Via Negativa

January 28, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Business man

At the office all the morning; dined at home, and after dinner to Fleet Street, with my sword to Mr. Brigden (lately made Captain of the Auxiliaries) to be refreshed, and with him to an ale-house, where I met Mr. Davenport; and after some talk of Cromwell, Ireton and Bradshaw’s bodies being taken out of their graves to-day, I went to Mr. Crew’s and thence to the Theatre, where I saw again “The Lost Lady,” which do now please me better than before; and here I sitting behind in a dark place, a lady spit backward upon me by a mistake, not seeing me, but after seeing her to be a very pretty lady, I was not troubled at it at all. Thence to Mr. Crew’s, and there met Mr. Moore, who came lately to town, and went with me to my father’s, and with him to Standing’s, whither came to us Dr. Fairbrother, who I took and my father to the Bear and gave a pint of sack and a pint of claret.
He do still continue his expressions of respect and love to me, and tells me my brother John will make a good scholar. Thence to see the Doctor at his lodging at Mr. Holden’s, where I bought a hat, cost me 35s. So home by moonshine, and by the way was overtaken by the Comptroller’s coach, and so home to his house with him. So home and to bed. This noon I had my press set up in my chamber for papers to be put in.

the morning sword
fresh with bodies
I went to the theater

where a lost
and backward crew
moo at the moon

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 28 January 1660/61.

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

Citizen Ghazal

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

City dweller, town-dweller. Civilian as private individual, not soldier
or civil officer. Inhabitant of a country: not an alien, but a citizen.

Other early roots point to defenses built around community: walled
towns with battlements and watchtowers, a night watch of citizens.

In the '70s, during the years of fabricated emergency and Martial Law, we
feared curfews, mourned the disappeared. No allies in a militia of citizens.

Now as then, thousands plod to work daily through hellish traffic, while the son
of the dictator rides a helicopter to a concert. No ease for regular citizens,

only rare moments in the soul-sucking labyrinth. Best not to judge those
who've stayed or fled. Some forswear allegiance; some are dual citizens.

January 27, 2024January 27, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Adarna

When the story begins, everything 
          languishes—

Crops wither; the falconets are stunned,
         felted tufts on dry branches. The hornbill 

forgets to mark the moist
        forest hours with its call. In the story,

a king also languishes in bed, under
        canopies of moldy velvet. 
        
Someone must bring back the song
       of an enchanted bird, escaping a fate of

stone. Someone must smart from the kind
       of wound that keeps one awake to possibility 

despite recurring dreams of death—
        from which there is, of course, no cure.

January 27, 2024February 5, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Ritual of Mourning

This entry is part 2 of 11 in the series Rituals

it’s time to lay out cutlery
a dish of rock salt
a bowl of sleep

at each place setting for those
who are no longer with us
but on their phones

break bread with silence
the nothing you feel is
the nothing you deserve

a zest of lemon on
a faceless slab of cod
will never be the opiate of the masses

put away the candles
borrow light from a streetlamp
or a jar of moonshine

straighten your spine
it’s time to begin dreaming
your next life

January 27, 2024January 28, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Past perfect

(Lord’s day). Before I rose, letters come to me from Portsmouth, telling me that the Princess is now well, and my Lord Sandwich set sail with the Queen and her yesterday from thence for France. To church, leaving my wife sick of her menses at home, a poor dull sermon of a stranger. Home, and at dinner was very angry at my people’s eating a fine pudding (made me by Slater, the cook, last Thursday) without my wife’s leave. To church again, a good sermon of Mr. Mills, and after sermon Sir W. Pen and I an hour in the garden talking, and he did answer me to many things, I asked Mr. Coventry’s opinion of me, and Sir W. Batten’s of my Lord Sandwich, which do both please me. Then to Sir W. Batten’s, where very merry, and here I met the Comptroller and his lady and daughter (the first time I ever saw them) and Mrs. Turner, who and her husband supped with us here (I having fetched my wife thither), and after supper we fell to oysters, and then Mr. Turner went and fetched some strong waters, and so being very merry we parted, and home to bed.
This day the parson read a proclamation at church, for the keeping of Wednesday next, the 30th of January, a fast for the murther of the late King.

letters come to me from
her yesterday

an hour in the garden
an answer to my sand

where we part
this day next January

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 27 January 1660/61.

January 26, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Swing shift

Within all the morning. About noon comes one that had formerly known me and I him, but I know not his name, to borrow 5l. of me, but I had the wit to deny him.
There dined with me this day both the Pierces and their wives, and Captain Cuttance, and Lieutenant Lambert, with whom we made ourselves very merry by taking away his ribbans and garters, having made him to confess that he is lately married.
The company being gone I went to my lute till night, and so to bed.

morning had formerly known me
but day pierces
our merry way
made to confess to night

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 26 January 1660/61.

January 26, 2024January 25, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Ghazal on Making Tender

I dig out a bag of meat—sliced rounds of beef rescued from an age
of freezer burn. Now I have to figure out how to make them tender.

There's no meat tenderizer among my kitchen tools. I can't pound pieces
on a cutting board, imagining my enemies, to make the fibers tender.

Home cooks' remedies include slathering the cuts with coarse salt, then
letting them rest an hour. They swear it makes even the cheapest cuts tender.

Some say trim off any remaining gristle, and bed the meat in a tray of fruit
puree. Sweet turns sour. Enzymes from the fruit will make the meat tender.

I once read that a spoonful of baking soda in water can soften squid
before cooking. I wonder if the same could work to make meat tender.

If you can't grill, cut the beef into pieces; sear them and stew in a dutch
oven. It may take hours until at last, like melting grief, the meat is fork-tender.

January 25, 2024February 5, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Milk-Drinking Ritual

This entry is part 1 of 11 in the series Rituals

first quench the eye’s lust for color
this is a fast of sorts

the earth must be buried
under any snow available

the glass of the glass
must be clear and clean

the milk whole and stolen
from long-suffering cows

lower don’t raise the filled glass
turn your back to the window

offer milk to each corner
of your grungy kitchen

watch your shadow lift
a shadow to its lips

January 25, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Underground art

At the office all the morning. Dined at home and Mr. Hater with me, and so I did make even with him for the last quarter. After dinner he and I to look upon the instructions of my Lord Northumberland’s, but we were interrupted by Mr. Salisbury’s coming in, who came to see me and to show me my Lord’s picture in little, of his doing. And truly it is strange to what a perfection he is come in a year’s time. From thence to Paul’s Churchyard about books, and so back again home. This night comes two cages, which I bought this evening for my canary birds, which Captain Rooth this day sent me. So to bed.

all the hate
for art to interrupt

I bury a picture
in a perfect yard

home is two cages
for canary birds

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 25 January 1660/61.

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

Surviving the Commute

One of my older daughters (the quietest one)
once confessed  that every now and then, driving
alone on the highway, she'll scream within 
the enclosure that's her car for no reason 
other than that she can. Call it what you will—
catharsis, relief from the ordinary crush of days,  
our lumbering through foibles as well as more pressing 
problems. The windows are up, and it doesn't last very long. 
Motorists on the road who happen to glance sideways 
might think she was simply singing along to the radio. 
In this, just as you've been taught, you keep your eyes 
on the road, your hands on the wheel. But no one ever
said anything about how to handle the bumper-
to-bumper traffic, stalled or coursing through you.