Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Crepidotus Cinnabarinus
Against a landscape of decay,
any small particle of color
stands out like a flame.
Isn't that how you arrived
in my life, an unexpected
burgeoning I did not know
how to account for?
The sharp edges of your collar
smelled of soap and the memory
of their last rinsing.
Long ago, it was possible
to bathe in rain and not burn.
At the office all the morning; dined at home, and after dinner Sir W. Pen and my wife and I to the Theatre (she first going into Covent Garden to speak a word with a woman to enquire of her mother, and I in the meantime with Sir W. Pen’s coach staying at W. Joyce’s), where the King came to-day, and there was “The Traytor” most admirably acted; and a most excellent play it is. So home, and intended to be merry, it being my sixth wedding night; but by a late bruise in one of my testicles, I am in so much pain that I eat my supper and in pain to bed, yet my wife and I pretty merry.
word mother
staying the night
in one of my testicles
so much papa
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 10 October 1661.
Bolbitius titans
How could you be exhausted
before it is time to go,
how could you think
of leaving now?
But I know what it's like
to stand in the meadow,
slicked new, uncertain; then
lit by the sure burn of noon.
Crows in their dinner
jackets converge on almost
leafless trees—look at how much
loose change is on the ground.
This morning went out about my affairs, among others to put my Theorbo out to be mended, and then at noon home again, thinking to go with Sir Williams both to dinner by invitation to Sir W. Rider’s, but at home I found Mrs. Pierce, la belle, and Madam Clifford, with whom I was forced to stay, and made them the most welcome I could; and I was (God knows) very well pleased with their beautiful company, and after dinner took them to the Theatre, and shewed them “The Chances;” and so saw them both at home and back to the Fleece tavern, in Covent Garden, where Luellin and Blurton, and my old friend Frank Bagge, was to meet me, and there staid till late very merry. Frank Bagge tells me a story of Mrs. Pepys that lived with my Lady Harvy, Mr. Montagu’s sister, a good woman; that she had been very ill, and often asked for me; that she is in good condition, and that nobody could get her to make her will; but that she did still enquire for me, and that now she is well she desires to have a chamber at my house. Now I do not know whether this is a trick of Bagge’s, or a good will of hers to do something for me; but I will not trust her, but told him I should be glad to see her, and that I would be sure to do all that I could to provide a place for her. So by coach home late.
this morning air
made beautiful company
my old friend the body
could still have a use
this is a trick I trust
to provide for me
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 9 October 1661.
Chico: I can tell you why I never liked
this fruit with its rough-reptile skin
that smells like the breath of a drunk
who placed his face too near my own;
a space invasion. Chico: I was barely ten;
I have no clue who that person was and why
he pulled me from a bench with a gnarled
hand—unwelcome press in the center
of the square as a rondalla played tinkle-
tinkle music on a stage and no one thought
there could be any harm. This is how I learned
before language there is the skin of language,
its auras of meaning converging around you:
air like a stone, air like a chokehold, air like air.
At the office all the morning. After office done, went and eat some Colchester oysters with Sir W. Batten at his house, and there, with some company; dined and staid there talking all the afternoon; and late after dinner took Mrs. Martha out by coach, and carried her to the Theatre in a frolique, to my great expense, and there shewed her part of the “Beggar’s Bush,” without much pleasure, but only for a frolique, and so home again.
at the office we oysters
talk all afternoon
at the theater we beggars
only frolic
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 8 October 1661.
Bread multiplying inside a locked
ciborium, a tree bearing a scar
in the shape of the Virgin—
We want so badly to witness
miracles amid the distress of daily life.
More than these, for rooms to rise
from the rubble, and shelves of beautiful
books to reassemble from out of
libraries condemned to ash. If only
children could wake again in their beds
with no gash flowering down their sides;
if only lovers could lean over a bridge
to watch water softly stipple with fish,
the moon a lantern and not a warning flare.
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 voice the size of an acorn, a seahorse on a dander, dancing foxes, singing earthworms, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 40”
Up in the morning and to my uncle Fenner’s, thinking to have met Peg Kite about her business but she comes not, so I went to Dr. Williams, where I found him sick in bed and was sorry for it. So about business all day, troubled in my mind till I can hear from Brampton, how things go on at Sturtlow, at the Court, which I was cleared in at night by a letter, which tells me that my cozen Tom was there to be admitted, in his father’s name, as heir-at-law, but that he was opposed, and I was admitted by proxy, which put me out of great trouble of mind.
up a kite comes
where my mind can go
clear as the heir
of great trouble
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 7 October 1661.
What has happened to the soil, we ask,
that leather boots are melting; that wood
palings look passed through mouths toothed
with blades. And what has happened to passages
inland that used to shelter instead of shatter,
hillsides where we buried our dead, entrusting
them to the good, slow patience of years?
I cannot blame those who say they can't
bear to bring another life into this world,
raise a flag to some other idea of endurance.
These days even the sun seems to wear
a lighter coat of radiance, though a second
moon has quietly slipped into our orbit
as if in sympathy, for a little while.