Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I am more shrub than evergreen, more drizzle than deluge. I am overgrown garden and uncombed field, thin patch on a well-worn sleeve. I am the heart quiet in its envelope of skin until wakened by a clear and dazzling cadenza— And then I say take me with you, tip me note by note into that deeper eddy.
To my Lord in the morning, who looked over my accounts and agreed to them. I did also get him to sign a bill (which do make my heart merry) for 60l. to me, in consideration of my work extraordinary at sea this last voyage, which I hope to get paid.
I dined with my Lord and then to the Theatre, where I saw “The Virgin Martyr,” a good but too sober a play for the company. Then home.
Lord in
the morning
make my heart work at hope
and the art go play
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 16 February 1660/61.
I am crepuscular my sky is stern There are buildings designed to float in rushing water We walk through them as drops in a rain barrel Sweet cream stops from curdling when the whole countryside has frozen Copper chains tinkle their brittle chime
At the office all the morning, and in the afternoon at making up my accounts for my Lord to-morrow; and that being done I found myself to be clear (as I think) 350l. in the world, besides my goods in my house and all things paid for.
at the office
making up tomorrow
in clear ink
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 15 February 1660/61.
i compose myself
for the sniper
the hundred-year flood
the flint of winter
spring-loaded
like a mountain rabbit
i could be the type specimen
for a new extremophile
hardy as a tardigrade
tender as an endolith
the laundry basket holds
all my changes of heart
still warm
from the late Carboniferous
like the wood lice
that wander under rocks
i am crepuscular
my sky is stern
(Valentine’s day). Up early and to Sir W. Batten’s, but would not go in till I asked whether they that opened the door was a man or a woman, and Mingo, who was there, answered a woman, which, with his tone, made me laugh.
So up I went and took Mrs. Martha for my Valentine (which I do only for complacency), and Sir W. Batten he go in the same manner to my wife, and so we were very merry.
About 10 o’clock we, with a great deal of company, went down by our barge to Deptford, and there only went to see how forward Mr. Pett’s yacht is; and so all into the barge again, and so to Woolwich, on board the Rose-bush, Captain Brown’s ship, that is brother-in-law to Sir W. Batten, where we had a very fine dinner, dressed on shore, and great mirth and all things successfull; the first time I ever carried my wife a–ship-board, as also my boy Wayneman, who hath all this day been called young Pepys, as Sir W. Pen’s boy young Pen.
So home by barge again; good weather, but pretty cold. I to my study, and began to make up my accounts for my Lord, which I intend to end tomorrow.
To bed.
The talk of the town now is, who the King is like to have for his Queen: and whether Lent shall be kept with the strictness of the King’s proclamation; which it is thought cannot be, because of the poor, who cannot buy fish. And also the great preparation for the King’s crowning is now much thought upon and talked of.
raw and red
is my valentine
the war
wool on a rose bush
rot in a ship
you and I
tend to tomorrow
like kings who cannot fish
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 14 February 1660/61.
Soon, you hope— emergence of spring's
first blooms. Not having to put on
a coat just to take out the trash. Thermostats
no longer clicking on and off. Green
restored bit by bit above drab avenues:
merciful masking of where branches
were pruned and threaded with power
lines. How to revive the stem bent
at the nape, desultory in its old brown
wrapper? You want to slip your arms
into sleeves of seagreen foam, your feet
into a basin pearled and cooling
after light rain; your teeth into the tart-sweet
interval of fruit on the way to ripening.
At the office all the morning; dined at home, and poor Mr. Wood with me, who after dinner would have borrowed money of me, but I would lend none. Then to Whitehall by coach with Sir W. Pen, where we did very little business, and so back to Mr. Rawlinson’s, where I took him and gave him a cup of wine, he having formerly known Mr. Rawlinson, and here I met my uncle Wight, and he drank with us, and with him to Sir W. Batten’s, whither I sent for my wife, and we chose Valentines against to-morrow. My wife chose me, which did much please me; my Lady Batten Sir W. Pen, &c. Here we sat late, and so home to bed, having got my Lady Batten to give me a spoonful of honey for my cold.
a poor wood with one
little sin in a cup
for me
for my wife
a tine against my pen
and a spoonful of honey
for my cold
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 13 February 1660/61.
"I draw the line at pain."
~ Hiromi Ito
Past my sixth decade, and I still don't know
how others do it— take cruises and splendid
annual vacations, lavish their offspring with sleek
investment accounts; talk about how they retired
and now spend their days wine-tasting and living
their best life. For class, I had my students read
a life thinly disguised as novel: autofiction,
critics call it—in which the narrator flies back
and forth between her home in California and her home
in Japan. On one hand, there's an aging, cantankerous
husband and on the other, parents in serious decline.
In between, pilgrimages to figure out her own unhappiness,
her children's unhappiness. Their dog is hit by a car; it
survives, but now it's lame—In this way, perhaps it took on
its owners' suffering by offering itself as substitute.
Can you believe such a thing? But I know the ache of both
wringing my hands in helplessness, and wanting to help.
The wind gusts. And yes, the trees stay unchanged.
Along the circuits of the body, trains run carrying their load of minerals and waste, constant electricity, surpluses of sugar, salt and bile. As the body wears down, they run on schedules that won't always stay consistent—they'll need repair, replacement, a slick of oil, a suturing. You feed the body oranges, bread barely streaked with butter; beans, onions, and soup. But sometimes in the night, you remember those stops open 24 hours selling beer and ham sandwiches, wheels of cheese, slices of cake drenched in cream— everything gleaming in cool refrigerator light.