Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
At the office all morning, at noon Luellin dined with me, and then abroad to Fleet Street, leaving my wife at Tom’s while I went out and did a little business. So home again, and went to see Sir Robert, who continues ill, and this day has not spoke at all, which makes them all afeard of him. So home.
the morning din
road to street leaving
a little tin ear
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 24 October 1661.
To Whitehall, and there, to drink our morning, Sir W. Pen and I to a friend’s lodging of his (Collonell Treswell), and at noon he and I dined together alone at the Legg in King Street, and so by coach to Chelsy to my Lord Privy Seal’s about business of Sir William’s, in which we had a fair admittance to talk with my Lord, and had his answer, and so back to the Opera, and there I saw again “Love and Honour,” and a very good play it is. And thence home, calling by the way to see Sir Robert Slingsby, who continues ill, and so home.
This day all our office is invited against Tuesday next, my Lord Mayor’s day, to dinner with him at Guildhall. This evening Mr. Holliard came and sat with us, and gave us both directions to observe.
a drink and I
alone at the sea
an answer to love
calling in all directions
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 23 October 1661.
At the office all the morning, where we had a deputation from the Duke in his absence, he being gone to Portsmouth, for us to have the whole disposal and ordering of the Fleet. In the afternoon about business up and down, and at night to visit Sir R. Slingsby, who is fallen sick of this new disease, an ague and fever. So home after visiting my aunt Wight and Mrs. Norbury (who continues still a very pleasant lady), and to supper, and so to bed.
all the absence in one mouth
who is out at night
who is fallen
who continues
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 22 October 1661.
The penitent must perform certain acts besides prayer—
good works and pilgrimages— to receive an indulgence.
Even after forgiveness through confession, you're told
more is needed to restore the soul; hence, the indulgence.
This can sound confusing, even a little bit medieval, especially
when taking into account modern meanings of indulgence.
Even more confusing are those Catholic prayers called ejaculations:
utterances to direct the petitioner's mind to God, not as indulgence—
Eternal rest grant unto us, o Lord. Mother of Mercy, pray for us.
Queen of peace, pray for us. Do you ever feel prayer can be indulgent,
that it deflects attention away from the present, in favor of an
afterlife? Is there any shrine that isn't even a bit indulgent?
Another hospital has been bombed, another school, another
shelter. Mother of orphans, pray for us even as we indulge
in the privilege of leisure, a good cry, a walk by the sea.
Works of mercy and charity, acts of indulgence—
what's the purgatory of the soul, if this life already cycles between
trial and suffering? O my heart, desirous of grace and indulgence.
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: a head full of dreams, the stillness of a bell, big magic, an impish shadow, and more. Enjoy!
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 42”
Yes, there are likely more times
that color is only what tinges the curtains,
the paint in these rooms, or the eyes
of your lover. What else is there to think of ?
When you look at a broken bridge, the fire-
ravaged mountain, a flooded town,
yes, they are what they are, but they
are also all the ways in which you feel
fraught. In the impossibility of turning
away from circumstance, you want
to look for a sign, any sign, that fills
the hours with more than just
endlessness. Perhaps it holds out two
hands, and some possibility of choice.
Early with Mr. Moore by coach to Chelsy, to my Lord Privy Seal’s, but have missed of coming time enough; and having taken up Mr. Pargiter, the goldsmith (who is the man of the world that I do most know and believe to be a cheating rogue), we drank our morning draft there together of cake and ale, and did make good sport of his losing so much by the King’s coming in, he having bought much of Crown lands, of which, God forgive me! I am very glad. At Whitehall, at the Privy Seal, did with Sir W. Pen take advice about passing of things of his there that concern his matters of Ireland. Thence to the Wardrobe and dined, and so against my judgment and conscience (which God forgive, for my very heart knows that I offend God in breaking my vows herein) to the Opera, which is now newly begun to act again, after some alteracion of their scene, which do make it very much worse; but the play, “Love and Honour,” being the first time of their acting it, is a very good plot, and well done. So on foot home, and after a little business done in my study and supper, to bed.
I have missed enough
of the world I most believe in
we together losing
the land to war
against conscience my god
my new gun again
some love being
the one business
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 21 October 1661.
(Lord’s day). At home in bed all the morning to ease my late tumour, but up to dinner and much offended in mind at a proud trick my man Will hath got, to keep his hat on in the house, but I will not speak of it to him to-day; but I fear I shall be troubled with his pride and laziness, though in other things he is good enough. To church in the afternoon, where a sleepy Presbyter preached, and then to Sir W. Batten who is to go to Portsmouth to-morrow to wait upon the Duke of York, who goes to take possession and to set in order the garrison there. Supped at home and to bed.
at home as a tumor
a man is on the peak
with his pride and the ache
to take possession
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 20 October 1661.
Do you watch the color of the sky and how it looks
from the top of the hill where you live, how quietly
it moves and gathers damson plum and purple
verbena, the grey of doves' breasts, the breathing
of pine forests at night? I know how much we've
all suffered, are suffering still, though we barely speak
of it, or of anything else these days. This evening,
I went into the yard because I wanted to coil
branches of snipped rosemary into a wreath.
When I finished, night had fallen. I could barely see
to the end of the road. My fingers were scratched,
but suffused with such fragrance. Even after
I washed them in the sink, the haze followed me
beyond sleep, touching everything in its wake.
~ after Diane Seuss ("Coda")
The best donut in a box of store-bought donuts
is not glazed but plain, like a plain-spoken poem.
In the farmer's market, the best donut is the one
which doesn't smell like apple cider or pumpkin
spice. It's the one that isn't dusted with sanding
sugar or a cinnamon-cardamom mix. If it's sweet,
its sweetness lingers like the space where a hole
has been made in something that used to be
whole. In other words, whole doesn't always mean
unbroken, and broken doesn't always mean not good
anymore or of no further use. Sometimes whole is a body
that rose and was punched down once, twice, on the counter
or in a bowl. Whole means strands of gluten broken
down, souring in fermentation, then knit back together
to form an elastic structure. Tap it with a knife or your
finger. It's crisp and golden outside, soft on the inside.