Via Negativa

January 9, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Eliminationist

Waked in the morning about six o’clock, by people running up and down in Mr. Davis’s house, talking that the Fanatiques were up in arms in the City. And so I rose and went forth; where in the street I found every body in arms at the doors. So I returned (though with no good courage at all, but that I might not seem to be afeared), and got my sword and pistol, which, however, I had no powder to charge; and went to the door, where I found Sir R. Ford, and with him I walked up and down as far as the Exchange, and there I left him. In our way, the streets full of Train-band, and great stories, what mischief these rogues have done; and I think near a dozen have been killed this morning on both sides. Seeing the city in this condition, the shops shut, and all things in trouble, I went home and sat, it being office day, till noon. So home, and dined at home, my father with me, and after dinner he would needs have me go to my uncle Wight’s (where I have been so long absent that I am ashamed to go). I found him at home and his wife, and I can see they have taken my absence ill, but all things are past and we good friends, and here I sat with my aunt till it was late, my uncle going forth about business. My aunt being very fearful to be alone. So home to my lute till late, and then to bed, there being strict guards all night in the City, though most of the enemies, they say, are killed or taken. This morning my wife and Pall went forth early, and I staid within.

morning in the city
a body at the door

with no good word
the streets full of rain

stories have been killed
on both sides

seeing all we need
as the absence of enemies

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 9 January 1660/61.

January 9, 2024January 6, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Being Here

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Lately, my favorite words are those that make
me feel the textures of things: cotton and copper,

eggshell, seagrass; waxed flax thread, bone folder, 
crease. When I am folding paper and cutting book 

board, the edge of the blade moving over the surface
makes a sound like a miniature zipper, only softer. 

Steam from the rice cooker scents the air.
Night drops its paper screen over the windows.

The shape of time softens into a spool, a bowl,
a box I made to hold a pair of tingsha bells 

joined by a leather cord. When their edges 
strike against each other, a clear ringing

radiates across the room. I notice the rain
falling in bright beaded strings outside.

January 8, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Enabler

My wife and I lay very long in bed to-day talking and pleasing one another in discourse. Being up, Mr. Warren came, and he and I agreed for the deals that my Lord is to have. Then Will and I to Westminster, where I dined with my Lady. After dinner I took my Lord Hinchinbroke and Mr. Sidney to the Theatre, and shewed them “The Widdow,” an indifferent good play, but wronged by the women being to seek in their parts. That being done, my Lord’s coach waited for us, and so back to my Lady’s, where she made me drink of some Florence wine, and did give me two bottles for my wife. From thence walked to my cozen Stradwick’s, and there chose a small banquet and some other things against our entertainment on Thursday next. Thence to Tom Pepys and bought a dozen of trenchers, and so home.
Some talk to-day of a head of Fanatiques that do appear about Barnett, but I do not believe it.
However, my Lord Mayor, Sir Richd. Browne, hath carried himself very honourably, and hath caused one of their meeting-houses in London to be pulled down.

my wife and I sing
the wrong parts

one drink
in two bottles

to things in her head
that I do not believe

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 8 January 1660/61.

January 8, 2024January 6, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Mystery

How many words can you think of 
in which you can change one letter

and make the meaning of a thing turn
over on itself? I mean like laughter 

and slaughter, mastery and mystery;
blight and light. Sometimes I think I see

one bird out of the corner of my eye,  
then with a flick one wing turns into ten, 

twenty, a hundred reeling across the gold-
blue evening. What is a word but a memory, 

every grain also a small grace? A wafer 
to lay on your tongue; an ocean bringing 

bits of shell and tumbled glass, bones,
husks, rock salt filtered through ashes.

