Who brings you news of your father’s death?
I don’t know, but it’s the first time I see you
really crumple: your legs buckle, then splay
open. Then you bend from the waist
as if broken. I don’t understand where
the unearthly howl comes from— a grief
guttering through the body’s entire architecture,
then loosed through the open mouth. What syllable
is this, pure name burned by fire to one
dark smudge? And how will I know, when it is time,
what sound I will be expected to make?
Arctic
All the morning at the office, and after dinner abroad, and among other things contracted with one Mr. Bridges, at the White Bear on Cornhill, for 100 pieces of Callico to make flaggs; and as I know I shall save the King money, so I hope to get a little for my pains and venture of my own money myself.
Late in the evening doing business, and then comes Captain Tayler, and he and I till 12 o’clock at night arguing about the freight of his ship Eagle, hired formerly by me to Tangier, and at last we made an end, and I hope to get a little money, some small matter by it.
So home to bed, being weary and cold, but contented that I have made an end of that business.
white bear
in the evening
we get small
Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 8 October 1664.
Altered states
Lay pretty while with some discontent abed, even to the having bad words with my wife, and blows too, about the ill-serving up of our victuals yesterday; but all ended in love, and so I rose and to my office busy all the morning. At noon dined at home, and then to my office again, and then abroad to look after callicos for flags, and hope to get a small matter by my pains therein and yet save the King a great deal of money, and so home to my office, and there came Mr. Cocker, and brought me a globe of glasse, and a frame of oyled paper, as I desired, to show me the manner of his gaining light to grave by, and to lessen the glaringnesse of it at pleasure by an oyled paper. This I bought of him, giving him a crowne for it; and so, well satisfied, he went away, and I to my business again, and so home to supper, prayers, and to bed.
words blow out and in
flags on a globe of glass
oiled light to lessen the glaringness
of oiled prayers
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 7 October 1664.
Mermaid
“The flower may die, but not the flowerness.” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh
Midlife, says this article on menopause,
is when we need to take care of everyone else
while we are our most tired, to trust ourselves
when we’re most filled with doubt. That must explain
the palpitations every time I hear the weatherman
on the late night news talk about new hurricane
warnings. And my own exhaustion: winded or weepy
before noon, then by 2 pm wanting to crawl into bed.
But I can’t because I still have a bajillion things
to do: pick up the kid from school, rush home to pull
something out of the freezer for dinner; then rush
back to campus to prep for my evening class.
Near midnight, I crave chocolate, or a thick slab
of buttered bread. Meanwhile, dustballs thicken
and rise like new islands under the beds, crisscrossed
with grids of hair. I suspect the Saint of Doing it All
has retired. Or has she moved in with my older daughter
who’s just had a baby? When she asks me Is it really
this hard all the time? I try not to say occupational hazard
too quickly. I try to remember what I was like when I was
her age: young mother myself, lost in the chaos of diapers, rash
cream, talcum powder, and debt; wondering on a quick conference
trip away if I was delusional or if, as I slipped into the rest
room to relieve the pressure from milk-turgid breasts, I heard
the motor of the portable breast pump wheeze metaphor,
metaphor, metaphor. My doctor listens sympathetically
and writes a script for Wellbutrin. To take off a little
of the edge, she says. And, Tell me how you feel in two weeks.
When I don’t forget, I try to remember if I still feel like I’m
sitting in the second to the last car before the whole train goes
over the cliff. I try that new yoga move we learned in class
called Mermaid— where you lie on your side with knees bent,
then trail one arm over in a half-circle across to the other side,
while touching the tips of outstretched fingers to the floor.
In response to Via Negativa: Bestselling poet.
To be a body among other bodies
Sure sign of the season departing: one last gift
of summer, lone fruit purpling, still clinging
to the tree. On the ground, leathered skins
of leaves that could not keep from shedding.
It’s hard enough to be a body among other
bodies, to walk the streets, descend
the stairs; to ride in trains, swaying, hanging on
to straps. The world accelerates past flickering
windows. Life is that indifferent engine humming,
hurrying us toward the next thing and the next.
I close my eyes and think— should the wheels
disengage from the tracks, being one among
so many other bodies, how would I manage
the certain panicked rush toward the exit
signs, a stairwell leading back to safety?
In the city, my body moving among other bodies
barely reflects the light that glints
like fire from rows of perforated windows.
How we must look from up high: dark, grainy
forms, indistinguishable to some cold eye.
Return of the native
Up and to the office, where busy all the morning, among other things about this of the flags and my bringing in of callicos to oppose Young and Whistler. At noon by promise Mr. Pierce and his wife and Madam Clerke and her niece came and dined with me to a rare chine of beefe and spent the afternoon very pleasantly all the afternoon, and then to my office in the evening, they being gone, and late at business, and then home to supper and to bed, my mind coming to itself in following of my business.
all out of promise
a rare bee spent
the afternoon being
my mind coming to itself
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 6 October 1664.
Ants
We come home that Friday night after having
pizza at the mall; we’re laughing about one
thing or another, lifting leftover slices
from out of the oily box to wrap in foil
when one of us notices ants everywhere— in single
file around the sink, the edge of the dish rack,
climbing across the green plastic chopping
board: which is strange because there isn’t any
food left out, no sticky piles of dishes, no jar
of sauce or sugar accidentally uncapped. In a flash
I rummage under the sink for the can of Natural
Roach and Ant Killer made of herb extracts
and cinnamon oil; and start spraying the window frame,
the tile behind the faucet, the sides of the toaster.
Meanwhile, you want to carry everything in and around
the sink to the dining table then wash each item
in hot water. We don’t realize we’re bickering
until our youngest child starts crying, saying Stop!
