Via Negativa

October 1, 2024September 30, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Eye of the Storm

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

It is a day that glimmers like the inside 
of a fairy tale, one whose sky 
is the color of a dented cauldron that won't 
stop boiling and boiling so every 
street in every town floods with oatmeal 
or molasses dark as mud. You promised 
to remember.  It has been a day, no, several 
days now. The animals have fled through 
the torn brambles. People watch as houses 
topple: their chicken legs bow in the swell 
of water, and windows fold like postcards 
on a revolving rack. A voice the size of an acorn 
comes out of the dark. What will you surrender—
your comb, your pillow, your blue thread and needle?

September 30, 2024September 30, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 39

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: diligent dreaming, a forager of sound, the island of witches, silence as a canvas, taking off Billy Collins’ clothes, and much more. Enjoy.

September 30, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Spirit world

This morning up by moon-shine, at 5 o’clock, to White Hall, to meet Mr. Moore at the Privy Seal, but he not being come as appointed, I went into King Street to the Red Lyon to drink my morning draft, and there I heard of a fray between the two Embassadors of Spain and France; and that, this day, being the day of the entrance of an Embassador from Sweden, they intended to fight for the precedence! Our King, I heard, ordered that no Englishman should meddle in the business, but let them do what they would. And to that end all the soldiers in the town were in arms all the day long, and some of the train-bands in the City; and a great bustle through the City all the day. Then I to the Privy Seal, and there Mr. Moore and a gentleman being come with him, we took coach (which was the business I come for) to Chelsy, to my Lord Privy Seal, and there got him to seal the business. Here I saw by day-light two very fine pictures in the gallery, that a little while ago I saw by night; and did also go all over the house, and found it to be the prettiest contrived house that ever I saw in my life. So to coach back again; and at White Hall light, and saw the soldiers and people running up and down the streets. So I went to the Spanish Embassador’s and the French, and there saw great preparations on both sides; but the French made the most noise and vaunted most, the other made no stir almost at all; so that I was afraid the other would have had too great a conquest over them.
Then to the Wardrobe, and dined there, end then abroad and in Cheapside hear that the Spanish hath got the best of it, and killed three of the French coach-horses and several men, and is gone through the City next to our King’s coach; at which, it is strange to see how all the City did rejoice. And indeed we do naturally all love the Spanish, and hate the French.
But I, as I am in all things curious, presently got to the water-side, and there took oars to Westminster Palace, thinking to have seen them come in thither with all the coaches, but they being come and returned, I ran after them with my boy after me through all the dirt and the streets full of people; till at last, at the Mewes, I saw the Spanish coach go, with fifty drawn swords at least to guard it, and our soldiers shouting for joy. And so I followed the coach, and then met it at York House, where the embassador lies; and there it went in with great state. So then I went to the French house, where I observe still, that there is no men in the world of a more insolent spirit where they do well, nor before they begin a matter, and more abject if they do miscarry, than these people are; for they all look like dead men, and not a word among them, but shake their heads.
The truth is, the Spaniards were not only observed to fight most desperately, but also they did outwitt them; first in lining their own harness with chains of iron that they could not be cut, then in setting their coach in the most advantageous place, and to appoint men to guard every one of their horses, and others for to guard the coach, and others the coachmen. And, above all, in setting upon the French horses and killing them, for by that means the French were not able to stir.
There were several men slain of the French, and one or two of the Spaniards, and one Englishman by a bullet. Which is very observable, the French were at least four to one in number, and had near 100 case of pistols among them, and the Spaniards had not one gun among them; which is for their honour for ever, and the others’ disgrace.
So, having been very much daubed with dirt, I got a coach, and home where I vexed my wife in telling of her this story, and pleading for the Spaniards against the French.
So ends this month; myself and family in good condition of health, but my head full of my Lord’s and my own and the office business; where we are now very busy about the business of sending forces to Tangier, and the fleet to my Lord of Sandwich, who is now at Lisbon to bring over the Queen, who do now keep a Court as Queen of England.
The business of Argier hath of late troubled me, because my Lord hath not done what he went for, though he did as much as any man in the world could have done.
The want of money puts all things, and above all things the Navy, out of order; and yet I do not see that the King takes care to bring in any money, but thinks of new designs to lay out money.

moonlight all over the house
and the people made no stir

a strange thing to have seen
with all the ache in me

as if there is no world
like an advantageous bullet

where we keep what
we do not care to think

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 30 September 1661.