January 7, 2024January 11, 2025 by Dave Bonta

Feast of the Epiphany

the snow has come you whisper
and I need to get naked

but what does that mean
six-sided and feather-light

or blank as a questionnaire
for the illiterate

it’s time to settle
into a down comforter

and begin to unsay
unnecessary things

for the snow comes
not to cover but to reveal

the woods i thought i knew
laid out like a banquet

January 7, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Silent night

This morning, news was brought to me to my bedside, that there had been a great stir in the City this night by the Fanatiques, who had been up and killed six or seven men, but all are fled. My Lord Mayor and the whole City had been in arms, above 40,000. To the office, and after that to dinner, where my brother Tom came and dined with me, and after dinner (leaving 12d. with the servants to buy a cake with at night, this day being kept as Twelfth day) Tom and I and my wife to the Theatre, and there saw “The Silent Woman.” The first time that ever I did see it, and it is an excellent play. Among other things here, Kinaston, the boy; had the good turn to appear in three shapes: first, as a poor woman in ordinary clothes, to please Morose; then in fine clothes, as a gallant, and in them was clearly the prettiest woman in the whole house, and lastly, as a man; and then likewise did appear the handsomest man in the house. From thence by link to my cozen Stradwick’s, where my father and we and Dr. Pepys, Scott, and his wife, and one Mr. Ward and his; and after a good supper, we had an excellent cake, where the mark for the Queen was cut, and so there was two queens, my wife and Mrs. Ward; and the King being lost, they chose the Doctor to be King, so we made him send for some wine, and then home, and in our way home we were in many places strictly examined, more than in the worst of times, there being great fears of these Fanatiques rising again: for the present I do not hear that any of them are taken.
Home, it being a clear moonshine and after 12 o’clock at night. Being come home we found that my people had been very merry, and my wife tells me afterwards that she had heard that they had got young Davis and some other neighbours with them to be merry, but no harm.

who killed the night
this silent thing

an ordinary rose
in the prettiest hand

war after war
in lost places

the rising moon and you
with no arm

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 7 January 1660/61.

January 7, 2024January 6, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

A poet once said to write a dream is cheating

—if that's so, then every poem must be some kind 
of fraud or a lie. But when I woke to the news of your 
silence, who's to say I did not actually limp through 
the grass like a wounded fox or fly through the air 
as a small, soft creature snatched up in a raptor's 
claws? All the time, we have conversations with 
ourselves or with others in our minds. Which is to say 
even these are a kind of dream of hunting the right kind
of language that can sigh like a soft rain before dawn, 
or lisp like the lost string of a mandolin that someone
is trying to tune in the next room. Joy is a dream
and grief is a dream: their tassels sway against 
each other, each with impossible softness.

January 6, 2024January 6, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Epiphany Eve

in the January silence
my camera’s shutter
makes me jump

the sun is bright on the boulders
grains of old snow
rain down

from acrobatic birches
and oaks stretched out like yogis

filling in the sky
over floors of lichen-
clad quartzite

i sit with my back against
a tall white pine
gazing at its companion

how the plates of bark interlock
their endless variations in shape

and the woodpecker wounds
that have bled
extravagant white rivers

a raven spots
my red cap as usual
and gives my position away

the sun threads a weft of cirrus
it’s Epiphany Eve

i find fresh feather-
coats of ice
on all the woodland pools

where the trees’
shrunken images
have turned jagged and Cubist

while their high drama goes on
even in their present absence

a red-tailed hawk
sails past emitting
its eagle scream

an oak with a massive rack of limbs
can offer
travelers a perch

or frame a view
of the next mountain

so much like this one
except it faces us

and suddenly i see
how a vista
can be a mirror

the kind we’ve always wanted
that keeps its distance

here among the trees
i am glad just
to be in this body

the day before
a forecast snowstorm
to walk forest roads

that lead nowhere in particular
and take their time

January 6, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Red letter day

(Lord’s day).
My wife and I to church this morning, and so home to dinner to a boiled leg of mutton all alone.
To church again, where, before sermon, a long Psalm was set that lasted an hour, while the sexton gathered his year’s contribucion through the whole church.
After sermon home, and there I went to my chamber and wrote a letter to send to Mr. Coventry, with a piece of plate along with it, which I do preserve among my other letters.
So to supper, and thence after prayers to bed.

my wife is an oiled
leg of church
a long psalm

sex a red letter
I preserve among
my other prayers

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 6 January 1660/61 (a slight revision from 2014).

January 6, 2024January 5, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Four

So soon after the start 
of a new year and I'm trying 
         not to think of sad

*

Green crysanthemums
in a tall glass of water help
        to change the tempo of the room

*

When I get up for a glass of water
at four in the morning, I remember
       breastfeeding my babies at that hour

*

Their little mouths were full
of hunger and pleasure, 
       everything at the same time