Via Negativa

November 27, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Portrayal

This morning our maid Dorothy and my wife parted, which though she be a wench for her tongue not to be borne with, yet I was loth to part with her, but I took my leave kindly of her and went out to Savill’s, the painter, and there sat the first time for my face with him; thence to dinner with my Lady; and so after an hour or two’s talk in divinity with my Lady, Captain Ferrers and Mr. Moore and I to the Theatre, and there saw “Hamlett” very well done, and so I home, and found that my wife had been with my aunt Wight and Ferrers to wait on my Lady to-day this afternoon, and there danced and were very merry, and my Lady very fond as she is always of my wife. So to bed.

in art born
to too kind a painter

my face after an hour
a divinity

with my heat
let it dance away

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 27 November 1661.

November 27, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Summoned

Not well in the morning and lay long in bed. At last rise and at noon with my wife to my Uncle Wights, where we met Mr. Cole, Mr. Rawlinson, Norbury and his wife and her daughter, and other friends to the Chine of beef that I sent them the other day, and eat and were merry. By and by I am called to the office, whither I went and there we sat late; and after the office done, Sir Wms both and I and Captain Cock and Mr. Bence (who being drunk, showed himself by his talk a bold foole, and so we were fain to put him off and get him away) we sat till 9 a-clock by ourselfs in the office, talking and drinking three or four bottles of wine. And so home and to bed. My wife and her mayde Dorothé falling out, I was troubled at it.

we rise at noon
to the call of the office

self by self
in our bottles of trouble

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 26 November 1661.

November 26, 2024January 12, 2025 by Luisa A. Igloria

Imminent

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

I read in the news that the supervolcano 
in the Phlegraean Fields near Naples 
is sputtering dangerously awake. It's not even 
melodrama. A massive eruption would plunge 
the whole world into a global winter that would mean 
game over. In Dante's Inferno, hell is a series of nine 
concentric circles descending into the bowels 
of the earth. Lucifer's trapped in the deepest one: 
an ice pit, no warmth, no sun. The Roman poet Virgil 
is Dante's psychopomp— a kind of usher, a conductor 
of souls into the afterlife. At first I thought they 
entered this realm by boat, through the crater lake 
of a volcano. But when I reviewed the passage, 
at the start of his journey Dante is lost in a dark 
wood. Then he and his guide enter the vestibule of hell, 
before Charon picks them up in his ferry. I can appreciate 
these little touches— how, even as he must have felt his
world (like ours) to be falling apart, vestibule conveys 
a semblance of order, keeps some of the horrors at bay. 
But It's also a reminder: so much evil is running around 
right now, dressed in tuxedos and driving expensive electric 
cars, preaching incivility as virtue, burning books. 
No one knows what's going to happen. But even if it means
climbing over Satan's frozen rump and genitals with Dante
and Virgil, I want to finish the course, ascend the last
hill and come out of this doomscape, back into the light.

November 25, 2024November 25, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 47

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: apricity, toxemia, yahrzeit, isopods, ekphrasis, and more. Enjoy.

November 25, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Mastiff

To Westminster Hall in the morning with Captain Lambert, and there he did at the Dog give me and some other friends of his, his foy, he being to set sail to-day towards the Streights. Here we had oysters and good wine. Having this morning met in the Hall with Mr. Sanchy, we appointed to meet at the play this afternoon. At noon, at the rising of the House, I met with Sir W. Pen and Major General Massy, who I find by discourse to be a very ingenious man, and among other things a great master in the secresys of powder and fireworks, and another knight to dinner, at the Swan, in the Palace yard, and our meat brought from the Legg; and after dinner Sir W. Pen and I to the Theatre, and there saw “The Country Captain,” a dull play, and that being done, I left him with his Torys and went to the Opera, and saw the last act of “The Bondman,” and there found Mr. Sanchy and Mrs. Mary Archer, sister to the fair Betty, whom I did admire at Cambridge, and thence took them to the Fleece in Covent Garden, there to bid good night to Sir W. Pen who staid for me; but Mr. Sanchy could not by any argument get his lady to trust herself with him into the tavern, which he was much troubled at, and so we returned immediately into the city by coach, and at the Mitre in Cheapside there light and drank, and then set her at her uncle’s in the Old Jewry. And so he and I back again thither, and drank till past 12 at night, till I had drank something too much. He all the while telling me his intention to get a girl who is worth 1000l., and many times we had her sister Betty’s health, whose memory I love. At last parted, and I well home, only had got cold and was hoarse and so to bed.

the dog is master
of the yard

brought from the country
and left to air an argument

with the city at night
till he is hoarse

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 25 November 1661.

