Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
5.
If all narrative is a fiction
because it must be constructed,
what is the story we've been telling
about ourselves and the world
all this time?
With all who came before me
now gone into their own
underworld,
I sift through fragments.
They're gone, everyone
who I might have asked
to tell me a story.
Up by three o’clock this morning, and rode to Cambridge, and was there by seven o’clock, where, after I was trimmed, I went to Christ College, and found my brother John at eight o’clock in bed, which vexed me. Then to King’s College chappell, where I found the scholars in their surplices at the service with the organs, which is a strange sight to what it used in my time to be here. Then with Dr. Fairbrother (whom I met there) to the Rose tavern, and called for some wine, and there met fortunately with Mr. Turner of our office, and sent for his wife, and were very merry (they being come to settle their son here), and sent also for Mr. Sanchy, of Magdalen, with whom and other gentlemen, friends of his, we were very merry, and I treated them as well as I could, and so at noon took horse again, having taken leave of my cozen Angier, and rode to Impington, where I found my old uncle sitting all alone, like a man out of the world: he can hardly see; but all things else he do pretty lively. Then with Dr. John Pepys and him, I read over the will, and had their advice therein, who, as to the sufficiency thereof confirmed me, and advised me as to the other parts thereof.
Having done there, I rode to Gravely with much ado to inquire for a surrender of my uncle’s in some of the copyholders’ hands there, but I can hear of none, which puts me into very great trouble of mind, and so with a sad heart rode home to Brampton, but made myself as cheerful as I could to my father, and so to bed.
clock by clock
I found the time
to turn old
sitting alone
the world thin as a grave
for my old hands
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 15 July 1661.
4.
How much did I live in the body
and how much in the mind?
Because there was so much
I didn't know, I wanted to be
a good student.
And when I became a mother,
I learned what it was to feel
divested of a sense
of invincibility, though I knew
I never really had it.
I have always been
a light sleeper since then.
(Lord’s day). At home, and Robert Barnwell with us, and dined, and in the evening my father and I walked round Portholme and viewed all the fields, which was very pleasant. Thence to Hinchingbroke, which is now all in dirt, because of my Lord’s building, which will make it very magnificent. Back to Brampton, and to supper and to bed.
home and barn
and the evening fields
now all in dirt because of building
which will make a cent
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 14th July 1661
.
3.
In summer, the city swelled
with tourists from the lowlands.
I helped to row sometimes:
my back turned to the direction
the boat was going, feeling the pull
of the oars in my hands and wrists.
There was no need of fear
for the depth of water. Old fish
lurked in mossy corners, but if you
fell in and stood up, the water
barely grazed your upper thighs.
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: an outbreak of poetry, intimate retributions, fireflies speaking in sign language, the pursuit of happiness, and more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 27”
I fell to work, and my father to look over my uncle’s papers and clothes, and continued all this week upon that business, much troubled with my aunt’s base, ugly humours. We had news of Tom Trice’s putting in a caveat against us, in behalf of his mother, to whom my uncle hath not given anything, and for good reason therein expressed, which troubled us also. But above all, our trouble is to find that his estate appears nothing as we expected, and all the world believes; nor his papers so well sorted as I would have had them, but all in confusion, that break my brains to understand them. We missed also the surrenders of his copyhold land, without which the land would not come to us, but to the heir at law, so that what with this, and the badness of the drink and the ill opinion I have of the meat, and the biting of the gnats by night and my disappointment in getting home this week, and the trouble of sorting all the papers, I am almost out of my wits with trouble, only I appear the more contented, because I would not have my father troubled.
The latter end of the week Mr. Philips comes home from London, and so we advised with him and have the best counsel he could give us, but for all that we were not quiet in our minds.
uncle is in trouble
with news of his unreason
in all the papers
we surrender
to the biting of lips
unquiet in our minds
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th July 1661.
2.
We walked up the street
from our front gate to the park
and the lake named after
the American architect.
Whose idea was it to build
flat-bottomed rowboats?
They were there
even before my father thought
he would apply for a concession.
When it was approved, he named
our little fleet of six boats
after his two granddaughters.
They'd just learned
to walk, and now their names
glittered in fresh paint and letters
sewn onto the jackets of rowers.
(Lord’s day). In the morning my father and I walked in the garden and read the will; where, though he gives me nothing at present till my father’s death, or at least very little, yet I am glad to see that he hath done so well for us, all, and well to the rest of his kindred. After that done, we went about getting things, as ribbands and gloves, ready for the burial. Which in the afternoon was done; where, it being Sunday, all people far and near come in; and in the greatest disorder that ever I saw, we made shift to serve them what we had of wine and other things; and then to carry him to the church, where Mr. Taylor buried him, and Mr. Turners preached a funerall sermon, where he spoke not particularly of him anything, but that he was one so well known for his honesty, that it spoke for itself above all that he could say for it. And so made a very good sermon.
Home with some of the company who supped there, and things being quiet, at night to bed.
I and thou
at the death of love
one Sunday
serve what wine
we know could say
something quiet
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 7 July 1661.
1.
In the mountains,
city that a blueprint once turned
into a hill station. A palimpsest
of place names — beneath the road,
a river; beneath the river, a buried
tree whose nodes led to silver
and copper and gold.