Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
My familiars are growing too familiar. Under what cushion have I left my wing of bat? Let all members remember their proper places: I conjure you, you conjure me. The most enduring fictions emerge from consensus—and we’re a family. Talk to me, my long-lost caricature! The armrest has claimed my right hand, as well it should. And my viper has appointed himself to the search committee for a new rat.
muggy night the shadows under a sheet
At home the greatest part of the day to see my workmen make an end, which this night they did to my great content.
at-home test
to see my end
which is night
my great tent
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 20 June 1661.
All our passports have expired.
I stack them at one end of the table
in plain view, a reminder to fill out
reapplication forms. When and why
did this become such a procedure,
for those who truly have nothing
to declare? Last spring we wanted to buy
tickets for a train that goes nowhere except
around the foothills, starting from some town
in Virginia. Just as the trees began to stipple
with color, you might sit and look out of clear
picture windows, drink champagne and bite
into triangles of cheese while listening to a tour
guide narrate history. All this as if to say, why
should the destination always be about place?
There's still that deeper country to explore,
the one we carry with us everywhee we go.
give a breast
to the best beast
feast in a fetid nest
on the flesh of mushroom
like every clever hypha
cleave to a root
shoot up with chlorophyll
leave everything to bees
All the morning almost at home, seeing my stairs finished by the painters, which pleases me well. So with Mr. Moore to Westminster Hall, it being term, and then by water to the Wardrobe, where very merry, and so home to the office all the afternoon, and at night to the Exchange to my uncle Wight about my intention of purchasing at Brampton. So back again home and at night to bed.
Thanks be to God I am very well again of my late pain, and to-morrow hope to be out of my pain of dirt and trouble in my house, of which I am now become very weary.
One thing I must observe here while I think of it, that I am now become the most negligent man in the world as to matters of news, insomuch that, now-a-days, I neither can tell any, nor ask any of others.
morning is war
and the office all out of dirt
I become a thing
I must observe
in a world of news
I neither can tell nor ask
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 19 June 1661.
At a certain level of complexity, the wild and the civilized may appear to merge. Both seethe; neither is a shadow of the other. Call it cohabitat.
rag rug uncoiling a python
All this morning at home vexing about the delay of my painters, and about four in the afternoon my wife and I by water to Captain Lambert’s, where we took great pleasure in their turret-garden, and seeing the fine needle-works of his wife, the best I ever saw in my life, and afterwards had a very handsome treat and good musique that she made upon the harpsicon, and with a great deal of pleasure staid till 8 at night, and so home again, there being a little pretty witty child that is kept in their house that would not let us go without her, and so fell a-crying by the water-side. So home, where I met Jack Cole, who staid with me a good while, and is still of the old good humour that we were of at school together, and I am very glad to see him. He gone, I went to bed.
captain in the turret
the needle of his war
a child that fell crying
is still
the hum of school
gone
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 18 June 1661.
Before I turn three, my parents hire
a photographer from a local studio to come
and take pictures of us.
We've just moved to a new city, to a small
apartment behind the post office,
and are waiting to transfer
to a proper home—that's what my father says.
I don't know why they want to memorialize
this time. I only remember
the terror of the flash
bulb going off above my face—a rip in the air,
before the moment our faces are fixed on film.
In the one where it is just
me, I press a clutch of dry flowers to my chest.
I have not yet learned how to properly smile.
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 floating typewriter, a poet in a lighthouse, bombing the moon, marble peaches, the hum of our own truth, and more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 24”
Visited this morning by my old friend Mr. Ch. Carter, who staid and went to Westminster with me, and there we parted, and I to the Wardrobe and dined with my Lady. So home to my painters, who are now about painting my stairs. So to the office, and at night we all went to Sir W. Pen’s, and there sat and drank till 11 at night, and so home and to bed.
is my art an art
to war with
a painter painting the night
all night
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 17 June 1661.