigness, and that do feed upon larks, which they take thus: They observe when the lark is soared to the highest, and do crawl till they come to be just underneath them; and there they place themselves with their mouths uppermost, and there, as is conceived, they do eject poyson up to the bird; for the bird do suddenly come down again in its course of a circle, and falls directly into the mouth of the serpent; which is very strange. He is a great traveller; and, speaking of the tarantula, he says that all the harvest long (about which times they are most busy) there are fidlers go up and down the fields every where, in expectation of being hired by those that are stung.
Thence to the office, where late, and so to my chamber and then to bed, my mind a little troubled how to put things in order to my advantage in the office in readiness to the Duke’s orders lately sent to us, and of which we are to treat at the office to-morrow morning. This afternoon, going into the office, one met me and did serve a subpoena upon me for one Field, whom we did commit to prison the other day for some ill words he did give the office. The like he had for others, but we shall scour him for it.
here in a temple of nature
the waste places grow
great mouths
the sudden circle of the serpent
the tarantula busy
in my mind
this prison
for ill words
I shall scour it
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 4 February 1661/62.
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: oystercatchers, blood stew, the ground and the groundless, lovers’ clocks, and more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 5”
Will it always be like this? her daughters ask
in the throes of a visitation from their own despair.
She doesn't feel like she's lying when she says no—
didn't Heraclitus say all things pass and nothing stays?
"A visitation" sounds like a fleeting thing, though
like bad news it might land with a thud on the roof.
Heraclitus said all things pass and nothing stays—
they swirl with the current and the current flows.
The world's bad news lands with a thud on the roof—
black-suited company of crows, shadows warping the view.
They swirl with the current and the current flows.
What does the moon portend? Do stars bristle with knives?
Morbid company, drab-suited couriers of the shadowy
view: don't you tire of their gloomy spreadsheets?
The moon rises in the sky and stars speckle with light.
Their river's dark indigo. They don't stay still either.
She wants to shred and ball up these sheets of gloom;
she's not lying. Nothing might stop, but we won't stop.
The sky's dark indigo river goes on and on—
Why should anything always be the way it is?
After musique practice I went to the office, and there with the two Sir Williams all the morning about business, and at noon I dined with Sir W. Batten with many friends more, it being his wedding-day, and among other froliques, it being their third year, they had three pyes, whereof the middlemost was made of an ovall form, in an ovall hole within the other two, which made much mirth, and was called the middle piece; and above all the rest, we had great striving to steal a spooneful out of it; and I remember Mrs. Mills, the minister’s wife, did steal one for me and did give it me; and to end all, Mrs. Shippman did fill the pye full of white wine, it holding at least a pint and a half, and did drink it off for a health to Sir William and my Lady, it being the greatest draft that ever I did see a woman drink in my life.
Before we had dined came Sir G. Carteret, and we went all three to the office and did business there till night, and then to Sir W. Batten again, and I went along with my lady and the rest of the gentlewomen to Major Holmes’s, and there we had a fine supper, among others, excellent lobsters, which I never eat at this time of the year before. The Major hath good lodgings at the Trinity House. Here we staid, and at last home, and, being in my chamber, we do hear great noise of mirth at Sir William Batten’s, tearing the ribbands from my Lady and him. So I to bed.
noon is for rest
we steal a spoon
and drink the ink of night
to the noise of a band
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 3 February 1661/62.
(Lord’s day). To church in the morning, and then home and dined with my wife, and so both of us to church again, where we had an Oxford man give us a most impertinent sermon upon “Cast your bread upon the waters,” &c. So home to read, supper, and to prayers, and then to bed.
to church with a sob
for a most impertinent sermon
cast upon the water
a prayer to be
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 2 February 1661/62.
There's a difference between saying
Bahala na— Leave it up to fate— and
Bahala na si Darna— village girl turned
Wonder-Woman-type avenger.
Bahala na— Leave it up to fate— can mean
crumble in the corner like a stick of chalk.
Or you could swallow your fear, turn avenger.
Moonlight reveals monsters in every tree:
they want you to crumble like chalk in the corner;
they want you to believe nothing can ever be safe.
Yes, monsters are about, no longer just in moonlight.
They want you to give up, drown in a river of despair.
They want you to think nothing can ever be safe, but
they can't look you in the eye or give a straight answer.
They only want to wear you down, drown in a river of despair.
But you can wear your silence like a gleaming stone amulet.
They can't look you in the eye or give a straight answer.
Remember how Darna had everyone's back in the village; she
cultivated silence like armor, wore truth like a gleaming amulet.
There's a difference between Bahala na, and Bahala na si Darna.
This morning within till 11 o’clock, and then with Commissioner Pett to the office; and he staid there writing, while I and Sir W. Pen walked in the garden talking about his business of putting his son to Cambridge; and to that end I intend to write to-night to Dr. Fairebrother, to give me an account of Mr. Burton of Magdalene.
Thence with Mr. Pett to the Paynter’s; and he likes our pictures very well, and so do I. Thence he and I to the Countess of Sandwich, to lead him to her to kiss her hands: and dined with her, and told her the news (which Sir W. Pen told me to-day) that express is come from my Lord with letters, that by a great storm and tempest the mole of Argier is broken down, and many of their ships sunk into the mole. So that God Almighty hath now ended that unlucky business for us; which is very good news. After dinner to the office, where we staid late, and so I home, and late writing letters to my father and Dr. Fairebrother, and an angry letter to my brother John for not writing to me, and so to bed.
ice in the garden
air like the kiss
of a broken man
sunk into God
unlucky home
to father and other
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 1 February 1661/62.
wood burl in the sheath
of a pen. Parchment curl
and light brown outline
of leaves in the calamondin
that's put forth flowers
but not yet fruit. Fish-
scale that leaped, still
iridescent, from a body
in cleansing. Barber's
scissors with hair caught
in the teeth. Out in the yard,
only the chipped end of
a trowel as I dug in shallow
soil, covering the scat
of animals that came in
the night. Nylon guitar
strings, until the heat
one summer popped them
right off the fretboard.
there were those bent
on destroying
everything
holding the world. Rows of potatoes
softened to grey in the fields.
Globes of citrus darkened,
moons
waning in orchards.
Hot wind stung our cheeks. Our
children learned to compose
elegies
for the bees. One of them
dreamed we were stuck in the caves
of our homes, and only one
person at a time
could leave
to search in the town for salt
or sugar or oil. We tried
to keep
our griefs small,
yet they bloomed like fractals
inside a veil. The differences
between us came
down to this:
who let the cold turn to stone
in a vessel, who chafed the vessel
with burning hands.