Via Negativa

May 16, 2024May 17, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Up early to see whether the work of my house be quite done, and I found it to my mind. Staid at home all the morning, and about 2 o’clock went in my velvet coat by water to the Savoy, and there, having staid a good while, I was called into the Lords, and there, quite contrary to my expectations, they did treat me very civilly, telling me that what they had done was out of zeal to the King’s service, and that they would joyne with the governors of the chest with all their hearts, since they knew that there was any, which they did not before. I give them very respectful answer and so went away to the Theatre, and there saw the latter end of “The Mayd’s Tragedy,” which I never saw before, and methinks it is too sad and melancholy.
Thence homewards, and meeting Mr. Creed I took him by water to the Wardrobe with me, and there we found my Lord newly gone away with the Duke of Ormond and some others, whom he had had to the collation; and so we, with the rest of the servants in the hall, sat down and eat of the best cold meats that ever I eat on in all my life.
From thence I went home (Mr. Moore with me to the waterside, telling me how kindly he is used by my Lord and my Lady since his coming hither as a servant), and to bed.

early on I found
in the velvet water

of melancholy and war
my one cold life

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 16 May 1661.

May 15, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Moratorium, Between Seasons

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Fescue or ryegrass, Bemuda, Bahia? I cannot now find
the little green orbs that you said were the fruit

of grass—I copied the way you plucked and put them 
between your teeth for the audible pop, a tiny note of sour 

that roused the afternoon, made it less bland. Neighbors 
trim and edge their lawns, area rugs in need of constant, precise 

adjustment as spring mows into restive summer. Parched loaves
of earth, water receding from the river's bowl. The mind tries 

to weave its own nets of unsubdued wilderness, places of cool 
refuge for when the unimaginable manifests in an instant 

from shadowy to celluloid clear. In the meantime, 
I need to stop running trailers of the disastrous future 

on loop. I need to sift the hours in the glass instead, once and 
once again, and watch for yeast bubbling up to the surface.

May 15, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Volatile

With my workmen all day till the afternoon, and then to the office, where Mr. Creed’s accounts were passed.
Home and found all my joyner’s work now done, but only a small job or two, which please me very well.
This afternoon there came two men with an order from a Committee of Lords to demand some books of me out of the office, in order to the examining of Mr. Hutchinson’s accounts, but I give them a surly answer, and they went away to complain, which put me into some trouble with myself, but I resolve to go to-morrow myself to these Lords and answer them.
To bed, being in great fear because of the shavings which lay all up and down the house and cellar, for fear of fire.

all my joy now only a job
I am surly with myself

I go down cellar
for fear of fire

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 15 May 1661.

May 14, 2024May 14, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Aurora

Time heals all, but time must also
love to meander— Out of necessity, time takes
a turn sometimes; tiptoes past some forms  
asleep in their beds, rushes headlong

into others, or makes the light linger unexpectedly
as though we were seeing the hand of God. There is no
sweetness/ that doesn't leave a stain— another poet's
words I thought about when, across the globe,

thousands tipped their faces up as if to swallow the purple-
sweet glow of solar particles, colliding with molecules in our
own atmosphere. Other stars are a million times more

luminous than our sun, but this is the light that left its source
eight minutes ago to fall on us. I want to linger in the grace of this
slower arrival—a bead of time in which so much could still happen.

May 14, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Impecunious

Up early and by water to Whitehall to my Lord, and there had much talk with him about getting some money for him. He told me of his intention to get the Muster Master’s place for Mr. Pierce, the purser, who he has a mind to carry to sea with him, and spoke very slightingly of Mr. Creed, as that he had no opinion at all of him, but only he was forced to make use of him because of his present accounts. Thence to drink with Mr. Shepley and Mr. Pinkny, and so home and among my workmen all day. In the evening Mr. Shepley came to me for some money, and so he and I to the Mitre, and there we had good wine and a gammon of bacon. My uncle Wight, Mr. Talbot, and others were with us, and we were pretty merry. So at night home and to bed. Finding my head grow weak now-a-days if I come to drink wine, and therefore hope that I shall leave it off of myself, which I pray God I could do.

I must master
the purse I carry

lightly into
the pink evening

a gammon of bacon
if I come to drink

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 14 May 1661.

May 14, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Lonesome Holler

Sometimes I think the loneliness would be unbearable if I weren’t surrounded by ghosts. But seeing fireflies this early in May gives me an eerie feeling. The crescent moon is nearly alone in the sky, glimmering through a scrim of clouds. The aurora got rained out, and now the night is loud with all the voices of water as it runs off a mountain.

It occurred to me recently that in hilly country, those who are afraid of heights like me might often end up on mountaintops, because going straight up a steep hillside usually feels safest. Going sideways is scary, and downhill too perilous to contemplate. So onward means upward simply to avoid the abyss.

making the stars quake mountaintop peeper

May 13, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Moment, with Notes of Chlorine Bleach

With a whole cupful of bleach and an old
kitchen towel, I scrubbed mold from the top-

most tiles of the shower stall. Millions of homes 
across America use cleaning solutions infused 

with sodium hypochlorite—meaning, mostly women,  
who make up 70% of all household labor; or 3.4 million 

cleaning workers, of which women comprise nearly 
88.6%. And of this number, 73% percent are people 

of color: immigrants  from Latin America, the Caribbean, 
China, Africa, the Philippines, and more—like the woman

whose cleaning trolley I heard every morning outside 
my room at university hall when I was in Hawai'i 

for a conference. We passed each other, me going off 
to a reading or workshop, she going into each room on that 

floor to lay out fresh sheets and towels, scrape soap scum 
off tile, arrange little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotion 

on the sink. The fumes from chlorine bleach can make you 
dizzy, can make your head hurt, your eyes and lungs burn; 

could even cause reproductive harm. On my second 
to last day, I asked Manang to help me with the zipper 

stuck in the back of my dress. In the space of working it
loose from the bottom to close the fabric at the top,

she'd managed to tell me a little of her life story:
the town she was from, the language we discovered 

we shared, as chlorinated smells braided with humid
air and the call of gray francolin in the trees.

May 13, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Working classic

All the morning at home among my workmen. At noon Mr. Creed and I went to the ordinary behind the Exchange, where we lately were, but I do not like it so well as I did. So home with him and to the office, where we sat late, and he did deliver his accounts to us.
The office being done I went home and took pleasure to see my work draw to an end.

all morning among men
ordinary as ice

where we live to see work
draw to an end

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 13 May 1661.

May 13, 2024May 13, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 19

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: mothers and mothering, silence and mental noise, wonder and wreckage. Enjoy.