Via Negativa

December 25, 2023December 23, 2023 by Luisa A. Igloria

In the morning to the office and Commissioner Pett (who seldom comes there) told me that he had lately presented a piece of plate (being a couple of flaggons) to Mr. Coventry, but he did not receive them, which also put me upon doing the same too; and so after dinner I went and chose a payre of candlesticks to be made ready for me at Alderman Backwell’s. To the office again in the afternoon till night, and so home, and with the painters till 10 at night, making an end of my house and the arch before my door, and so this night I was rid of them and all other work, and my house was made ready against to-morrow being Christmas day. This day the Princess Royal died at Whitehall.

I miss being a couple
a pair of candles

made to paint the night
a Christmas white

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 24 December 1660.

December 24, 2023December 22, 2023 by Luisa A. Igloria

By Whatever Light

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Things we don't want to disappear: what 
do we turn them into? The girl's father 

wanted to keep her safe, and watched as she turned 
into a tree. The one forbidden to show his true 

nature begged to shield his face from any kind 
of light. But the heart has a habit of pressing 

forward despite whatever obstacle—We've all been 
caught there, furtively dropping the oil of our desire 

on the beloved's shoulder. All for a glimpse of the self 
without adornment, without calculation or pretense.

December 23, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Graffito

(Lord’s day). In the morning to Church, where our pew all covered with rosemary and baize. A stranger made a dull sermon.
Home and found my wife and maid with much ado had made shift to spit a great turkey sent me this week from Charles Carter, my old colleague, now minister in Huntingdonshire, but not at all roasted, and so I was fain to stay till two o’clock, and after that to church with my wife, and a good sermon there was, and so home.
All the evening at my book, and so to supper and to bed.

the wall covered
with a strange sermon

a key but no lock
to go in my book

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 23 December 1660.

December 23, 2023December 22, 2023 by Luisa A. Igloria

Every bird sings with the shadow of your voice.

Every bird sings with the shadow of your voice.
I hear it in the dark hours before morning,

or as a leaf of a different color in the hubbub
of the day. It siphons the air like a flute,

before joining the chorus of domestic machines.
You have to believe in it to hear. It seems nothing,

but it's there in the understory. I don't necessarily want 
it to be any louder. I just don't want it to disappear.

December 22, 2023December 23, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Winter Bells

high above the town
a tree rests on a black stone of sap

like an exclamation mark
for a life sentence

or the old hearth and chimney
that i found yesterday

standing alone
deep in the state forest

we are confronted by the absent
the deciduous undead

drained of sap
immune to the provocations of sunlight

their pantomimes of desire
reduced to mere architecture

while stones dance
through freeze and thaw

all winter long now
rocking in their cradles of leaves

the day after the solstice
the sun reappears

in the dark ice-free end
of a woodland pool

for a long moment just after noon
amid the clamor of bells

December 22, 2023December 22, 2023 by Luisa A. Igloria

Tale

Perhaps the parts of me you've cut off 
have become myth. Some kind of story,
at least: where did she go? why 
doesn't she write or call? The train
is stalled again at the intersection:
one either waits indefinitely, or finds
a way to leave the line. We used to read
stories about a changeling left in the night, 
while the girl that was taken was wed 
in the underworld. The ice baby sobbed
its heart out and as soon as it could,
ran into the yard to bay at the hills.
Or perhaps it was the mother 
taken away? I can't remember right
sometimes. But here we are in the middle
of the wood again. Finally the train
has moved on. The town looks
dusted with sugar. The trees 
are brittle with change. Every bird
sings with the shadow of your voice.

December 22, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Entertainment district

All the morning with my painters, who will make an end of all this day I hope. At noon I went to the Sun tavern; on Fish Street hill, to a dinner of Captn. Teddimans, where was my Lord Inchiquin (who seems to be a very fine person), Sir W. Pen, Captn. Cuttance, and one Mr. Lawrence (a fine gentleman now going to Algiers), and other good company, where we had a very fine dinner, good musique, and a great deal of wine. We staid here very late, at last Sir W. Pen and I home together, he so overcome with wine that he could hardly go; I was forced to lead him through the streets and he was in a very merry and kind mood. I home (found my house clear of the workmen and their work ended), my head troubled with wine, and I very merry went to bed, my head akeing all night.

morning will make
an end of the street

as an on-going music
we pen together

hard as the work
aching all night

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 22 December 1660.

December 21, 2023December 21, 2023 by Luisa A. Igloria

Winter Sun

Decades ago, when I first arrived here, people 
wouldn't stop talking about the volcano 

that had just erupted, tearing a seam 
in the atmosphere. Thanks to your volcano,

they said, we'll probably have the coldest winter. 
Here in the south, it's freezing but there isn't 

any snow. The billows still billow at the shore. 
Spangles of light filter through marsh grass 

and pine, falling through windows to make 
swatches on the floor. I've just learned the name 

for this warmth of the sun in winter: apricity. 
Where I grew up, I knew only two  seasons, rainy 

and dry. I don't know the name for the warmth 
of the sun there, at this same time of year.

December 21, 2023 by Dave Bonta

Rebirth

By water to Whitehall (leaving my wife at Whitefriars going to my father’s to buy her a muff and mantle), there I signed many things at the Privy Seal, and carried 200l. from thence to the Exchequer, and laid it up with Mr. Hales, and afterwards took him and W. Bowyer to the Swan and drank with them. They told me that this is St. Thomas’s, and that by an old custom, this day the Exchequer men had formerly, and do intend this night to have a supper; which if I could I promised to come to, but did not.
To my Lady’s, and dined with her: she told me how dangerously ill the Princess Royal is and that this morning she was said to be dead. But she hears that she hath married herself to young Jermyn, which is worse than the Duke of York’s marrying the Chancellor’s daughter, which is now publicly owned.
After dinner to the office all the afternoon. At seven at night I walked through the dirt to Whitehall to see whether my Lord be come to town, and I found him come and at supper, and I supped with him. He tells me that my aunt at Brampton has voided a great stone (the first time that ever I heard she was troubled therewith) and cannot possibly live long, that my uncle is pretty well, but full of pain still.
After supper home and to bed.

leaving the sea
to a swan

by old custom this night
is said to be dead

but marrying the dirt
my own stone can live

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 21 December 1660.