Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
anticipation, is nubbed spines
covering every inch of the jack-
fruit’s body: green armor
keeping the gold inside its
quarters— that’s what is meant
by inflorescence: all that heady
perfume repeating its singular
note through hallways of mirrors.
Lucky, the one that breaks
through without losing
itself. The one who comes
to understand time’s
illusion, how salt marries
ash, makes everything teeter
close to ripeness.
the gut that listens to each
clamor the body makes before
it even makes a sound—
So the nerves frill out
like wings, receptive to
the smallest rumor in the air:
trouble, mostly. But also,
the quieter waves that emanate
from joy, though they might seem
too rare. I’ve had a lifetime
of instruction, turning
my face to any coming wind.
Another name for it is mother;
in due time it finds
its twin in daughter.
That sense finds kin in any
particle that darkens rapidly
inside the hours: cloud, wave,
storm; each slip of moss
that sandals our feet as we run
across the stones, beguiled
by fruit gold-chalked, tumbled
from indifferent trees.
It may be late for me, but I
have only wished for you that
rupture, that gap between
arrival and threshold.
In summer, you feel more keenly
the light that stays afloat late
above the canopy; that opens early
like a window shade pinned back
by a hand that wants to push you
wholly into the day. Inside a terra
cotta dish, the ashy end of a coil
of citronella. On the deck, two
planks of wood buckling away
from their warped frame. A block
away, the river’s throat swells
with rumors of cicadas in the trees,
their wings drumming up another cloud
of heat. Everything’s one or another
version of your restlessness, of that
fever in your bones that sets a cabinet
of worry-gears clicking— o lucky
spider that merely sifts through frets
in its web, that tamps and beds a wayward
body as if it were a gift to the gods.
You try to flex your thumb, make a circle
with your index finger, but it doesn’t
listen. Everything works on the left, but
something is stuck on the right. The hand
doctor pulls out a diagram describing
the arrangement of tendons: like
passenger cars on a train. Pulleys
allow for the ease with which they
can glide forward and back on the tracks.
Something is stuck in your thumb’s pulley
system, causing pain that radiates
from the hinge and tenderness at the base.
It hasn’t gone away, despite the different
kinds of salves friends have recommended.
When you hold a pen, your grip is awkward;
and marking student papers or signing
your name is like pushing an iron bar through
dry soil. And that train? It wants so badly
to leave the station, to climb up those hills.
Perhaps a masked man is holding the engineer
hostage, forefinger resting on the trigger.
What he wants exactly, no one can figure out.
All day very diligent at the office, ended my letters by 9 at night, and then fitted myself to go down to Woolwich to my wife, which I did, calling at Sir G. Carteret’s at Deptford, and there hear that my Lady Sandwich is come, but not very well. By 12 o’clock to Woolwich, found my wife asleep in bed, but strange to think what a fine night I had down, but before I had been one minute on shore, the mightiest storm come of wind and rain that almost could be for a quarter of an houre and so left. I to bed, being the first time I come to her lodgings, and there lodged well.
diligent at my fit
a one-minute storm
that almost could be art
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 8 July 1665.
Up, and having set my neighbour, Mr. Hudson, wine coopers, at work drawing out a tierce of wine for the sending of some of it to my wife, I abroad, only taking notice to what a condition it hath pleased God to bring me that at this time I have two tierces of Claret, two quarter casks of Canary, and a smaller vessel of Sack; a vessel of Tent, another of Malaga, and another of white wine, all in my wine cellar together; which, I believe, none of my friends of my name now alive ever had of his owne at one time.
To Westminster, and there with Mr. Povy and Creed talking of our Tangier business, and by and by I drew Creed aside and acquainted him with what Sir G. Carteret did tell me about Backewell the other day, because he hath money of his in his hands. So home, taking some new books, 5l. worth, home to my great content. At home all the day after busy. Some excellent discourse and advice of Sir W. Warren’s in the afternoon, at night home to look over my new books, and so late to bed.
our work ending
what is time
are hands the new books
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 7 July 1665.
