When you say mahal
instead of mahal kita
you might not be aware
you've just complained
about how much it costs
to give instead of take.
Love
Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 22
A personal selection of posts from around the Anglophone blogosphere, including Substack, with a commitment to following a somewhat haphazardly chosen selection of poets, poetry lovers, literary critics and publishers over time. 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 sequestered egg, phrenology’s adhesiveness, the rustle of blood, dancing chickens, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 22”The angel of history
(Lord’s day). Lay long in bed talking with my wife, and do plainly see that her distaste (which is beginning now in her again) against Ashwell arises from her jealousy of me and her, and my neglect of herself, which indeed is true, and I to blame; but for the time to come I will take care to remedy all.
So up and to church, where I think I did see Pembleton, whatever the reason is I did not perceive him to look up towards my wife, nor she much towards him; however, I could hardly keep myself from being troubled that he was there, which is a madness not to be excused now that his coming to my house is past, and I hope all likelyhood of her having occasion to converse with him again.
Home to dinner, and after dinner up and read part of the new play of “The Five Houres’ Adventures,” which though I have seen it twice; yet I never did admire or understand it enough, it being a play of the greatest plot that ever I expect to see, and of great vigour quite through the whole play, from beginning to the end.
To church again after dinner (my wife finding herself ill of her months did not go), and there the Scot preaching I slept most of the sermon.
This day Sir W. Batten’s son’s child is christened in the country, whither Sir J. Minnes, and Sir W. Batten, and Sir W. Pen are all gone. I wonder, and take it highly ill that I am not invited by the father, though I know his father and mother, with whom I am never likely to have much kindness, but rather I study the contrary, are the cause of it, and in that respect I am glad of it. Being come from church, I to make up my month’s accounts, and find myself clear worth 726l., for which God be praised, but yet I might have been better by 20l. almost had I forborne some layings out in dancing and other things upon my wife, and going to plays and other things merely to ease my mind as to the business of the dancing-master, which I bless God is now over and I falling to my quiet of mind and business again, which I have for a fortnight neglected too much.
This month the greatest news is, the height and heat that the Parliament is in, in enquiring into the revenue, which displeases the Court, and their backwardness to give the King any money. Their enquiring into the selling of places do trouble a great many among the chief, my Lord Chancellor (against whom particularly it is carried), and Mr. Coventry; for which I am sorry. The King of France was given out to be poisoned and dead; but it proves to be the measles: and he is well, or likely to be soon well again.
I find myself growing in the esteem and credit that I have in the office, and I hope falling to my business again will confirm me in it, and the saving of money which God grant!
So to supper, prayers, and bed.
My whole family lying longer this morning than was fit, and besides Will having neglected to brush my clothes, as he ought to do, till I was ready to go to church, and not then till I bade him, I was very angry, and seeing him make little matter of it, but seeming to make it a matter indifferent whether he did it or no, I did give him a box on the ear, and had it been another day should have done more. This is the second time I ever struck him.
a plain taste
to time past
the play of hours
never enough
if no wonder
is ever over
and the backwardness
of the dead
like hope lying long
in a little box
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 31 May 1663.
It was
the sense of having reached the limit. Or even
gone beyond. How to explain to someone else
when your basic condition is knowing you barely
have words for things in this universe? I try to strip
the shelves of my excesses. Why did I need more
than one pen, one bottle of ink? Once, I promised
to write real letters, real postcards. Take them
to the post office for stamps. Once, this space
we took over was furnished mostly in sunlight
and dust. I know it is always too much to ask
for happiness. The ideal thing is to let it come
to you like an animal pushing a wet nose into
your palm, its breath twitchy as your own,
each of you as surprised as the other.
It was
bold as can be. It slunk under the fence
and circled the tree, unfazed by a patio
full of people nearby. It wasn't even
the beginning of summer. A blue
moon was rising in the sky. Everything
was yet again only doing what it was
meant to do. On the radio, someone
explained the origin of the phrase
will-o-the-wisp— fleeting and
atmospheric, fairy light, ghost
light. If we waved a torch at
the creature, would it retreat?
My bones feel hollow tonight,
and yet they pin me to the ground.
Sea of reeds
Up betimes, and Creed and I by water to Fleet Street, and my brother not being ready, he and I walked to the New Exchange, and there drank our morning draught of whay, the first I have done this year; but I perceive the lawyers come all in as they go to the Hall, and I believe it is very good.
So to my brother’s, and there I found my aunt James, a poor, religious, well-meaning, good soul, talking of nothing but God Almighty, and that with so much innocence that mightily pleased me. Here was a fellow that said grace so long like a prayer; I believe the fellow is a cunning fellow, and yet I by my brother’s desire did give him a crown, he being in great want, and, it seems, a parson among the fanatiques, and a cozen of my poor aunt’s, whose prayers she told me did do me good among the many good souls that did by my father’s desires pray for me when I was cut of the stone, and which God did hear, which I also in complaisance did own; but, God forgive me, my mind was otherwise. I had a couple of lobsters and some wine for her, and so, she going out of town to-day, and being not willing to come home with me to dinner, I parted and home, where we sat at the office all the morning, and after dinner all the afternoon till night, there at my office getting up the time that I have of late lost by not following my business, but I hope now to settle my mind again very well to my business.
So home, and after supper did wash my feet, and so to bed.
reed and water
ready me to believe
a soul with innocence
might pray to a stone
and God is otherwise
some wine for the night
a lost hope
a well to wash my feet
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 30 May 1663.
