Insomnia

Sam Pepys and me

About two o’clock my wife wakes me, and comes to bed, and so both to sleep and the wench to wash.
I rose and with Will to my Lord’s by land, it being a very hard frost, the first we have had this year. There I staid with my Lord and Mr. Shepley, looking over my Lord’s accounts and to set matters straight between him and Shepley, and he did commit the viewing of these accounts to me, which was a great joy to me to see that my Lord do look upon me as one to put trust in.
Hence to the organ, where Mr. Child and one Mr Mackworth (who plays finely upon the violin) were playing, and so we played till dinner and then dined, where my Lord in a very good humour and kind to me.
After dinner to the Temple, where I met Mr. Moore and discoursed with him about the business of putting out my Lord’s 3000l., and that done, Mr. Shepley and I to the new Play-house near Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields (which was formerly Gibbon’s tennis-court), where the play of “Beggar’s Bush” was newly begun; and so we went in and saw it, it was well acted: and here I saw the first time one Moone, who is said to be the best actor in the world, lately come over with the King, and indeed it is the finest play-house, I believe, that ever was in England.
From thence, after a pot of ale with Mr. Shepley at a house hard by, I went by link home, calling a little by the way at my father’s and my uncle Fenner’s, where all pretty well, and so home, where I found the house in a washing pickle, and my wife in a very joyful condition when I told her that she is to see the Queen next Thursday.
Which puts me in mind to say that this morning I found my Lord in bed late, he having been with the King, Queen, and Princess, at the Cockpit all night, where General Monk treated them; and after supper a play, where the King did put a great affront upon Singleton’s musique, he bidding them stop and bade the French musique play, which, my Lord says, do much outdo all ours.
But while my Lord was rising, I went to Mr. Fox’s, and there did leave the gilt tankard for Mrs. Fox, and then to the counting-house to him, who hath invited me and my wife to dine with him on Thursday next, and so to see the Queen and Princesses.

sleep was hard
as the Beggar’s Moon

hard as a bed
with all night to count


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 20 November 1660.

Sometimes You Want to be Stronger than Fate

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
You want to know how it is possible to sustain
attention over broken periods of time, how to find

again the cord of your lineage and the emblems
of not-darkness in the rubble. You want to know

where the birds with emerald plumes went 
after they abandoned the garden, and whether

someone remembered to save the seeds 
from the fruit of once abundant trees. You

were taught to pray to the gods of sustenance, 
which means it is likely you made promises

of some unequal exchange: a hundred  weights to carry
for repeal of one kind of suffering. Not to seem proud

or ungrateful, but you remind yourself— for every
grain that needed counting, you kept making room.

Cry

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
In Japan, you can hire a handsome guy to cry with you—he'll offer
Kleenex, wipe your tears, lay his head on the table beside yours.

In the office conference room, you and your colleagues are sobbing
at the end a short film about a father who can't be with his dying

daughter because she doesn't know who he is. There's something about
crying or allowing yourself to be seen like this in public. In my hometown, 

you can hire rofessional mourners who'll come and sit in a row at the wake 
of your loved ones, tear their clothing or beat their breasts as they start 

the public grieving. How are they so easily and literally moved to tears? 
Barely three months since my mother's death, and I don't feel like I've really 

cried yet. Sometimes my cheeks are wet when I'm behind the wheel and paused 
at a traffic light, or when my husband wakes me in the middle of a wrenching 

dream. Sometimes it's hard to give ourselves permission to be vulnerable until 
reminded of how even the beautiful ones feel the pain of trying to endure.

Killer

Sam Pepys and me

(Office day). After we had done a little at the office this morning, I went with the Treasurer in his coach to White Hall, and in our way, in discourse, do find him a very good-natured man; and, talking of those men who now stand condemned for murdering the King, he says that he believes that, if the law would give leave, the King is a man of so great compassion that he would wholly acquit them.
Going to my Lord’s I met with Mr. Shepley, and so he and I to the Sun, and I did give him a morning draft of Muscadine. And so to see my Lord’s picture at De Cretz, and he says it is very like him, and I say so too. After that to Westminster Hall, and there hearing that Sir W. Batten was at the Leg in the Palace, I went thither, and there dined with him and some of the Trinity House men who had obtained something to-day at the House of Lords concerning the Ballast Office.
After dinner I went by water to London to the Globe in Cornhill, and there did choose two pictures to hang up in my house, which my wife did not like when I came home, and so I sent the picture of Paris back again. To the office, where we sat all the afternoon till night. So home, and there came Mr. Beauchamp to me with the gilt tankard, and I did pay him for it 20l.. So to my musique and sat up late at it, and so to bed, leaving my wife to sit up till 2 o’clock that she may call the wench up to wash.

a morning for murder
sun in the corn

set to hang
like a gilt clock


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 19 November 1660.

Close Reading

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
We were winding down the year—
Evening's gold bandage at the edge

of the sky, followed by snowfall.  
I can't remember how many gifts

of narcissus I unboxed and tended;
their papery musk and ensuing silence.

I have not quite learned how to see
such things simply for what they are 

and not as metaphor or omen. It is 
this habit of seeking text beneath 

circumstance, a footnote for every
lapse in conversation. The heart

is afraid of how much it can't hear;
the mind, of what it can't bear to change.

