Via Negativa

February 24, 2024February 24, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

First, Last

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Today I heard someone say it's better to live
       every day as if it were the first, rather than 
last—To think of the moment as if it were 
      the first sunrise cresting the rim of the hills, 
the first egg you cracked on the rim of the pan 
       before anyone else was awake; the first 
prayer mouthed before the first whiff of coffee, 
       before a cloud of white phosphorus spread
through the neighborhood in the wake of dumb 
       bombs. So many firsts now in rubble—at first 
they were dancing in the kitchen, working  
      on a new coloring page, or tasting a treat 
before being tucked, protesting, into bed.

February 24, 2024January 11, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Eschatology Ritual

This entry is part 8 of 11 in the series Rituals

the end is far
fetched and fletched

with the iridescent darkness
of starling feathers

an aftermath of statistics
warring stories and desecrated graves

this year in Gaza
or next year in Jerusalem

the end is far
from everything we think

when we wish
upon a starvation

drop two bunker-buster
bombs before bed

side-effects may include
nausea guilt mass carnage

the end is foreign
to the 24-hour news cycle

spinning new gossamer clothes
from faith alone

February 24, 2024 by Dave Bonta

(Sunday). Mr. Mills made as excellent a sermon in the morning against drunkenness as ever I heard in my life. I dined at home; another good one of his in the afternoon. My Valentine had her fine gloves on at church to-day that I did give her.
After sermon my wife and I unto Sir Wm. Batten and sat awhile. Then home, I to read, then to supper and to bed.

sun-drunk
as ever in my life

after love I give
my wife up

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 24 February 1660/61.

February 23, 2024February 23, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Anniversary

 "...Walk into / the center of everything."
                                               ~ January Gill O'Neil


Altogether, I have been married forty years—
fifteen in a union that broke,  bit by bit until 
the inevitable, even without a formal name to it. I left 
that skin behind. Never thought I would do it again, 
but here I am. Twenty-five this year,  with a man who fit 
his fortunes to mine. We live in a green house fronted 
by a pair of Japanese maples, with a bright orange love 
seat in a room wall-papered with books and the hearts 
of plants spilling generously out of themselves. Laundry 
unsorted, coffee and noodles in the pantry, the entry 
adorned with favorite coats. We remember the thrift 
store find of a coffeetable, what we wore when we 
stood on the boardwalk that burnished day. Cake 
slicer in the drawer, file folders of the bankrupt years. 
Keepsakes we can't bear to throw away.  Everywhere, 
evidence of undimmed desire for life in this world.

February 23, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Changeling

This my birthday, 28 years.
This morning Sir W. Batten, Pen, and I did some business, and then I by water to Whitehall, having met Mr. Hartlibb by the way at Alderman Backwell’s. So he did give me a glass of Rhenish wine at the Steeleyard, and so to Whitehall by water. He continues of the same bold impertinent humour that he was always of and will ever be. He told me how my Lord Chancellor had lately got the Duke of York and Duchess, and her woman, my Lord Ossory’s and a Doctor, to make oath before most of the judges of the kingdom, concerning all the circumstances of their marriage. And in fine, it is confessed that they were not fully married till about a month or two before she was brought to bed; but that they were contracted long before, and time enough for the child to be legitimate. But I do not hear that it was put to the judges to determine whether it was so or no.
To my Lord and there spoke to him about his opinion of the Light, the sea-mark that Captain Murford is about, and do offer me an eighth part to concern myself with it, and my Lord do give me some encouragement in it, and I shall go on. I dined herewith Mr. Shepley and Howe. After dinner to Whitehall Chappell with Mr. Child, and there did hear Captain Cooke and his boy make a trial of an Anthem against tomorrow, which was brave musique.
Then by water to Whitefriars to the Play-house, and there saw “The Changeling,” the first time it hath been acted these twenty years, and it takes exceedingly. Besides, I see the gallants do begin to be tyred with the vanity and pride of the theatre actors who are indeed grown very proud and rich.
Then by link home, and there to my book awhile and to bed.
I met to-day with Mr. Townsend, who tells me that the old man is yet alive in whose place in the Wardrobe he hopes to get my father, which I do resolve to put for.
I also met with the Comptroller, who told me how it was easy for us all, the principal officers, and proper for us, to labour to get into the next Parliament; and would have me to ask the Duke’s letter, but I shall not endeavour it because it will spend much money, though I am sure I could well obtain it. This is now 28 years that I am born. And blessed be God, in a state of full content, and great hopes to be a happy man in all respects, both to myself and friends.

