Via Negativa

September 26, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Cut loose

Up and to my office, and there we sat till noon, and then I to the Exchange, but did little there, but meeting Mr. Rawlinson he would needs have me home to dinner, and Mr. Deane of Woolwich being with me I took him with me, and there we dined very well at his own dinner, only no invitation, but here I sat with little pleasure, considering my wife at home alone, and so I made what haste home I could, and was forced to sit down again at dinner with her, being unwilling to neglect her by being known to dine abroad. My doing so being only to keep Deane from dining at home with me, being doubtful what I have to eat. So to the office, and there till late at night, and so home to supper and bed, being mightily pleased to find my wife so mindful of her house.

no meeting needs me
I dine at no invitation

with pleasure alone
I could sit down

unknown to the office
the tea I might find

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 26 September 1663.

September 26, 2026September 26, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Moonbathing Pantoum

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

On the sill, in the light of a harvest moon
set a glass into which you pour clear water.
Write down your wishes and slip them under
your pillow. When you wake, drink the water.

Into a glass where you've poured clear water,
take care that no anxious thoughts fall.
When you wake and drink the water, feel
it course through you like a clean new river.

Take care of the first thoughts that arrive
—unbidden, yet aware of long-hidden joy.
The clear sound of a river rippling in you,
how its surface echoes and circles

unbidden, calling to dormant feelings.
Gather too herbacious and woody scents,
forest echoes, call of circling birds.
It's been so long since you touched 

what was always soft, beneath the surface.
Write down wishes to slip into clouds.
Lay your head on the pillow, dream of water
on which the moon floats: an ocean inside you.

September 26, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Sad

Lay pretty long in bed, and so to my office all the morning till by and by called out by Sir J. Minnes and Sir W. Batten, with them by water to Deptford, where it of a sudden did lighten, thunder, and rain so as we could do nothing but stay in Davis’s house, and by and by Sir J. Minnes and I home again by water, and I home to dinner, and after dinner to the office, and there till night all alone, even of my clerks being there, doing of business, and so home and to bed.

in bed all morning
out of light

thunder and rain do nothing
to an inner night

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 25 September 1663.

September 25, 2026September 25, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Returning Ache

The ache returns with its hands in its pockets.
It sets down its suitcase and hangs its head.
I open the door and say: only for one night,
and only on the couch. There's a nor'easter;  

set down your suitcase inside the storm door.
Don't get any ideas though you've been here 
before. And don't get too comfy on the couch.
Let me have my pot of tea and my quiet.

Don't insinuate the same ideas from before.
I've been trying to reframe the language of hurt
as I inhale the warmth of orange zest and clove.
Perhaps you could fold in half and now be quiet.

In trying to reframe the language of hurt, 
I must stop myself from blaming even you.
Perhaps, folded in half and quiet, you could
lean more toward lightness and away from

those old games of blame and guilt and blame.
I opened the door but insisted: only for one night.
I want to lean more and more into lightness, though
the ache might come back with hands in its pockets.

September 25, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Pear-shaped

Up betimes, and after taking leave of my brother, John, who went from me to my father’s this day, I went forth by water to Sir Philip Warwick’s, where I was with him a pretty while; and in discourse he tells me, and made it appear to me, that the King cannot be in debt to the Navy at this time 5,000l.; and it is my opinion that Sir G. Carteret do owe the King money, and yet the whole Navy debt paid. Thence I parted, being doubtful of myself that I have not spoke with the gravity and weight that I ought to do in so great a business. But I rather hope it is my doubtfulness of myself, and the haste which he was in, some very great personages waiting for him without, while he was with me, that made him willing to be gone. To the office by water, where we sat doing little, now Mr. Coventry is not here, but only vex myself to see what a sort of coxcombs we are when he is not here to undertake such a business as we do. In the afternoon telling my wife that I go to Deptford, I went, by water to Westminster Hall, and there finding Mrs. Lane, took her over to Lambeth, where we were lately, and there, did what I would with her, but only the main thing, which she would not consent to, for which God be praised, and yet I came so near, that I was provoked to spend. But, trust in the Lord, I shall never do so again while I live. After being tired with her company I landed her at White Hall, and so home and at my office writing letters till 12 at night almost, and then home to supper and bed, and there found my poor wife hard at work, which grieved my heart to see that I should abuse so good a wretch, and that is just with God to make her bad with me for my wronging of her, but I do resolve never to do the like again. So to bed.

a pear with the gravity
of some great personage

waiting in the office
where we do little

but take a business over
raise and spend in the red

I almost grieve
to see us go bad

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 24 September 1663.

September 24, 2026September 24, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Quiet Things

I like that there are still delicate things
in the world: moths scattered on the storm
door, their soft brown markings like un- 
finished embroidery. One bit of string 
incense tied into a bow, exuding a warm 
green smell from a greeting card. The light 
hand of the tech who finds the vein in the hollow 
of your elbow joint, drawing out a small vial of blood 
without asking anything more of you. A cloud-
blue mug on which the potter left a dent exactly 
the size of your thumb on one side. An eyelash 
that floated onto your cheek, quiet as a virgule 
breathing between two lines of a poem.

