Via Negativa

January 23, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Abstemious

To the office all the morning. My wife and people at home busy to get things ready for tomorrow’s dinner. At noon, without dinner, went into the City, and there meeting with Greatorex, we went and drank a pot of ale. He told me that he was upon a design to go to Teneriffe to try experiments there. With him to Gresham Colledge (where I never was before), and saw the manner of the house, and found great company of persons of honour there.
Thence to my bookseller’s, and for books, and to Stevens, the silversmith, to make clean some plate against to-morrow, and so home, by the way paying many little debts for wine and pictures, &c., which is my great pleasure.
Home and found all things in a hurry of business, Slater, our messenger, being here as my cook till very late.
I in my chamber all the evening looking over my Osborn’s works and new Emanuel Thesaurus Patriarchae.
So late to bed, having ate nothing to-day but a piece of bread and cheese at the ale-house with Greatorex, and some bread and butter at home.

a thin dinner
without a pot

the clean plate against
my pleasure as cook

born to nothing but a piece
of bread and cheese

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 23 January 1660/61.

January 23, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Good old days

To the Comptroller’s house, where I read over his proposals to the Lord Admiral for the regulating of the officers of the Navy, in which he hath taken much pains, only he do seem to have too good opinion of them himself. From thence in his coach to Mercer’s Chappell, and so up to the great hall, where we met with the King’s Councell for Trade, upon some proposals of theirs for settling convoys for the whole English trade, and that by having 33 ships (four fourth-rates, nineteen fifths, ten sixths) settled by the King for that purpose, which indeed was argued very finely by many persons of honour and merchants that were there.
It pleased me much now to come in this condition to this place, where I was once a petitioner for my exhibition in Paul’s School; and also where Sir G. Downing (my late master) was chairman, and so but equally concerned with me.
From thence home, and after a little dinner my wife and I by coach into London, and bought some glasses, and then to Whitehall to see Mrs. Fox, but she not within, my wife to my mother Bowyer, and I met with Dr. Thomas Fuller, and took him to the Dog, where he tells me of his last and great book that is coming out: that is, his History of all the Families in England; and could tell me more of my own, than I knew myself. And also to what perfection he hath now brought the art of memory; that he did lately to four eminently great scholars dictate together in Latin, upon different subjects of their proposing, faster than they were able to write, till they were tired.
And by the way in discourse tells me that the best way of beginning a sentence, if a man should be out and forget his last sentence (which he never was), that then his last refuge is to begin with an Utcunque.
From thence I to Mr. Bowyer’s, and there sat a while, and so to Mr. Fox’s, and sat with them a very little while, and then by coach home, and so to see Sir Win. Pen, where we found Mrs. Martha Batten and two handsome ladies more, and so we staid supper and were very merry, and so home to bed.

so much is unsettling now
where I was once in school

my wife a fox
and I a dog
perfect the art of memory

beginning a sentence
with a bow to the pen

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 22 January 1660/61.

January 22, 2024January 22, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 3

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, inclement weather kept many poets inside, blogging furiously. Some common themes include the winter itself; great poets and poems; and songs as poetry and vice versa. Enjoy and share.

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

In a Mutable Year

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Both deceased, I write in a form 
that asks me to certify who I am
by naming my parents. I do also
write their names: old-fashioned 
names I don't always hear anymore.  
He was born in 1913, when stainless 
steel and the zipper were invented, 
though people still rode around
in carriages— which made the cities
smell like horseshit. She was born 
in 1933, the month a ringleted, tap-
dancing five-year-old was signed 
to a Hollywood studio contract, 
and on the very day the radio 
was first patented. Between them,
two whole decades. I know the story
of how they first met, which like most 
other stories they told seemed unreal
and extravagant, but never fiction. 
Like them, I have what my dentist
calls a small mouth, making a history 
of teeth as closely packed as the over-
lapping stones leading to Machu Picchu.
I have a wire brace behind my lower
central incisors, to correct the gap
after one of the lateral incisors 
was extracted. When my father died
in the aftermath of an earthquake,
his cooling body lay on their bed
for two days until we could find 
a coffin. When my mother died, 
her caregivers washed and dressed her, 
and then her body went straight to 
the crematorium. The new year
doesn't feel new anymore, until
the lunar new year. Already, there are 
festive cakes in red and gold tins at
the Asian groceries. This is supposed 
to be the Year of the Dragon, a year 
predicted to bring change, opportunity, 
and challenge. I don't  remember 
who said predictions are hard to make,
especially about the future.

January 21, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Old salt

This morning Sir W. Batten, the Comptroller and I to Westminster-hall, to the Commissioners for paying off the Army and Navy, where the Duke of Albemarle was; and we sat with our hats on, and did discourse about paying off the ships and do find that they do intend to undertake it without our help; and we are glad of it, for it is a work that will much displease the poor seamen, and so we are glad to have no hand in it.
From thence to the Exchequer, and took 200l. and carried it home, and so to the office till night, and then to see Sir W. Pen, whither came my Lady Batten and her daughter, and then I sent for my wife, and so we sat talking till it was late. So home to supper and then to bed, having eat no dinner to-day.
It is strange what weather we have had all this winter; no cold at all; but the ways are dusty, and the flyes fly up and down, and the rose-bushes are full of leaves, such a time of the year as was never known in this world before here. This day many more of the Fifth Monarchy men were hanged.