my birthday is water
into a waterway

enough for the child
of light the changeling

grown in my place
I am sure I could
be happy

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 23 February 1660/61.

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

Rest

As a child, sometimes I'd lay my cheek
               on the desk and press my ear to the wood's
coolness. I'd pretend the clicking and scraping 
               I heard (echoes from other movements
around me) were proof of life beneath the surface
               —an army of ants or microscopic beetles 
carving roads, lifting stone out of hidden quarries,
                building settlements. Because if you listen 
hard even now, there are residues of sound 
                fallng inside the architecture of every 
stillness. And there are also long, rich pauses 
                akin to the quiet of sleep, which is what
others thought my bent head meant—a child
                always caught in the throes of dream.

February 22, 2024February 22, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Mill Town

the morning’s only cloud
rises from the paper mill

beside the bypass
with its thump-thump of tires

going elsewhere at seventy
miles per hour

as death comes
to a white-footed mouse

struggling in a trap
spring dulled by rust

the wide-screen tv
still in sleep mode

below the old skull mount
twelve antler points scored

by rodent teeth
a hat-rack now

zebra stripes of road salt
out on his black truck

and a cracked rib that aches
when they hug

only to pull apart
gazing up wordless

as silver syllables tumble down
from tundra swans

it was just then
she’ll tell you years later

craning my neck I felt
your first kick

February 22, 2024February 22, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Gossiped

All the morning at the office. At noon with my wife and Pall to my father’s to dinner, where Dr. Thos. Pepys and my coz Snow and Joyce Norton. After dinner came The. Turner, and so I home with her to her mother, good woman, whom I had not seen through my great neglect this half year, but she would not be angry with me. Here I staid all the afternoon talking of the King’s being married, which is now the town talk, but I believe false.
In the evening Mrs. The. and Joyce took us all into the coach home, calling in Bishopsgate Street, thinking to have seen a new Harpsicon that she had a making there, but it was not done, and so we did not see it. Then to my home, where I made very much of her, and then she went home. Then my wife to Sir W. Batten’s, and there sat a while; he having yesterday sent my wife half-a-dozen pairs of gloves, and a pair of silk stockings and garters, for her Valentine’s gift.
Then home and to bed.

snow in my ear
not the town talk

false harps making
so much of yesterday

my half-dozen loves
an air of silk

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 22 February 1660/61.

February 21, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Reconstruction

To Westminster by coach with Sir W. Pen, and in our way saw the city begin to build scaffolds against the Coronacion. To my Lord, and there found him out of doors. So to the Hall and called for some caps that I have a making there, and here met with Mr. Hawley, and with him to Will’s and drank, and then by coach with Mr. Langley our old friend into the city. I set him down by the way, and I home and there staid all day within, having found Mr. Moore, who staid with me till late at night talking and reading some good books. Then he went away, and I to bed.

a way to build scaffolds
out of doors

for all
who go away

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 21 February 1660/61.

February 20, 2024February 20, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Relevance

There are times you wonder if the things 
            you say in the classroom make the kind 

of sense you want to make— if you spoke
            clearly, without stumbling, of ideas 

that filled you with such excitement when you 
           first read or learned them— You know 

how hard it is to let someone in, how hard 
           to come close to another's experience; know 

how most times it's skirt and dodge, no eye contact,  
           fine thank you. What use is language then? 

At home, you stand at the sink and lick the batter 
          off the spatula to taste the sugars before they 

were cooked, to see if you can find a trail of salt,  
           some indissoluble essence at the heart of things.