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Posted on by Dave Bonta

Prison guard

Called up, by message from Lord Bruncker and the rest of my fellows, that they will meet me at the Duke of Albemarle’s this morning; so I up, and weary, however, got thither before them, and spoke with my Lord, and with him and other gentlemen to walk in the Parke, where, I perceive, he spends much of his time, having no whither else to go; and here I hear him speake of some Presbyter people that he caused to be apprehended yesterday, at a private meeting in Covent Garden, which he would have released upon paying 5l. per man to the poor, but it was answered, they would not pay anything; so he ordered them to another prison from the guard. By and by comes my fellow-officers, and the Duke walked in, and to counsel with us; and that being done we departed, and Sir W. Batten and I to the office, where, after I had done a little business, I to his house to dinner, whither comes Captain Cocke, for whose epicurisme a dish of partriges was sent for, and still gives me reason to think is the greatest epicure in the world.
Thence, after dinner, I by water to Sir W. Warren’s and with him two hours, talking of things to his and my profit, and particularly good advice from him what use to make of Sir G. Carteret’s kindnesse to me and my interest in him, with exceeding good cautions for me not using it too much nor obliging him to fear by prying into his secrets, which it were easy for me to do.
Thence to my Lord Bruncker, at Greenwich, and Sir J. Minnes by appointment, to looke after the lodgings appointed for us there for our office, which do by no means please me, they being in the heart of all the labourers and workmen there, which makes it as unsafe as to be, I think, at London. Mr. Hugh May, who is a most ingenuous man, did show us the lodgings, and his acquaintance I am desirous of. Thence walked, it being now dark, to Sir J. Minnes’s, and there staid at the door talking with him an hour while messengers went to get a boat for me, to carry me to Woolwich, but all to no purpose; so I was forced to walk it in the darke, at ten o’clock at night, with Sir J. Minnes’s George with me, being mightily troubled for fear of the doggs at Coome farme, and more for fear of rogues by the way, and yet more because of the plague which is there, which is very strange, it being a single house, all alone from the towne, but it seems they use to admit beggars, for their owne safety, to lie in their barns, and they brought it to them; but I bless God I got about eleven of the clock well to my wife, and giving 4s. in recompence to George, I to my wife, and having first viewed her last piece of drawing since I saw her, which is seven or eight days, which pleases me beyond any thing in the world, to bed with great content but weary.

hear him speak of release
the prison guard

an epicure of secrets
an unsafe door

a messenger from their last
day in the world


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 21 August 1665.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

On Solitude

The last time you weren’t here, no one
turned on the TV for a week or used
the drip coffeemaker. A roll of paper
towel lasted a week. In the quiet
of evenings after supper, I put
the kettle on to boil for tea
and tried to read my book, or wrote
things on the computer while laundry
tumbled in the background. The same
is true tonight. Though I still hear
the chirr of cicadas in the trees
that ring the neighborhood, they seem
quieter now too than at the beginning
of summer. A man can be himself
only so long as he is alone, wrote
Schopenhauer. How often was he
truly by himself, without having
meals brought up to him or laundry
taken away discreetly in the morning?
The truth is, we all crave that sort
of solitude that isn’t merely loneliness
tinged with exhaustion or some kind
of worry. In other words, a woman is
never really alone, even when she’s alone.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Forest for the trees

(Lord’s day). Sir G. Carteret come and walked by my bedside half an houre, talking and telling me how my Lord is in this unblameable in all this ill-successe, he having followed orders; and that all ought to be imputed to the falsenesse of the King of Denmarke, who, he told me as a secret, had promised to deliver up the Dutch ships to us, and we expected no less; and swears it will, and will easily, be the ruine of him and his kingdom, if we fall out with him, as we must in honour do; but that all that can be, must be to get the fleete out again to intercept De Witt, who certainly will be coming home with the East India ships, he being gone thither.
He being gone, I up and with Fenn, being ready to walk forth to see the place; and I find it to be a very noble seat in a noble forest, with the noblest prospect towards Windsor, and round about over many countys, that can be desired; but otherwise a very melancholy place, and little variety save only trees.
I had thoughts of going home by water, and of seeing Windsor Chappell and Castle, but finding at my coming in that Sir G. Carteret did prevent me in speaking for my sudden return to look after business, I did presently eat a bit off the spit about 10 o’clock, and so took horse for Stanes, and thence to Brainford to Mr. Povy’s, the weather being very pleasant to ride in. Mr. Povy not being at home I lost my labour, only eat and drank there with his lady, and told my bad newes, and hear the plague is round about them there. So away to Brainford; and there at the inn that goes down to the water-side, I ‘light and paid off my post-horses, and so slipped on my shoes, and laid my things by, the tide not serving, and to church, where a dull sermon, and many Londoners. After church to my inn, and eat and drank, and so about seven o’clock by water, and got between nine and ten to Queenhive, very dark. And I could not get my waterman to go elsewhere for fear of the plague. Thence with a lanthorn, in great fear of meeting of dead corpses, carried to be buried; but, blessed be God, met none, but did see now and then a linke (which is the mark of them) at a distance. So got safe home about 10 o’clock, my people not all abed, and after supper I weary to bed.

who will see the forest
’round that melancholy tree the brain
that goes to the light
with a thorn


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 20 August 1665.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Bastions

In the early hours, it comes to me
there’s a numbness in my big toe at the tip
and along one side, as if on that peninsula
some kind of drift has taken place overnight,
spreading sediment to build a barrier
against feeling. If this is some kind

of warning sent up by the body,
I can’t decode its telegram, can’t
figure out how long it’s taken to arrive;
or why something in that not so distant out-
post should be walling itself off, going
quiet, preparing for undetermined siege.

