Cold comforter

Sam Pepys and me

(Lord’s day). To church in the morning; Mr. Mills preached, who, I expect, should take in snuffe that my wife not come to his child’s christening the other day. The winter coming on, many of parish ladies are come home and appear at church again; among others, the three sisters the Thornbury’s, a very fine, and the most zealous people that ever I saw in my life, even to admiration, if it were true zeal. There was also my pretty black girl, Mrs. Dekins, and Mrs. Margaret Pen, this day come to church in a new flowered satin suit that my wife helped to buy her the other day.
So home to dinner, and to church in the afternoon to St. Gregory’s, by Paul’s, where I saw Mr. Moore in the gallery and went up to him and heard a good sermon of Dr. Buck’s, one I never heard before, a very able man. So home, and in the evening I went to my Valentine, her father and mother being out of town, to fetch her to supper to my house, and then came Sir W. Pen and would have her to his, so with much sport I got them all to mine, and we were merry, and so broke up and to bed.

I preach the winter coming on
the thorn in life

a true black flower
for the evening moth


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 6 October 1661.

Saturday in E-Mart

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
In E-Mart we find a box of brownskinned 
Chico or Sapodilla beside green bayabas

in plastic sleeves. The old Star
Margarine from your childhood

is in its familiar yellow plastic yellow tub, but now
goes under the label Star Classique. You still wonder

how tins of liver spread came to be named Reno;
how many times you ate breakfasts of fried egg

and Vienna sausages; if calavaza is the same as kabocha,
moringga the same as malunggay. The shelves

in every aisle are packed with jars and containers
inviting you to look, to listen for the crackle of crisps

through foil, to what bids you enter that space, trust you'll
recognize it if not by touch then by sight, smell, taste.

Ungodly

Sam Pepys and me

At the office all the morning, then dined at home, and so staid at home all the afternoon putting up my Lord’s model of the Royal James, which I borrowed of him long ago to hang up in my room. And at night Sir W. Pen and I alone to the Dolphin, and there eat some bloat-herrings and drank good sack. Then came in Sir W. Warren and another and staid a while with us, and then Sir Arnold Brames, with whom we staid late and till we had drank too much wine. So home and I to bed pleased at my afternoon’s work in hanging up the shipp. So to bed.

no Lord to hang
up in my room

alone I bloat
with too much wine


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 5 October 1661.

Incitement

Sam Pepys and me

By coach to White Hall with Sir W. Pen. So to Mr. Montagu, where his man, Mons. Eschar, makes a great complaint against the English, that they did help the Spaniards against the French the other day; and that their Embassador do demand justice of our King, and that he do resolve to be gone for France the next week; which I, and all that I met with, are very glad of. Thence to Paternoster Row, where my Will did receive the 50l. I borrowed yesterday. I to the Wardrobe to dinner, and there staid most of the afternoon very merry with the ladies. Then Captain Ferrers and I to the Theatre, and there came too late, so we staid and saw a bit of “Victoria,” which pleased me worse than it did the other day. So we staid not to see it out, but went out and drank a bottle or two of China ale, and so home, where I found my wife vexed at her people for grumbling to eat Suffolk cheese, which I also am vexed at. So to bed.

plain as a Pater Noster
the war stayed in a bottle
rumbling


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 4 October 1661.

Material

Sam Pepys and me

At the office all the morning; dined at home, and in the afternoon Mr. Moore came to me, and he and I went to Tower Hill to meet with a man, and so back all three to my house, and there I signed a bond to Mr. Battersby, a friend of Mr. Moore’s, who lends me 50l., the first money that ever I borrowed upon bond for my own occasion, and so I took them to the Mitre and a Portugal millon with me; there sat and discoursed in matters of religion till night with great pleasure, and so parted, and I home, calling at Sir W. Batten’s, where his son and his wife were, who had yesterday been at the play where we were, and it was good sport to hear how she talked of it with admiration like a fool. So home, and my head was not well with the wine that I drank to-day.

batter me with matter
o religion o art

we go well
with wine


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 3 October 1661.

Bones

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
It walks the shore, if walking can describe 
what the wind does to a body made of poly-
vinyl parts. It is intricate as a fossil assembly

holding court in the atrium of a museum
of natural history. Yet there are beings
whose forms we can't articulate,

because their bones washed away
or were entombed in glacial mud.
The wind is a bellows, the wind is a sail.

It fills the hollows of a body and spreads
an energy like life along each tensile node.
I know at least three people who have had

either hip or knee replacement surgery.
They talk about taking walks through
the neighborhood again, or even dancing.

Cleansed

Sam Pepys and me

All this morning at Pegg Kite’s with my uncle Fenner, and two friends of his, appraising her goods that her mother has left; but the slut is like to prove so troublesome that I am out of heart with troubling myself in her business. After we had done we all went to a cook’s shop in Bishopsgate Street and dined, and then I took them to the tavern and did give them a quart of sack, and so parted. I home and then took my wife out, and in a coach of a gentlewoman’s that had been to visit my Lady Batten and was going home again our way, we went to the Theatre, but coming late, and sitting in an ill place, I never had so little pleasure in a play in my life, yet it was the first time that ever I saw it, “Victoria Corombona.” Methinks a very poor play. Then at night troubled to get my wife home, it being very dark, and so we were forced to have a coach. So to supper and to bed.

all my unfriends sing
like a heart in a sack

so out of place
so little life

yet it was time to play night
to get dark


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 2 October 1661.

A Noose of Light

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
"...being alive, isn’t that the hardest joy?"
- Chen Chen



A poet wrote of the noose of catastrophe
looping and lowering around each brush
fire, each flood; each site of shooting,
mauling, erasure, loss. I do not think
she meant ropes fashioned of stars, or stars
festooned across a summer lawn, edging
our fences. This is not the noose a farmer
might drape around the neck of a cow, bell
tinkling as he leads it away from the pasture,
back into the barn. I know it seems hard to find
a noose of light that needs no other reason, really,
to fall around you, other than that's what it's meant
to do. But I have to imagine such light exists,
to which I'd willingly give myself; surrender.

Whose morning

Sam Pepys and me

This morning my wife and I lay long in bed, and among other things fell into talk of musique, and desired that I would let her learn to sing, which I did consider, and promised her she should. So before I rose, word was brought me that my singing master, Mr. Goodgroome, was come to teach me and so she rose and this morning began to learn also.
To the office, where busy all day. So to dinner and then to the office again till night, and then to my study at home to set matters and papers in order, which, though I can hardly bring myself to do, yet do please me much when it is done. So eat a bit of bread and cheese, and to bed.

is morning a red word
singing to each rose

is morning an office
to study a hard
bit of bread


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 1 October 1661.

Eye of the Storm

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
It is a day that glimmers like the inside 
of a fairy tale, one whose sky
is the color of a dented cauldron that won't
stop boiling and boiling so every
street in every town floods with oatmeal
or molasses dark as mud. You promised
to remember. It has been a day, no, several
days now. The animals have fled through
the torn brambles. People watch as houses
topple: their chicken legs bow in the swell
of water, and windows fold like postcards
on a revolving rack. A voice the size of an acorn
comes out of the dark. What will you surrender—
your comb, your pillow, your blue thread and needle?