Once I read a story about the poet Eduardo
Galeano’s wife Helena: how she dreamt of being
in an airport, along with everyone else
carrying the pillows on which they’d lain
their heads the night before— passing through
the screening machines, they’re purged of all
traces of dreams that might have leaked
into them, for fear they might harbor
subversive material. Can you imagine each
slip-covered mound of cotton or memory foam,
buckwheat, feather or down, moving on conveyor
belts under high-wattage light? TSA agents
no longer care if your carry-on bag of toiletries
exceeds 3 liquid oz. They don’t bother to wave
those electromagnetic wands down your arms
and legs or in the area of your crotch.
It’s kind of like a giant laundromat— lines
of unacceptable matter processed for bleaching
before being tossed out the other end:
colorless, odorless, blank as amnesia.
Up and forth to give order to my pretty grocer’s wife’s house, who, her husband tells me, is going this day for the summer into the country. I bespoke some sugar, &c., for my father, and so home to the office, where all the morning. At noon dined at home, and then by water to White Hall to Sir G. Carteret about money for the office, a sad thought, for in a little while all must go to wracke, winter coming on apace, when a great sum must be ready to pay part of the fleete, and so far we are from it that we have not enough to stop the mouths of poor people and their hands from falling about our eares here almost in the office. God give a good end to it! Sir G. Carteret told me one considerable thing: Alderman Backewell is ordered abroad upon some private score with a great sum of money; wherein I was instrumental the other day in shipping him away. It seems some of his creditors have taken notice of it, and he was like to be broke yesterday in his absence; Sir G. Carteret telling me that the King and the kingdom must as good as fall with that man at this time; and that he was forced to get 4000l. himself to answer Backewell’s people’s occasions, or he must have broke; but committed this to me as a great secret and which I am heartily sorry to hear.
Thence, after a little merry discourse of our marrying business, I parted, and by coach to several places, among others to see my Lord Brunkerd, who is not well, but was at rest when I come. I could not see him, nor had much mind, one of the great houses within two doors of him being shut up: and, Lord! the number of houses visited, which this day I observed through the town quite round in my way by Long Lane and London Wall.
So home to the office, and thence to Sir W. Batten, and spent the evening at supper; and, among other discourse, the rashness of Sir John Lawson, for breeding up his daughter so high and proud, refusing a man of great interest, Sir W. Barkeley, to match her with a melancholy fellow, Colonell Norton’s son, of no interest nor good nature nor generosity at all, giving her 6000l., when the other would have taken her with two; when he himself knew that he was not worth the money himself in all the world, he did give her that portion, and is since dead, and left his wife and two daughters beggars, and the other gone away with 6000l., and no content in it, through the ill qualities of her father-in-law and husband, who, it seems, though a pretty woman, contracted for her as if he had been buying a horse; and, worst of all, is now of no use to serve the mother and two little sisters in any stead at Court, whereas the other might have done what he would for her: so here is an end of this family’s pride, which, with good care, might have been what they would, and done well.
Thence, weary of this discourse, as the act of the greatest rashness that ever I heard of in all my little conversation, we parted, and I home to bed.
Sir W. Pen, it seems, sailed last night from Solebay with, about sixty sail of ship, and my Lord Sandwich in “The Prince” and some others, it seems, going after them to overtake them, for I am sure my Lord Sandwich will do all possible to overtake them, and will be troubled to the heart if he do it not.
the mouths of poor people
are a considerable instrument
like absence
or doors in a wall
so high and melancholy
they trouble the heart
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 6 July 1665.
Whoever penned Ecclesiastes 3:1 must not
have had a mortgage and an older house;
must never have had to take care
of repairs. I hunt for Nextdoor
recommendations of plumbers, call around
for estimates and check prices on lumber
and siding. To everything there is
a season, it says: a time for this and a time
for that, for the orderly and equitable march
of days as well as their bloom and fade.
The stalk comes up after the seed, the flood
disappears into the plain. Should the cost
of fixing amount to another disaster?