Three summers ago, my youngest
daughter and I toured the streets of the old
Walled City in Manila. On foot, in the heat,
the same cobblestone streets Indios— brown,
like us— walked to do the bidding of
their masters: from the 16th century until

the hero turned to face the firing squad
before he fell on the dirt in the field
of Bagumbayan; until peasant armies rose up
waving flags, brandishing their muskets,
their balisongs, their iták… We crossed
the courtyard with a fountain, looked up

at ramparts lined with ancient brick and terra
cotta. From the Baluarte de San Diego, sentinels
on patrol might get a clearer southwest facing view
for artillery defense against pirates and foreign
invaders. How many versions of this are there
in myth and history? Before the maps themselves

are inked, the eye calculates space against
only two basic measures: here, and there.
Or, what falls outside the boundaries drawn
thick on parchment, and where tribes cluster
around fires that mark where they believe
they’ve managed to command the dark to fall

away in retreat. With my hands, I chafe my feet
to goad the blood’s circulation, to work up heat.
It’s impossible to intuit all the pulses ticking
on the blurry edges. History tells of sudden
movement— of one shot fired in darkness
across a bridge, and the long war that ensued.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Winded

Slept till 8 o’clock, and then up and met with letters from the King and Lord Arlington, for the removal of our office to Greenwich.
I also wrote letters, and made myself ready to go to Sir G. Carteret, at Windsor; and having borrowed a horse of Mr. Blackbrough, sent him to wait for me at the Duke of Albemarle’s door: when, on a sudden, a letter comes to us from the Duke of Albemarle, to tell us that the fleete is all come back to Solebay, and are presently to be dispatched back again. Whereupon I presently by water to the Duke of Albemarle to know what news; and there I saw a letter from my Lord Sandwich to the Duke of Albemarle, and also from Sir W. Coventry and Captain Teddiman; how my Lord having commanded Teddiman with twenty-two ships (of which but fifteen could get thither, and of those fifteen but eight or nine could come up to play) to go to Bergen; where, after several messages to and fro from the Governor of the Castle, urging that Teddiman ought not to come thither with more than five ships, and desiring time to think of it, all the while he suffering the Dutch ships to land their guns to their best advantage; Teddiman on the second pretence, began to play at the Dutch ships, (wherof ten East India-men,) and in three hours’ time (the town and castle, without any provocation, playing on our ships,) they did cut all our cables, so as the wind being off the land, did force us to go out, and rendered our fire-ships useless; without doing any thing, but what hurt of course our guns must have done them: we having lost five commanders, besides Mr. Edward Montagu, and Mr. Windham.
Our fleete is come home to our great grief with not above five weeks’ dry, and six days’ wet provisions: however, must out again; and the Duke hath ordered the Soveraigne, and all other ships ready, to go out to the fleete to strengthen them. This news troubles us all, but cannot be helped. Having read all this news, and received commands of the Duke with great content, he giving me the words which to my great joy he hath several times said to me, that his greatest reliance is upon me. And my Lord Craven also did come out to talk with me, and told me that I am in mighty esteem with the Duke, for which I bless God.
Home, and having given my fellow-officers an account hereof, to Chatham, and wrote other letters, I by water to Charing-Cross, to the post-house, and there the people tell me they are shut up; and so I went to the new post-house, and there got a guide and horses to Hounslow, where I was mightily taken with a little girle, the daughter of the master of the house (Betty Gysby), which, if she lives, will make a great beauty.
Here I met with a fine fellow who, while I staid for my horses, did enquire newes, but I could not make him remember Bergen in Norway, in 6 or 7 times telling, so ignorant he was.
So to Stanes, and there by this time it was dark night, and got a guide who lost his way in the forest, till by help of the moone (which recompenses me for all the pains I ever took about studying of her motions,) I led my guide into the way back again; and so we made a man rise that kept a gate, and so he carried us to Cranborne.
Where in the dark I perceive an old house new building with a great deal of rubbish, and was fain to go up a ladder to Sir G. Carteret’s chamber. And there in his bed I sat down, and told him all my bad newes, which troubled him mightily; but yet we were very merry, and made the best of it; and being myself weary did take leave, and after having spoken with Mr. Fenn in bed, I to bed in my Lady’s chamber that she uses to lie in, and where the Duchesse of York, that now is, was born. So to sleep; being very well, but weary, and the better by having carried with me a bottle of strong water; whereof now and then a sip did me good.

