Via Negativa

February 26, 2024February 26, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 8

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, subscribe to its RSS feed in your favorite feed reader, or, if you’d like it in your inbox, subscribe on Substack.

This week: active hope, the anti-ship of Theseus, knocking the brain off its pedestal, smutty Persephone poems, slow stitching, and much more. Enjoy.

February 26, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Open book

(Shrove Tuesday). I left my wife in bed, being indisposed by reason of ceux-la, and I to Mrs. Turner’s, who I found busy with The. and Joyce making of things ready for fritters, so to Mr. Crew’s and there delivered Cotgrave’s Dictionary to my Lady Jemimah, and then with Mr. Moore to my coz Tom Pepys, but he being out of town I spoke with his lady, though not of the business I went about, which was to borrow 1000l. for my Lord.
Back to Mrs. Turner’s, where several friends, all strangers to me but Mr. Armiger, dined. Very merry and the best fritters that ever I eat in my life. After that looked out at window; saw the flinging at cocks.
Then Mrs. The. and I, and a gentleman that dined there and his daughter, a perfect handsome young and very tall lady that lately came out of the country, and Mr. Thatcher the Virginall Maister to Bishopsgate Street, and there saw the new Harpsicon made for Mrs. The. We offered 12l., they demanded 14l.. The Master not being at home, we could make no bargain, so parted for to-night. So all by coach to my house, where I found my Valentine with my wife, and here they drank, and then went away. Then I sat and talked with my Valentine and my wife a good while, and then saw her home, and went to Sir W. Batten to the Dolphin, where Mr. Newborne, &c., were, and there after a quart or two of wine, we home, and I went to bed—where (God forgive me) I did please myself by strength of fancy with the young country Segnora that was at dinner with us today.

I left my bed
for the dictionary

a thousand strangers and you
the virginal street

an icon made
for at-home use

and me reborn
after a quart of wine

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 26 February 1660/61.

February 25, 2024February 25, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Through Line

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

                                  "I'm sorry you can't have

an origin that holds you."
                                                          ~ Hari Alluri


Here's a new language to marble in your mouth;
a bowl of milk in which to dip it. You're told to hold 

your head in such a way to keep you from looking 
back, to keep from being distracted. In certain 

stories, those who give their souls believing this 
is how they become eternal can never change back 

into mortal form. But you love salt and sugar too much; 
and broth rich with shank bones and marrow. Shrimp 

paste, stinky fish sauce. In the pot, one eyeball 
comes loose from its socket in the head of the fish. 

Scoop it into your bowl. Suck on this chalky pearl 
because you want to remember the sound of church-

bells, cacophonous grammar of war as ships sail into 
the harbor,  unreeling chains leading to  this moment here.

February 25, 2024January 11, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Tramp

Sir Wm. Pen and I to my Lord Sandwich’s by coach in the morning to see him, but he takes physic to-day and so we could not see him. So he went away, and I with Luellin to Mr. Mount’s chamber at the Cockpit, where he did lie of old, and there we drank, and from thence to W. Symons where we found him abroad, but she, like a good lady, within, and there we did eat some nettle porrige, which was made on purpose to-day for some of their coming, and was very good. With her we sat a good while, merry in discourse, and so away, Luellin and I to my Lord’s, and there dined. He told me one of the prettiest stories, how Mr. Blurton, his friend that was with him at my house three or four days ago, did go with him the same day from my house to the Fleece tavern by Guildhall, and there (by some pretence) got the mistress of the house, a very pretty woman, into their company. And by and by, Luellin calling him Doctor, she thought that he really was so, and did privately discover her disease to him—which was only some ordinary infirmity belonging to women. And he proffering her physic—she desired him to come some day and bring it, which he did; and withal hath the sight of her thing below, and did handle it—and he swears the next time that he will do more.
After dinner by water to the office, and there Sir W. Pen and I met and did business all the afternoon, and then I got him to my house and eat a lobster together, and so to bed.

old road
like the prettiest blur
mistress of thought

I discover a ring
and her thin hand
will do

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 25 February 1660/61.

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

First, Last

Today I heard someone say it's better to live
       every day as if it were the first, rather than 
last—To think of the moment as if it were 
      the first sunrise cresting the rim of the hills, 
the first egg you cracked on the rim of the pan 
       before anyone else was awake; the first 
prayer mouthed before the first whiff of coffee, 
       before a cloud of white phosphorus spread
through the neighborhood in the wake of dumb 
       bombs. So many firsts now in rubble—at first 
they were dancing in the kitchen, working  
      on a new coloring page, or tasting a treat 
before being tucked, protesting, into bed.