I miss the navy
where we sat

with our hats on
under the sea

glad to have the night
and no strange weather

winter dust and flies
and the rose-bush
full of leaves

a time of year
never known
in this world before

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 21 January 1660/61.

January 21, 2024January 21, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Madrigal with Cicada Chorus

Picture the emergence of a trillion zinging
bodies, up through damp earth after

long seasons of fumbling, seventeen years
each cycle. Abundance and ambition, their bugle

cries the signal of readiness to mate. XIII 
and XIX (largest of all broods) shed their carapace    
 
in the process of growing adult bodies and wings.   
They’re vulnerable in between states, but doggedly

tuned to the frequencies of fate. Before you can say vacation, 
they’ll mate, lay eggs, then die— A story just as exquisite

as any long-drawn out romantic tragedy. Carpe diem, use
it or lose it; though really, we lose it all at the end. Frenzy
 
of desire in the face of extinction; whirlwind courtship, then
off to the Chapel of Love in Vegas. Red-eyed and glossy-

veined, just days later you come across discarded suits,
torn bouquets of fishnet stockings, casino tokens. Hafiz

said, Even though the drunkenness of love has ruined
me, my being’s built upon those ruins for eternity. Icing

spackles the slice of cake in the freezer—quaint 
custom we have for marking anniversaries. By July,

the escalated rasp of tymbals in the trees gradually peters
out. Soon it’s time to harvest radish, potatoes, and kabocha

before wintering. Migrating flocks raise their muted oboes   
as they disappear from view, and the cycles of labor

and love begin anew. Bank fires, shelter the coals. Nesting   
with yourself means forbearance, the tempering of melismas.

January 20, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Body of Christ

(Lord’s day). To Church in the morning. Dined at home. My wife and I to Church in the afternoon, and that being done we went to see my uncle and aunt Wight. There I left my wife and came back, and sat with Sir W. Pen, who is not yet well again. Thence back again to my wife and supped there, and were very merry and so home, and after prayers to write down my journall for the last five days, and so to bed.

church in the morning
church in the afternoon

do we seem clean
I am a well

in every merry prayer
for the sand

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 20 January 1660/61.

January 20, 2024January 19, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Complex Geometries

Relevance is a question that bubbles 
up now and again. In an elevator

packed with people, I sometimes wonder
if they would read me; if my particulars 

resonate enough for them to remember. 
The doors close and open. At a party, 

I linger near the table of cocktail 
shrimp and dip, refill my plate, listen 

to revealing conversations around me. 
I try to do what our hosts say as they prowl 

the room—Enjoy!  How to find space amid
spheres of ever-shifting fractals, and how I want

to believe no branch or starry bifurcation 
could ever be merely identical to the next.

January 19, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Sled run

To the Comptroller’s, and with him by coach to White Hall; in our way meeting Venner and Pritchard upon a sledge, who with two more Fifth Monarchy men were hanged to-day, and the two first drawn and quartered. Where we walked up and down, and at last found Sir G. Carteret, whom I had not seen a great while, and did discourse with him about our assisting the Commissioners in paying off the Fleet, which we think to decline. Here the Treasurer did tell me that he did suspect Thos. Hater to be an informer of them in this work, which we do take to be a diminution of us, which do trouble me, and I do intend to find out the truth.
Hence to my Lady, who told me how Mr. Hetley is dead of the small-pox going to Portsmouth with my Lord. My Lady went forth to dinner to her father’s, and so I went to the Leg in King Street and had a rabbit for myself and my Will, and after dinner I sent him home and myself went to the Theatre, where I saw “The Lost Lady,” which do not please me much. Here I was troubled to be seen by four of our office clerks, which sat in the half-crown box and I in the 1s. 6d.
From thence by link, and bought two mouse traps of Thomas Pepys, the Turner, and so went and drank a cup of ale with him, and so home and wrote by post to Portsmouth to my Lord and so to bed.

white way
on a sled

down as fleet
as my rabbit self

in a heat
not seen at home

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 19 January 1660/61.

January 19, 2024January 18, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Poem Which Wants to Banish Encroaching Cold

The sounds of dishes washed in the sink, the smell of coffee brewing. 
      In the dining room, last night I talked with an old friend on Zoom—
my former college Philosophy teacher, now approaching his eighth 
      decade, hair gone grey and sparse but face still youthful. All around, 
books and papers spill over shelves and counters. Winter shadows 
      frost the window panes. He used to study beads among highland 
tribes: smoky agates, striped jasper, cloudy carnelian—heirlooms 
       passed down in families, until dire straits forced their sale. Likewise, 
I've wished to leave meaningful objects with those I love. I have a pair 
       of Kalinga earrings, discs of mother-of-pearl; a beaded T'boli blouse, 
a few bits of abaca fabric embroidered by hand. Beside the kitchen clock,
       a carved granary god with sooty countenance sits, unaware that the heat 
in our house has gone out. Winter without, wintry within. We feel it in our 
      bones, hunting for some  bright amulet whose light won't go out.

(for Benjie Abellera)