September 30, 2024September 29, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Reference

I get them every so often. Sometimes I make 
similar requests—for a letter of reference, 

with reference coming from the Latin referentia— 
the act of referring to some matter or to someone 

for consideration. The equivalent, perhaps, 
of a neighbor saying Yes I know that family,

they've lived on this block since the '80s; 
and  wasn't it that child who knocked over 

my flowerpots, practicing skateboard flips?  
I recall advice handed out by other letter-

writers: if you can neither damn nor praise, 
offer something ambiguous like I can't 

recommend this person highly enough, or No
person would be better for the job.

September 29, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Subterfuge

(Lord’s day). To church in the morning, and so to dinner, and Sir W. Pen and daughter, and Mrs. Poole, his kinswoman, Captain Poole’s wife, came by appointment to dinner with us, and a good dinner we had for them, and were very merry, and so to church again, and then to Sir W. Pen’s and there supped, where his brother, a traveller, and one that speaks Spanish very well, and a merry man, supped with us, and what at dinner and supper I drink I know not how, of my own accord, so much wine, that I was even almost foxed, and my head aked all night; so home and to bed, without prayers, which I never did yet, since I came to the house, of a Sunday night: I being now so out of order that I durst not read prayers, for fear of being perceived by my servants in what case I was. So to bed.

am I another traveller
on a peak

within my fox head
I pray to the sun

pray for fear
of being what I was

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 29 September 1661.

September 29, 2024September 27, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Carrying

When I think about
the loneliness we carry in our arms,
that soft body as if without bones,
there will always be 

someone reminding me 
it's time to pull the trash 
bins to the curb or check
the bread in the bin for mold,

or that it is past midnight
and morning is only a few
hours away. In our hearts,
we want to tend 

every hurt like it is
our own child, not because we
birthed them, but because we don't know
how long before we all turn to stone.

September 28, 2024September 28, 2024 by Dave Bonta

The Silent Walk

for Beth

at the heart of a hike
another cup of tea

where a tree frog plays
his solitary gambit

everything drips except the hawk
dropping in after squirrels

through one hole in the canopy
and vanishing through another

at the beginning of autumn
my desire is still green

for the plushness of moss
the luster of rhododendron

and the brownish green
of newly grounded acorns

but what do you hear
above the din in your head

traffic and the rainy forest
their unknowing duet

how an acorn rolling past me has
a different knock for every rock

and raindrops seem more discriminate
when they fall from trees

their patter is a language
known to salamanders

and what do you see
when you put the scroll to sleep

fog envelopes us
and turns the light green

i open my umbrella
like a tattered black flower

the holes in its sky
let the darkness out

and what do you feel
when the craving ends

my lungs go on tirelessly
processing clouds

September 28, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Chronologic

At the office in the morning, dined at home, and then Sir W. Pen and his daughter and I and my wife to the Theatre, and there saw “Father’s own Son,” a very good play, and the first time I ever saw it, and so at night to my house, and there sat and talked and drank and merrily broke up, and to bed.

morning in
my own time

night sea

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 28 September 1661.

September 28, 2024September 27, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Siquijor

You asked me if I had been to the island
of witches, of shamans, of shapeshifters—

and I had, but only once, but for less than
a day. We rode a tricycle along the dusty

seawall to a waiting motorboat. The waves
were brisk and choppy, but we saw flying fish 

as the municipality came into view. I remembered 
reading about firefly colonies in the molave

trees, and how Spanish explorers thought they 
were on fire. The locals said, be careful. There are

those who can cast their eyes in a long view;
who can send a shiver down your nape and arm

without touching. The sun at the horizon 
sometimes looks as though it refuses

to set. A hand could slip into yours, a shadow
into your faltering steps as you walk.

September 27, 2024September 27, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Helene

This entry is part 51 of 51 in the series Une Semaine de Bonté

Page 54 from Max Ernst’s *Une Semaine de Bonté*

what makes you think in a foliage
of unfolding moments

you can seize what belongs
only to the current

another autumn rain
mutters in the gutter

from the long arm of a down-
graded hurricane

her howl reduced to a breeze
barely a whisper

where is your real
estate portfolio now