September 24, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Walking it out

Up betimes and to my office, where setting down my journall while I was in the country to this day, and at noon by water to my Lord Crew’s, and there dined with him and Sir Thomas, thinking to have them inquire something about my Lord’s lodgings at Chelsey, or any thing of that sort, but they did not, nor seem to take the least notice of it, which is their discretion, though it might be better for my Lord and them too if they did, that so we might advise together for the best, which cannot be while we seem ignorant one to another, and it is not fit for me to begin the discourse. Thence walked to several places about business and to Westminster Hall, thinking to meet Mrs. Lane, which is my great vanity upon me at present, but I must correct it. She was not in the way.
So by water home and to my office, whither by and by came my brother John, who is to go to Cambridge to-morrow, and I did give him a most severe reprimand for his bad account he gives me of his studies. This I did with great passion and sharp words, which I was sorry to be forced to say, but that I think it for his good, forswearing doing anything for him, and that which I have yet, and now do give him, is against my heart, and will also be hereafter, till I do see him give me a better account of his studies. I was sorry to see him give me no answer, but, for aught I see, to hear me without great resentment, and such as I should have had: in his condition. But I have done my duty, let him do his, for I am resolved to be as good as my word. After two hours walking in the garden, till after it was dark, I ended with him and to my office, and there set some papers in order, and so to supper, and my poor wife, who is mighty busy at home; fitting her closet. So to bed.

up and down I think
something out

take the least ignorant course
to several places

the way I am
sharp words wear thin

after one or two hours
walking in the dark

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 23 September 1663.

September 23, 2026September 24, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Going Home

Years into the future, you'll find an almost-
country in streets and houses that have 

vanished, in rotted planks that once held up 
the pier. From a certain spot looking west, 

the sun spilled ink pots of rust and orange.
You could write, on paper, that the light

was beautiful or that after, night broke open
to swallow the ruins. You could write: here

men arrived, preaching their gospel of
advantage, throwing nets over the sides

of their boats to harvest the last of fallen
stars. Touch a finger to broken tile.

Remember an old alphabet, how it used
to live in leatherbound pages or a box 

inlaid with mother-of-pearl. City gates
were built against onrushing waters,

where once people stood exchanging
goodbyes but delaying their actual

departure. Under every archive of what
vanished lies another archive the color

of bleached coral. Ask the weaver 
birds where their home is, as they bend

sticks and straw into shapes their bodies
will fit into. Ask yourself when it is time 

to stand under a tree and shed your clothes, 
waiting to be wrapped up in its arms.

September 23, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Prodigal son

I up, well refreshed after my journey, and to my office and there set some things in order, and then Sir W. Pen and I met and held an office, and at noon to dinner, and so by water with my wife to Westminster, she to see her father and mother, and we met again at my Lord’s lodgings, and thence by water home again, where at the door we met Sir W. Pen and his daughter coming to visit us, and after their visit I to my office, and after some discourse to my great satisfaction with Sir W. Warren about our bargain of masts, I wrote my letters by the post, and so home to supper and to bed.
This day my wife showed me bills printed, wherein her father, with Sir John Collidon and Sir Edward Ford, have got a patent for curing of smoky chimneys. I wish they may do good thereof, but fear it will prove but a poor project.
This day the King and Queen are to come to Oxford. I hear my Lady Castlemaine is for certain gone to Oxford to meet him, having lain within here at home this week or two, supposed to have miscarried; but for certain is as great in favour as heretofore; at least Mrs. Sarah at my Lord’s, who hears all from their own family, do say so.
Every day brings newes of the Turke’s advance into Germany, to the awakeing of all the Christian Princes thereabouts, and possessing himself of Hungary. My present care is fitting my wife’s closett and my house, and making her a velvet coate, and me a new black cloth suit, and coate and cloake, and evening my reckoning as well as I can against Michaelmas Day, hoping for all that to have my balance as great or greater than ever I had yet.

after my journey home
the door is great as a wish
but one I have miscarried

great as a lord
of the closet
and my velvet cloak

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 22 September 1663.

September 22, 2026September 22, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Invisible City

"You won't find another country, won't find another shore....
there's no ship for you, there's no road."
                                                                                      ~ C.P. Cavafy


Like most things in life, I learned this
too the hard way. I also left— pursuing 
a myth that yielded no streets of gold, no 
green-leafed money trees, no saints 
smiling at the end of a hard shift, handing out
paychecks like halos. I too, traded one city 
for another, then another. Was called traitor, 
ungrateful for the canopy my first home 
provided, though rain coursed down the walls 
like waterfalls. Was accused of wanting more 
than someone like me should desire. And yet 
I'm always asked: when do you think you'll 
be back? I used to have nightmares 
that the roof over our heads was caving in,
or that the next wind would claw at its corners
and peel it back, revealing how we slept 
without clothes, or how we squatted 
at the table to eat. Now there's nothing
there save a mile marker, a taxi stand,
a transient house, an internet café.
The only thing left is feeling, and faded
furniture on a faded rug; portraits of
unknown presidents glimmering 
from what would have been walls.