Fundamental

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

(Lord’s day). In the morning to our own church, Where Mr. Powel (a crook legged man that went formerly with me to Paul’s School), preached a good sermon.
In the afternoon to our own church and my wife with me (the first time that she and my Lady Batten came to sit in our new pew), and after sermon my Lady took us home and there we supped with her and Sir W. Batten, and Pen, and were much made of. The first time that ever my wife was there. So home and to bed.

an ache came to sit
in our new pew

after too
much time


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 18 November 1660.

Off Trails

struck long ago by lightning
charred heart open to the sky

what doesn’t kill you
leaves you damaged

climbing a mountain to learn
what you already know

like telling the pines apart
by how they whisper

or marveling at birch twigs
etched in sunlight

on the shadow
of the neighboring mountain

and underfoot the moss cracked
like mud in a honeycomb pattern

a kind of ur-text
about cells and absence

the way a life was laid down
ring by ring in a log

or how after the rungs rot away
and the tree topples over

it’s not a ladder anymore
the bark’s long gone

there are just these troupes of rusty nails
awaiting further orders

the sky so clear your binoculars
pick out distant windblown leaves

or follow a hawk
following the ridge for miles

with the leaves down a white
clapboard church appears

with a steeple to staple it in place
between the river and the railroad

where shipping containers roll past
night and day

from this height like pale capsules
full of bad medicine

this is the trouble with all
tracks and paths

it’s time to stop following
and set your feet free

off-trail
on a careful descent

stepping from rock to rock
stopping for twisted oaks

and tall straight pines no 19th-century
logger is coming back for

though a thousand feet downslope
and you’re in pole timber

the whited sepulcher of a tip-up mound
marks the shift from ironstone to shale

through long shadows made feathery
by young white pines

footfalls mingle contrapuntally
with woodpecker taps

on a twisty back road
the tarmac cracks in honeycomb patterns

and the low sun is attentive
to every detail of mummified roadkill

its five-fingered paw
still stretched out

just past a sign that reads
UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN

MAY GOD HOLD YOU
IN THE PALM OF HIS HAND

on bare wood
in letters of faded blue

Natural law

Sam Pepys and me

In the morning to Whitehall, where I inquired at the Privy Seal Office for a form for a nobleman to make one his Chaplain. But I understanding that there is not any, I did draw up one, and so to my Lord’s, and there I did give him it to sign for Mr. Turner to be his first Chaplain. I did likewise get my Lord to sign my last sea accounts, so that I am even to this day when I have received the balance of Mr. Creed.
I dined with my Lady and my Lady Pickering, where her son John dined with us, who do continue a fool as he ever was since I knew him. His mother would fain marry him to get a portion for his sister Betty but he will not hear of it.
Hither came Major Hart this noon, who tells me that the Regiment is now disbanded, and that there is some money coming to me for it. I took him to my Lord to Mr. Crew’s, and from thence with Mr. Shepley and Mr. Moore to the Devil Tavern, and there we drank. So home and wrote letters by the post. Then to my lyra viall, and to bed.

in the morning a red sea
for the Lord to turn plain

even to receive
the lash of noon

that no-one
coming from the devil


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 17 November 1660.

Elegy, with a Glimpse of My Father in the Bathroom

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
It is evening, and he steps into that green-
tiled cell and turns the light switch on. 

In my unfinished house next door, from where 
I stand at the second floor window, I can see

the toothbrush holder, the top of the covered plastic bin 
for collecting water. How he bends his head over the sink 

as he coughs, then brings a square of toilet paper to his mouth. 
In their room, out of sight, my mother presses a cool cloth 

over her eyes. One bird beats its wings against the roof, looking
for those that have fled. It is just months before the earth 

under our feet trembles, bringing down the world we knew;
months before we dress him in his best suit, lay him out 

on the bed. It takes three days before we can get a coffin, 
and flies to lead rescuers to bodies pinned under the rubble.

Mountainous

Sam Pepys and me

Up early to my father’s, where by appointment Mr. Moore came to me, and he and I to the Temple, and thence to Westminster Hall to speak with Mr. Wm. Montagu about his looking upon the title of those lands which I do take as security for 3000l. of my Lord’s money.
That being done Mr. Moore and I parted, and in the Hall I met with Mr. Fontleroy (my old acquaintance, whom I had not seen a long time), and he and I to the Swan, and in discourse he seems to be wise and say little, though I know things are changed against his mind.
Thence home by water, where my father, Mr. Snow, and Mr. Moore did dine with me. After dinner Mr. Snow and I went up together to discourse about the putting out of 80l. to a man who lacks the money and would give me 15l. per annum for 8 years for it, which I did not think profit enough, and so he seemed to be disappointed by my refusal of it, but I would not now part with my money easily.
He seems to do it as a great favour to me to offer to come in upon a way of getting of money, which they call Bottomry, which I do not yet understand, but do believe there may be something in it of great profit.
After we were parted I went to the office, and there we sat all the afternoon, and at night we went to a barrel of oysters at Sir W. Batten’s, and so home, and I to the setting of my papers in order, which did keep me up late. So to bed.

the peak is an old acquaintance
who seems to be wise

and say little
against the snow

to a man who lacks
the ears for it

seems to offer a way
to not understand


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 16 November 1660.