War time
This day is kept strictly as a holy-day, being the King’s Coronation. We lay long in bed, and it rained very hard, rain and hail, almost all the morning. By and by Creed and I abroad, and called at several churches; and it is a wonder to see, and by that to guess the ill temper of the City at this time, either to religion in general, or to the King, that in some churches there was hardly ten people in the whole church, and those poor people.
So to a coffee-house, and there in discourse hear the King of France is likely to be well again.
So home to dinner, and out by water to the Royall Theatre, but they not acting to-day, then to the Duke’s house, and there saw “The Slighted Mayde,” wherein Gosnell acted Pyramena, a great part, and did it very well, and I believe will do it better and better, and prove a good actor.
The play is not very excellent, but is well acted, and in general the actors, in all particulars, are better than at the other house.
Thence to the Cocke alehouse, and there having drunk, sent them with Creed to see the German Princess, at the Gatehouse, at Westminster, and I to my brother’s, and thence to my uncle Fenner’s to have seen my aunt James (who has been long in town and goes away to-morrow and I not seen her), but did find none of them within, which I was glad of, and so back to my brother’s to speak with him, and so home, and in my way did take two turns forwards and backwards through the Fleete Ally to see a couple of pretty whores that stood off the doors there, and God forgive me I could scarce stay myself from going into their houses with them, so apt is my nature to evil after once, as I have these two days, set upon pleasure again.
So home and to my office to put down these two days’ journalls, then home again and to supper, and then Creed and I to bed with good discourse, only my mind troubled about my spending my time so badly for these seven or eight days; but I must impute it to the disquiet that my mind has been in of late about my wife, and for my going these two days to plays, for which I have paid the due forfeit by money and abating the times of going to plays at Court, which I am now to remember that I have cleared all my times that I am to go to Court plays to the end of this month, and so June is the first time that I am to begin to reckon.
strict as rain on the poor
the discourse
like a theater where the actors
all are drunk
to see tomorrow turn
forward backwards
to see whores of God
give in to evil
and I troubled but quiet
as if cleared to go
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 29 May 1663.
Poems Beautiful and Useful
It took a while to make its way across the Atlantic, but I’ve quite enjoyed this first volume in a new pamphlet (chapbook) series from a new press that sprouted up on British Poetry Substack. Editor Victoria Moul’s taste and sense of what a general reader needs to know are both very good, so just as advertised, this serves as a fun and painless introduction to the sort of verse popular in Britain in the early modern period. I took it with me on a walk yesterday and found two poems in particular that struck me as beautiful and useful to my current frame of mind.
The first was this one by Robert Devereux
which was pure serendipity, because it’s where I opened the pamphlet immediately after setting aside the other book I’d brought with me into the woods, Peipei Qiu’s landmark study from 2005, Bashō and the Dao, where I’d just read her translation of one of the most famous poems from the Chinese recluse tradition, which set up a useful East-West comparison:
The other poem that has burrowed in like a tick is this brief piece on the ephemerality of life:
The pamphlet is well designed and printed, not by some print-on-demand platform but by a printing press in East London. I’m not sure it makes financial sense to pick up an overseas subscription (five volumes for £58) but I like the subscription model a lot and will be rooting for Headless Poet’s success.
Bank holiday
Up this morning, and my wife, I know not for what cause, being against going to Chelsey to-day, it being a holy day (Ascension Day) and I at leisure, it being the first holy day almost that we have observed ever since we came to the office, we did give Ashwell leave to go by herself, and I out to several places about business. Among others to Dr. Williams, to reckon with him for physique that my wife has had for a year or two, coming to almost 4l. Then to the Exchange, where I hear that the King had letters yesterday from France that the King there is in a [way] of living again, which I am glad to hear.
At the coffee-house in Exchange Alley I bought a little book, “Counsell to Builders,” by Sir Balth. Gerbier. It is dedicated almost to all the men of any great condition in England, so that the Epistles are more than the book itself, and both it and them not worth a turd, that I am ashamed that I bought it.
Home and there found Creed, who dined with us, and after dinner by water to the Royall Theatre; but that was so full they told us we could have no room. And so to the Duke’s House; and there saw “Hamlett” done, giving us fresh reason never to think enough of Betterton.
Who should we see come upon the stage but Gosnell, my wife’s maid? but neither spoke, danced, nor sung; which I was sorry for. But she becomes the stage very well.
Thence by water home, after we had walked to and fro, backwards and forwards, six or seven times in the Temple walks, disputing whether to go by land or water. By land home, and thence by water to Halfway House, and there eat some supper we carried with us, and so walked home again, it being late we were forced to land at the dock, my wife and they, but I in a humour not willing to daub my shoes went round by the Custom House. So home, and by and by to bed, Creed lying with me in the red chamber all night.
today is the first holy day
we observe by living
the great book so full
they told us no room
and there who
should we see come up
but the sun
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 28 May 1663.
It was
not really an option to consider. Rather,
a signal it was time to move on. After all,
what does evolved mean? Even the purely
paleological sense points to an epoch before—
a prehistory, a myth before myth—as well as
forward to where the past becomes buried
as archive, as artifact. Personally, I prefer
deepened. The river isn't the same river
I waded into yesterday, last month, last year.
And it's not just the waters that have deepened
with time. I, too, hear the thrum of flux in my chest:
all day purling new channels whose reach is beyond
understanding. Minnows dart in the shallows.
A night heron shifts, neck retracted like a spring.