November 24, 2024November 24, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Temporary

"Nothing is more permanent than the temporary."
                         ~ A. E. Stallings


All around, too many vestiges of  
           the temporary. Relics of every  
skittering desire. Possession: what I touch  
     becomes (I think) my own. 
For instance, rain licks my skin 
           and the sun scorches my face, 
     and I am helpless. Indecision can mean 
if one cannot choose, why not take it all? 
           Or so I've been told, sometimes. 
     There must be a limit to how much one can want. 
I used to hear a child practicing on the piano 
           when a window was open. Even a small 
     fragment can set an old unfilfillment 
loose. And then the soul says again 
           I want, I want. There must be a limit. 
     Today I saw a photograph of a man 
on a makeshift raft. He had rescued 
           his plaster saints. On the shore
     behind him, all the houses were burning.

November 24, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Nexus

(Lord’s day). Up early, and by appointment to St. Clement lanes to church, and there to meet Captain Cocke, who had often commended Mr. Alsopp, their minister, to me, who is indeed an able man, but as all things else did not come up to my expectations. His text was that all good and perfect gifts are from above. Thence Cocke and I to the Sun tavern behind the Exchange, and there met with others that are come from the same church, and staid and drank and talked with them a little, and so broke up, and I to the Wardrobe and there dined, and staid all the afternoon with my Lady alone talking, and thence to see Madame Turner, who, poor lady, continues very ill, and I begin to be afraid of her. Thence homewards, and meeting Mr. Young, the upholster, he and I to the Mitre, and with Mr. Rawlinson sat and drank a quart of sack, and so I to Sir W. Batten’s and there staid and supped, and so home, where I found an invitation sent my wife and I to my uncle Wight’s on Tuesday next to the chine of beef which I presented them with yesterday. So to prayers and to bed.

all things come from the sun
behind the church

alone and mad
meeting you in prayer

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 24 November 1661.

November 23, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Lachryphagy

Earth and water, air and fire— 
My grandmother liked to anchor the lit 

end of her thin cigar in her mouth
as she sat on her haunches on the porch,

unblinking. When they were with child, none 
of the women in my family ate paint or clay

or crept along the walls at nignt. What remedy
did they find for the gnawing in their gut?

Some butterflies and even bees draw close 
to the eyes of larger animals so they can drink 

their tears. My mother's friend told her once: 
if you go to the sea, the salt will either 

scour you clean or turn you into a sieve 
through which water will never stop pouring.

November 23, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Separated

To Westminster with my wife (she to her father’s), and about 10 o’clock back again home, and there I to the office a little, and thence by coach with Commissioner Pett to Cheapside to one Savill, a painter, who I intend shall do my picture and my wife’s. Thence I to dinner at the Wardrobe, and so home to the office, and there all the afternoon till night, and then both Sir Williams to my house, and in comes Captain Cock, and they to cards. By and by Sir W. Batten and Cock, after drinking a good deal of wine, went away, and Sir W. Pen staid with my wife and I to supper, very pleasant, and so good night. This day I have a chine of beef sent home, which I bespoke to sen d, and did send it as a present to my uncle Wight.

my wife to her father’s
home and I

to a little heap of a house
in the cards I have

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 23 November 1661.

November 22, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

After Rilke

Again and again, Rilke says. I know
the little churchyard he mentions, 
why it seems inviting to walk 
amid the names nestled in the grass
and lie down among them, considering
the immensity of what is to come. 
Again and again, and I don't feel
ready, but I take heart since the poet 
mentions flowers and wizened trees, even
the possibility of resting my helplessness;
of arms encircling me, even as stars fall.