Via Negativa

January 31, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Open and shut

All the morning, after musique practice, in my cellar, ordering some alteracions therein, being much pleased with my new door into the back yard. So to dinner, and all the afternoon thinking upon business. I did by night set many things in order, which pleased me well, and puts me upon a resolution of keeping within doors and minding my business and the business of the office, which I pray God I may put in practice.
At night to bed.

I practice order
my new door
into the ink

an order of doors
minding the business
of god

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 31 January 1661/62.

January 30, 2025January 30, 2025 by Luisa A. Igloria

Tunneling

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

To be a stone, or
      a plant, or the root
at the end of it— vascular
      network pushing through
granular earth like a miner 
      tunnels toward ore—

Blind and without guidance,
       moving through resistance
toward any faint echo 
      of moisture; the water
table beneath mycelial
      layers, long growth

of the centuries, no sun 
      but that deep heart 
you'd hear coming close. 
      Body by then  
worn to bone, the mind 
      a flickering torchlight.

January 30, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Dictatorial

Fast-day for the murthering of the late King. I went to church, and Mr. Mills made a good sermon upon David’s words, “Who can lay his hands upon the Lord’s Anoynted and be guiltless?” So home and to dinner, and employed all the afternoon in my chamber, setting things and papers to rights, which pleased me very well, and I think I shall begin to take pleasure in being at home and minding my business. I pray God I may, for I find a great need thereof. At night to supper and to bed.

a day for the murdering
of words and lords

and all the things I think
begin to pray

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 30 January 1661/62.

January 29, 2025January 29, 2025 by Luisa A. Igloria

On Lunar New Year

Eat something sweet. Neither cut
your hair nor trim in half 

the noodles in the soup. Swap out 
the sad-looking fruit in the bowl; 

buy some plump Satsumas. Decorate
a plate with orange sections, 

a spoonful of rich blood stew,
a fragrant mound of rice. Lay this

offering on the counter before   
pictures of those who've gone 

ahead. Isn't it marvelous they've
retained an appetite for things in this 

world? May we who've known the labor 
of life have such abundance.

January 29, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Mother of pearl

To Westminster, and at the Parliament door spoke with Mr. Coventry about business, and so to the Wardrobe to dinner, and thence to several places, and so home, where I found Mrs. Pen and Mrs. Rooth and Smith, who played at cards with my wife, and I did give them a barrel of oysters, and had a pullet to supper for them, and when it was ready to come to table, the foolish girl had not the manners to stay and sup with me, but went away, which did vex me cruelly. So I saw her home, and then to supper, and so to musique practice, and to bed.

at the door
the war
and oh Mrs Smith

play an oyster
able to stay with
a cruel supper

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 29 January 1661/62.

January 28, 2025 by Dave Bonta

After the concert

This morning (after my musique practice with Mr. Berkenshaw) with my wife to the Paynter’s, where we staid very late to have her picture mended, which at last is come to be very like her, and I think well done; but the Paynter, though a very honest man, I found to be very silly as to matter of skill in shadows, for we were long in discourse, till I was almost angry to hear him talk so simply. So home to dinner and then to the office, and so home for all night.

music ended
like a nest of shadows

we hear simply
the night

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 28 January 1661/62.

January 28, 2025January 27, 2025 by Luisa A. Igloria

Wearing the Beads

Long ago, I rode a bus twelve hours 
to a town up north cordoned by limestone 
and canopies of pine. It was December, 
morning frost glazing the cheeks of cabbages 
and fingers of bean. In the guest house, there was 
no heater— only a large metal drum filled with cold
water in the bathroom, a pink plastic dipper 
beside it. But I wanted to wash off the dust 
from the journey, before walking to the canteen
where the innkeeper's wife offered peppery 
smoked blood sausages and cups of brewed 
coffee. She asked if I wanted to see her basket 
of heirloom beads, and we went upstairs.
I fingered heavy strings of banded agate and 
carnelian, traced the brittle curves of shell 
and the interlocked keys of dried snake 
vertebra. She asked if I wanted to wear them
for a picture, stacked over my bare breasts 
as they used to do when this world was 
still theirs. I'd come to understand what
she meant when speaking of such loss,
and how blood is not only the animal's 
signature across our everyday rituals, 
but also one of the cords that tie us 
to the world of ancestors. People still
thread gleaming orbs of pig hearts 
and lungs with twine— offerings to hang 
in the branches of trees. By nightfall, 
these film over with rippling wings. 
In the village, I'd hear the dark
timbre of gongs. Even now, the sound 
is clear in my mind. After I left, I felt
sorry I'd passed up the chance to feel 
against my skin the stones that tumbled 
from one generation into the next.

January 27, 2025January 28, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 4

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: painful radiance, a bear-shaped shadow, the sound of the axe, a single brahminy kite, and much more. Enjoy.

January 27, 2025January 27, 2025 by Luisa A. Igloria

Ode to the Long Haul

"Feeling is a kind of thinking, and thinking 
often comes from feeling." ~ Eula Biss



During the thousand and one nights she told one
tale after another, did Sheherazade ever think

That's it, I've come to the end, I can't do any more? 
Every scene and plot complication suspends time and 

disbelief— she makes drawing from a well of inexhaustible 
story seem magical and easy, especially when you consider 

the stakes. Every twist, every detail puts one more nail 
in the coffin of death (who always has an ear to the keyhole, 

a twitchy hand on the sickle). I admire most her composure, 
meaning both the act of composition, construction, and 

arrangement as well as a calm disposition: the way she 
doesn't let her mind freak at the threats made by 

the petulant bully in a king's costume, the way she holds
fear and wonder side by side and lets them do their thing.

January 27, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Relaunch

This morning, both Sir Williams and I by barge to Deptford-yard to give orders in businesses there; and called on several ships, also to give orders, and so to Woolwich, and there dined at Mr. Falconer’s of victuals we carried ourselves, and one Mr. Dekins, the father of my Morena, of whom we have lately bought some hemp. That being done we went home again.
This morning, going to take water upon Tower-hill, we met with three sleddes standing there to carry my Lord Monson and Sir H. Mildmay and another, to the gallows and back again, with ropes about their necks; which is to be repeated every year, this being the day of their sentencing the King.

this morning for the falcon
of ourselves being new again

this morning going up we met
with another gallows again

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 27 January 1661/62.