a green wind at the door

I let it in to play
and it began to play with fire

I ordered it out and it went
and got lost in the forest

till the moon made it
go to sleep in a bottle


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 19 August 1665.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Desiderata

To not have been the homely sister, good
only for sweeping dust from under the stairs

To have the courage to say here
kiss me here and here and here

To drink the silence of afternoons
gratefully in long cold gulps

To surrender the plate, the spoon,
the knife, the fork, after I am done

To keep back one kernel of sweet, one
serif, several bedsprings of light

To carve the likeness of a saint’s hand
after it has been severed from the wrist

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Ground down

Up about 5 o’clock and dressed ourselves, and to sayle again down to the Soveraigne at the buoy of the Nore, a noble ship, now rigged and fitted and manned; we did not stay long, but to enquire after her readinesse and thence to Sheernesse, where we walked up and down, laying out the ground to be taken in for a yard to lay provisions for cleaning and repairing of ships, and a most proper place it is for the purpose. Thence with great pleasure up the Meadeway, our yacht contending with Commissioner Pett’s, wherein he met us from Chatham, and he had the best of it. Here I come by, but had not tide enough to stop at Quinbrough, and with mighty pleasure spent the day in doing all and seeing these places, which I had never done before. So to the Hill house at Chatham and there dined, and after dinner spent some time discoursing of business. Among others arguing with the Commissioner about his proposing the laying out so much money upon Sheerenesse, unless it be to the slighting of Chatham yarde, for it is much a better place than Chatham, which however the King is not at present in purse to do, though it were to be wished he were. Thence in Commissioner Pett’s coach (leaving them there). I late in the darke to Gravesend, where great is the plague, and I troubled to stay there so long for the tide. At 10 at night, having supped, I took boat alone, and slept well all the way to the Tower docke about three o’clock in the morning. So knocked up my people, and to bed.

do not stay long
where we walk up and down

a ground for visions
is not enough

spent in seeing
these places never sing

of the light of a better place
than the grave


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 18 August 1665.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Investiture

A woman winds silk scarves through
the arms of trees by the river. She drapes
brocade over stones as if competing with moss.
At the parish hall, the emcee holds up a taped
box, urging people to place their bids. The child
sitting on a stool in the middle of the stage
is tired and drowsy; with the heels of her patent
leather shoes she kicks at the rungs. Now
the woman wants to weave a garland for the child:
what flowers? She bends toward the rushes
and pulls. She will make her wear it
at the May festival, standing atop a float.
Wave, she commands; smile. Don’t squint.
The sun presses against the hinges of bivalves
as if that way, a process might be hastened;
as if that way they could give up a pearl.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Missing.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Moonshrine

Up and to the office, where we sat all the morning, and at noon dined together upon some victuals I had prepared at Sir W. Batten’s upon the King’s charge, and after dinner, I having dispatched some business and set things in order at home, we down to the water and by boat to Greenwich to the Bezan yacht, where Sir W. Batten, Sir J. Minnes, my Lord Bruncker and myself, with some servants (among others Mr. Carcasse, my Lord’s clerk, a very civil gentleman), embarked in the yacht and down we went most pleasantly, and noble discourse I had with my Lord Bruncker, who is a most excellent person. Short of Gravesend it grew calme, and so we come to an anchor, and to supper mighty merry, and after it, being moonshine, we out of the cabbin to laugh and talk, and then, as we grew sleepy, went in and upon velvet cushions of the King’s that belong to the yacht fell to sleep, which we all did pretty well till 3 or 4 of the clock, having risen in the night to look for a new comet which is said to have lately shone, but we could see no such thing.

morning
I set things in order
where the moonshine shone


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 17 August 1665.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Experience

Do you remember the exact words in a proverb
about wisdom and all things coming together
miraculously with age? Me neither. But I’m
always overhearing other peoples’ conversations
about this topic: in a pho restaurant,
pinching off purple-veined basil and squeezing
lime into my bowl, I overhear a conversation
about ageism in the next booth— how,
according to the fiftyish woman in a smart
blazer with matching statement necklace,
it’s terrible that nowadays, only the young
and beautiful with perfectly groomed brows,
luminous cheeks and highly developed
social networks get attention. They get
the jobs, promotions, prizes— so unfair
to people in her age demographic who aren’t
valued for the decades of experience they
can bring to the table. I was reminded
of a board meeting of the poetry society,
at which someone said rather bluntly
that it was a very bad idea to throw
early honors at the young, because
they would get a big head before they
even learned to reflect on what wisdom
or the world were really about. I tried
to think of what I was like at sixteen
or eighteen: definitely not sage-like,
definitely still green; married with kids
by twenty-one. Tsk. Still, had anyone
told me I didn’t know anything, I’d
have risen to the occasion, that kind
of reverse ageism. You don’t get to reflect
on what’s thrust upon you: violence and war,
and the closer hurt when you’re defiled,
then disbelieved. The mind shrinks even as
it expands to admit the knowledges visited
on the body. I see it in my young students
too: the beautiful, hurt stories they write.