I hate it when you’re fighting! before rushing away
to her room. We look at each other and put down
what we’re holding, then each in turn goes to offer
comfort, to reassure her we’re not angry, we don’t
hate each other, we’re not about to break up;
it’s only because of the ants. How do I know that,
she says in between sobs— I never could tell,
I was just a small child growing up. I know the years
she’s referring to: when only one of us was working,
when there were lawyers’ immigration fees to pay,
school and car payments and finally a chapter 13
bankruptcy. We did rage a lot at each other then;
and cry, or threaten to throw in the towel. Also, swallow
our pride. What a miserable time. We may be out of the woods,
but not without this consequence: she’s still at the mercy
of those triggers. After, when she’s asleep, we wipe down
the kitchen counters. Only a few ants are visible—
no longer stepping after each other in a straight line
but meandering around the soap dispenser, which means
whatever reinforced the pheromone trail has dissipated.
Child workers
Up betimes and to my office, and thence by coach to New Bridewell to meet with Mr. Poyntz to discourse with him (being Master of the Workhouse there) about making of Bewpers for us. But he was not within; however his clerke did lead me up and down through all the house, and there I did with great pleasure see the many pretty works, and the little children employed, every one to do something, which was a very fine sight, and worthy encouragement. I cast away a crowne among them, and so to the ‘Change and among the Linnen Wholesale Drapers to enquire about Callicos, to see what can be done with them for the supplying our want of Bewpers for flaggs, and I think I shall do something therein to good purpose for the King. So to the Coffeehouse, and there fell in discourse with the Secretary of the Virtuosi of Gresham College, and had very fine discourse with him. He tells me of a new invented instrument to be tried before the College anon, and I intend to see it. So to Trinity House, and there I dined among the old dull fellows, and so home and to my office a while, and then comes Mr. Cocker to see me, and I discoursed with him about his writing and ability of sight, and how I shall do to get some glasse or other to helpe my eyes by candlelight; and he tells me he will bring me the helps he hath within a day or two, and shew me what he do.
Thence to the Musique-meeting at the Postoffice, where I was once before. And thither anon come all the Gresham College, and a great deal of noble company: and the new instrument was brought called the Arched Viall, where being tuned with lute-strings, and played on with kees like an organ, a piece of parchment is always kept moving; and the strings, which by the kees are pressed down upon it, are grated in imitation of a bow, by the parchment; and so it is intended to resemble several vyalls played on with one bow, but so basely and harshly, that it will never do. But after three hours’ stay it could not be fixed in tune; and so they were fain to go to some other musique of instruments, which I am grown quite out of love with, and so I, after some good discourse with Mr. Spong, Hill, Grant, and Dr. Whistler, and others by turns, I home to my office and there late, and so home, where I understand my wife has spoke to Jane and ended matters of difference between her and her, and she stays with us, which I am glad of; for her fault is nothing but sleepiness and forgetfulness, otherwise a good-natured, quiet, well-meaning, honest servant, and one that will do as she is bid, so one called upon her and will see her do it.
This morning, by three o’clock, the Prince and King, and Duke with him, went down the River, and the Prince under sail the next tide after, and so is gone from the Hope. God give him better successe than he used to have!
This day Mr. Bland went away hence towards his voyage to Tangier.
This day also I had a letter from an unknown hand that tells me that Jacke Angier, he believes, is dead at Lisbon, for he left him there ill.
children employed
to supply our flags
dull eyes like organ keys
pressed down
that could not be fixed
to whistle
but otherwise quiet
and will do as bid
the river is a letter
from an unknown hand
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 5 October 1664.
Bestselling poet
Up and to the office, where we sat all the morning, and this morning Sir W. Pen went to Chatham to look after the ships now going out thence, and particularly that wherein the Duke and himself go. He took Sir G. Ascue with him, whom, I believe, he hath brought into play. At noon to the ‘Change and thence home, where I found my aunt James and the two she joyces. They dined and were merry with us. Thence after dinner to a play, to see “The Generall;” which is so dull and so ill-acted, that I think it is the worst I ever saw or heard in all my days. I happened to sit near to Sir Charles Sidly; who I find a very witty man, and he did at every line take notice of the dullness of the poet and badness of the action, that most pertinently; which I was mightily taken with; and among others where by Altemire’s command Clarimont, the Generall, is commanded to rescue his Rivall, whom she loved, Lucidor, he, after a great deal of demurre, broke out; “Well, I’le save my Rivall and make her confess, that I deserve, while he do but possesse.” “Why, what, pox,” says Sir Charles Sydly, “would he have him have more, or what is there more to be had of a woman than the possessing her?”
Thence-setting all them at home, I home with my wife and Mercer, vexed at my losing my time and above 20s. in money, and neglecting my business to see so bad a play. To-morrow they told us should be acted, or the day after, a new play, called “The Parson’s Dreame,” acted all by women.
So to my office, and there did business; and so home to supper and to bed.
with no play or wit
at every line the dull poet
is all love-and-confess
what ox would have more
what is there above one
in so bad a dream
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 4 October 1664.
Smallest of labors
Of what use are the things others call
useless right from the start? When I
was a child, my mothers poured a paper
sackful of legumes onto a winnowing
basket. While they worked peeling tubers
and severing small animals at the joint,
this was a way to keep me occupied—
Tedious exercise in finding each dark
scar tucked into the side of a bean;
from there, tearing and pulling away
at the spandex-like sheath. You could say this
might be practice for all the things I didn’t
know yet: about choosing one problem
at a time from the heap to soak overnight
in water. About shielding what I can
before it’s time to give up the heart.
In response to Via Negativa: O tempora, o mores.