Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
September flower, spiked white
wood or billowy lavender aster—
pearl crescents, monarchs, and
golden moths come to feed
as if worshipping where you cluster.
There is a first star, a morning and
evening star, a star for every event
in the zodiac; and there is one of sudden
or ruinous nature, one which falls out
of lucky alignment. A crossed star, dis-
possessed of favor or fortune. Tell
me, which one stood watch or
crowned me at birth; which one offered
its distant light like a godmother?
So soon as word was brought me that Mr. Coventry was come with the barge to the Tower, I went to him, and found him reading of the Psalms in short hand (which he is now busy about), and had good sport about the long marks that are made there for sentences in divinity, which he is never like to make use of. Here he and I sat till the Comptroller came and then we put off for Deptford, where we went on board the King’s pleasure boat that Commissioner Pett is making, and indeed it will be a most pretty thing.
From thence to Commr. Pett’s lodging, and there had a good breakfast, and in came the two Sir Wms. from Walthamstow, and so we sat down and did a great deal of public business about the fitting of the fleet that is now going out.
That done we went to the Globe and there had a good dinner, and by and by took barge again and so home. By the way they would have me sing, which I did to Mr. Coventry, who went up to Sir William Batten’s, and there we staid and talked a good while, and then broke up and I home, and then to my father’s and there lay with my wife.
a word brought me
to a long sentence
like a boat going out
a good way
to try who I am
at home with my wife
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 16 April 1661.
Tonight there’s a thunderstorm warning—
chance of hail and rising wind, though all day
generous sunlight winnowed through
impossible blue. On my weather app
I track what mornings and evenings
are like in other cities of the world—
Charlottesville, Raleigh; Chicago, Baguio,
Manila. I can imagine how light breaks
where my loves lie, perhaps in bed.
Perhaps they look out a window, streaked
rust-orange as a rooster’s crest. If someone has
discovered the secret to being in more than one
place without breaking, I would like to know it.
I would like to walk in a soft, forgiving rain.
I dream that preparations are underway
for your arrival. It feels so imminent
and so real, in the dream I completely forget
that it is a dream. Thunder sounds on the rim
of hills surrounding the town. The sky
gradually darkens, but inside, the house is warm
and filling with fragrant clouds of steam
from gingery broth and white rice. The table
has been wiped clean and even the neighbors
have come to set the table: good plates
and silverware, tulips in a glass pitcher.
The stove holds a corona of flame in each
burner, and the kettle whispers: any time
now, any time now, any time now.
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, subscribe to its RSS feed in your favorite feed reader, or, if you’d like it in your inbox, subscribe on Substack.
This week: the experience of totality, poets in youth, rime royale, octopus poems, poetry in video games, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 15”
From my father’s, it being a very foul morning for the King and Lords to go to Windsor, I went to the office and there met Mr. Coventry and Sir Robt. Slingsby, but did no business, but only appoint to go to Deptford together tomorrow. Mr. Coventry being gone, and I having at home laid up 200l. which I had brought this morning home from Alderman Backwell’s, I went home by coach with Sir R. Slingsby and dined with him, and had a very good dinner. His lady seems a good woman and very desirous they were to hear this noon by the post how the election has gone at Newcastle, wherein he is concerned, but the letters are not come yet.
To my uncle Wight’s, and after a little stay with them he and I to Mr. Rawlinson’s, and there staid all the afternoon, it being very foul, and had a little talk with him what good I might make of these ships that go to Portugal by venturing some money by them, and he will give me an answer to it shortly. So home and sent for the Barber, and after that to bed.
the wind and I go
together one morning
into a castle
venturing
some money will give me
an answer to home
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 15 April 1661.
(Easter. Lord’s day). In the morning towards my father’s, and by the way heard Mr. Jacomb, at Ludgate, upon these words, “Christ loved you and therefore let us love one another,” and made a lazy sermon, like a Presbyterian. Then to my father’s and dined there, and Dr. Fairbrother (lately come to town) with us. After dinner I went to the Temple and there heard Dr. Griffith, a good sermon for the day; so with Mr. Moore (whom I met there) to my Lord’s, and there he shewed me a copy of my Lord Chancellor’s patent for Earl, and I read the preamble, which is very short, modest, and good.
Here my Lord saw us and spoke to me about getting Mr. Moore to come and govern his house while he goes to sea, which I promised him to do and did afterwards speak to Mr. Moore, and he is willing.
Then hearing that Mr. Barnwell was come, with some of my Lord’s little children, yesterday to town, to see the Coronacion, I went and found them at the Goat, at Charing Cross, and there I went and drank with them a good while, whom I found in very good health and very merry. Then to my father’s, and after supper seemed willing to go home, and my wife seeming to be so too I went away in a discontent, but she, poor wretch, followed me as far in the rain and dark as Fleet Bridge to fetch me back again, and so I did, and lay with her to-night, which I have not done these eight or ten days before.
words love one another
like fathers
who go to sea
or little children
who heal
in the rain
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 14 April 1661.
In the craft of poetry class where only three or four students talked
and one was always excusing herself to throw up in the bathroom,
the only ones that seemed at all interested were the student with
a hearing aid, the political science major, and the student in the film
program. Most days, only my voice filled the ticking silence. Questions
hung in the air unanswered. No one made a move to slide pen on paper
or type notes. I wanted to say I didn't care, I'd let poems fill the hour
and fifteen minutes any way they wanted, give them room for their
sweep and cadence, their little rooms inhabited by frogs and quiet
ponds, their patterns in sixes, their one step forward and two steps
back, their meander and sprawl like sumi-e brushes loaded with ink
under a brilliant moon. There were days I'd walk out of the room
thinking Am I done? Should I just stop? The resident falcon swooped
out of the sky and rested on the art building's roof. On the sidewalk,
seagulls fought over the remains of someone's breakfast sandwich
in a crumpled wrapper. The book return bin looked forlorn and empty.
Everyone was either buying boba tea or espresso drinks in the cafe.
the dock they'd push off from when they thought
they were finally good and ready;
the template against which they might model
a life, if not a tiny waistline;
the listening post for their sorrows, the one
to approve their fashion and life choices;
the one who knew not to comment
on the tattoos, the nose and eyebrow piercings;
the one to empty and make do
until empty could apparently be more empty.
To Whitehall by water from Towre-wharf, where we could not pass the ordinary way, because they were mending of the great stone steps against the Coronacion. With Sir W. Pen, then to my Lord’s, and thence with Capt. Cuttance and Capt. Clark to drink our morning draught together, and before we could get back again my Lord was gone out. So to Whitehall again and, met with my Lord above with the Duke; and after a little talk with him, I went to the Banquethouse, and there saw the King heal, the first time that ever I saw him do it; which he did with great gravity, and it seemed to me to be an ugly office and a simple one. That done to my Lord’s and dined there, and so by water with parson Turner towards London, and upon my telling of him of Mr. Moore to be a fit man to do his business with Bishop Wren, about which he was going, he went back out of my boat into another to Whitehall, and so I forwards home and there by and by took coach with Sir W. Pen and Captain Terne and went to the buriall of Captain Robert Blake, at Wapping, and there had each of us a ring, but it being dirty, we would not go to church with them, but with our coach we returned home, and there staid a little, and then he and I alone to the Dolphin (Sir W. Batten being this day gone with his wife to Walthamstow to keep Easter), and there had a supper by ourselves, we both being very hungry, and staying there late drinking I became very sleepy, and so we went home and I to bed.
we eat stones
together again
a little banquet
with great gravity
ugly and simple
as the burial
of each of us
being dirt
we would not go
hungry to bed
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 13 April 1661.