O let this not be the time for the hot
water to go out just as the deck umbrella
snaps almost cleanly in half in a freak wind storm,
at the same time you find a snarling nest
of coons burrowed in the shed’s rotting wood
when you go to retrieve the ladder. Let the broken
fence palings keep from falling down into the service
road. Let the neighbors’ dogs poop regularly
somewhere other than the edge of the footpath
where you come and go. Look up at the sky
past the greenish cast on windows and walls
in need of power washing; at the flowers’ hot,
thirsty faces, sending out semaphores of entreaty.
Up, and advised about sending of my wife’s bedding and things to Woolwich, in order to her removal thither. So to the office, where all the morning till noon, and so to the ‘Change, and thence home to dinner. In the afternoon I abroad to St. James’s, and there with Mr. Coventry a good while, and understand how matters are ordered in the fleete: that is, my Lord Sandwich goes Admiral; under him Sir G. Ascue, and Sir T. Teddiman; Vice-Admiral, Sir W. Pen; and under him Sir W. Barkeley, and Sir Jos. Jordan: Reere-Admiral, Sir Thomas Allen; and under him Sir Christopher Mings, and Captain Harman. We talked in general of business of the Navy, among others how he had lately spoken to Sir G. Carteret, and professed great resolution of friendship with him and reconciliation, and resolves to make it good as well as he can, though it troubles him, he tells me, that something will come before him wherein he must give him offence, but I do find upon the whole that Mr. Coventry do not listen to these complaints of money with the readiness and resolvedness to remedy that he used to do, and I think if he begins to draw in it is high time for me to do so too.
From thence walked round to White Hall, the Parke being quite locked up; and I observed a house shut up this day in the Pell Mell, where heretofore in Cromwell’s time we young men used to keep our weekly clubs. And so to White Hall to Sir G. Carteret, who is come this day from Chatham, and mighty glad he is to see me, and begun to talk of our great business of the match, which goes on as fast as possible, but for convenience we took water and over to his coach to Lambeth, by which we went to Deptford, all the way talking, first, how matters are quite concluded with all possible content between my Lord and him and signed and sealed, so that my Lady Sandwich is to come thither to-morrow or next day, and the young lady is sent for, and all likely to be ended between them in a very little while, with mighty joy on both sides, and the King, Duke, Lord Chancellor, and all mightily pleased.
Thence to newes, wherein I find that Sir G. Carteret do now take all my Lord Sandwich’s business to heart, and makes it the same with his owne.
He tells me how at Chatham it was proposed to my Lord Sandwich to be joined with the Prince in the command of the fleete, which he was most willing to; but when it come to the Prince, he was quite against it; saying, there could be no government, but that it would be better to have two fleetes, and neither under the command of the other, which he would not agree to. So the King was not pleased; but, without any unkindnesse, did order the fleete to be ordered as above, as to the Admirals and commands: so the Prince is come up; and Sir G. Carteret, I remember, had this word thence, that, says he, by this means, though the King told him that it would be but for this expedition, yet I believe we shall keepe him out for altogether. He tells me how my Lord was much troubled at Sir W. Pen’s being ordered forth (as it seems he is, to go to Solebay, and with the best fleete he can, to go forth), and no notice taken of my Lord Sandwich going after him, and having the command over him. But after some discourse Mr. Coventry did satisfy, as he says, my Lord, so as they parted friends both in that point and upon the other wherein I know my Lord was troubled, and which Mr. Coventry did speak to him of first thinking that my Lord might justly take offence at, his not being mentioned in the relation of the fight in the news book, and did clear all to my Lord how little he was concerned in it, and therewith my Lord also satisfied, which I am mightily glad of, because I should take it a very great misfortune to me to have them two to differ above all the persons in the world.
Being come to Deptford, my Lady not being within, we parted, and I by water to Woolwich, where I found my wife come, and her two mayds, and very prettily accommodated they will be; and I left them going to supper, grieved in my heart to part with my wife, being worse by much without her, though some trouble there is in having the care of a family at home in this plague time, and so took leave, and I in one boat and W. Hewer in another home very late, first against tide, we having walked in the dark to Greenwich.
Late home and to bed, very lonely.
in order to understand
I go under and under and under
I go in one ear
and out the other
I go with the tide
home to bed
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 5 July 1665.