February 24, 2024January 11, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Eschatology Ritual

This entry is part 8 of 11 in the series Rituals

the end is far
fetched and fletched

with the iridescent darkness
of starling feathers

an aftermath of statistics
warring stories and desecrated graves

this year in Gaza
or next year in Jerusalem

the end is far
from everything we think

when we wish
upon a starvation

drop two bunker-buster
bombs before bed

side-effects may include
nausea guilt mass carnage

the end is foreign
to the 24-hour news cycle

spinning new gossamer clothes
from faith alone

February 24, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Sot

(Sunday). Mr. Mills made as excellent a sermon in the morning against drunkenness as ever I heard in my life. I dined at home; another good one of his in the afternoon. My Valentine had her fine gloves on at church to-day that I did give her.
After sermon my wife and I unto Sir Wm. Batten and sat awhile. Then home, I to read, then to supper and to bed.

sun-drunk
as ever in my life

after love I give
my wife up

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 24 February 1660/61.

February 23, 2024February 23, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Anniversary

 "...Walk into / the center of everything."
                                               ~ January Gill O'Neil


Altogether, I have been married forty years—
fifteen in a union that broke,  bit by bit until 
the inevitable, even without a formal name to it. I left 
that skin behind. Never thought I would do it again, 
but here I am. Twenty-five this year,  with a man who fit 
his fortunes to mine. We live in a green house fronted 
by a pair of Japanese maples, with a bright orange love 
seat in a room wall-papered with books and the hearts 
of plants spilling generously out of themselves. Laundry 
unsorted, coffee and noodles in the pantry, the entry 
adorned with favorite coats. We remember the thrift 
store find of a coffeetable, what we wore when we 
stood on the boardwalk that burnished day. Cake 
slicer in the drawer, file folders of the bankrupt years. 
Keepsakes we can't bear to throw away.  Everywhere, 
evidence of undimmed desire for life in this world.

February 23, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Changeling

This my birthday, 28 years.
This morning Sir W. Batten, Pen, and I did some business, and then I by water to Whitehall, having met Mr. Hartlibb by the way at Alderman Backwell’s. So he did give me a glass of Rhenish wine at the Steeleyard, and so to Whitehall by water. He continues of the same bold impertinent humour that he was always of and will ever be. He told me how my Lord Chancellor had lately got the Duke of York and Duchess, and her woman, my Lord Ossory’s and a Doctor, to make oath before most of the judges of the kingdom, concerning all the circumstances of their marriage. And in fine, it is confessed that they were not fully married till about a month or two before she was brought to bed; but that they were contracted long before, and time enough for the child to be legitimate. But I do not hear that it was put to the judges to determine whether it was so or no.
To my Lord and there spoke to him about his opinion of the Light, the sea-mark that Captain Murford is about, and do offer me an eighth part to concern myself with it, and my Lord do give me some encouragement in it, and I shall go on. I dined herewith Mr. Shepley and Howe. After dinner to Whitehall Chappell with Mr. Child, and there did hear Captain Cooke and his boy make a trial of an Anthem against tomorrow, which was brave musique.
Then by water to Whitefriars to the Play-house, and there saw “The Changeling,” the first time it hath been acted these twenty years, and it takes exceedingly. Besides, I see the gallants do begin to be tyred with the vanity and pride of the theatre actors who are indeed grown very proud and rich.
Then by link home, and there to my book awhile and to bed.
I met to-day with Mr. Townsend, who tells me that the old man is yet alive in whose place in the Wardrobe he hopes to get my father, which I do resolve to put for.
I also met with the Comptroller, who told me how it was easy for us all, the principal officers, and proper for us, to labour to get into the next Parliament; and would have me to ask the Duke’s letter, but I shall not endeavour it because it will spend much money, though I am sure I could well obtain it. This is now 28 years that I am born. And blessed be God, in a state of full content, and great hopes to be a happy man in all respects, both to myself and friends.

my birthday is water
into a waterway

enough for the child
of light the changeling

grown in my place
I am sure I could
be happy

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 23 February 1660/61.

February 22, 2024February 22, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Rest

As a child, sometimes I'd lay my cheek
               on the desk and press my ear to the wood's
coolness. I'd pretend the clicking and scraping 
               I heard (echoes from other movements
around me) were proof of life beneath the surface
               —an army of ants or microscopic beetles 
carving roads, lifting stone out of hidden quarries,
                building settlements. Because if you listen 
hard even now, there are residues of sound 
                fallng inside the architecture of every 
stillness. And there are also long, rich pauses 
                akin to the quiet of sleep, which is what
others thought my bent head meant—a child
                always caught in the throes of dream.