Via Negativa

November 27, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Slack

Not well in the morning and lay long in bed. At last rise and at noon with my wife to my Uncle Wights, where we met Mr. Cole, Mr. Rawlinson, Norbury and his wife and her daughter, and other friends to the Chine of beef that I sent them the other day, and eat and were merry. By and by I am called to the office, whither I went and there we sat late; and after the office done, Sir Wms both and I and Captain Cock and Mr. Bence (who being drunk, showed himself by his talk a bold foole, and so we were fain to put him off and get him away) we sat till 9 a-clock by ourselfs in the office, talking and drinking three or four bottles of wine. And so home and to bed. My wife and her mayde Dorothé falling out, I was troubled at it.

long in bed with
my fool self—
a bottle falling out

Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 26 November 1661.

November 27, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Atang*

This entry is part 20 of 27 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2014

Here is a fingernail slice of bread, a curl
of butter that none of our lips will touch—

a shot glass of soup, hot spoonful of meat,
and one clementine still glowing in its

bright orange skin. Here on one plate
we arrange morse code of small offerings,

make space in our hearts for an envelope
of silence. This is what we try to send

at the same time each year from this
house where we live on the forest floor,

today carpeted with what leaves have shed—
And every now and then, flashes of light

sear through the canopy, bright distractions
from tracking thread through the labyrinth.

*Atang

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

November 26, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Better nature

To Westminster Hall in the morning with Captain Lambert, and there he did at the Dog give me and some other friends of his, his foy, he being to set sail to-day towards the Streights. Here we had oysters and good wine. Having this morning met in the Hall with Mr. Sanchy, we appointed to meet at the play this afternoon. At noon, at the rising of the House, I met with Sir W. Pen and Major General Massy, who I find by discourse to be a very ingenious man, and among other things a great master in the secresys of powder and fireworks, and another knight to dinner, at the Swan, in the Palace yard, and our meat brought from the Legg; and after dinner Sir W. Pen and I to the Theatre, and there saw “The Country Captain,” a dull play, and that being done, I left him with his Torys and went to the Opera, and saw the last act of “The Bondman,” and there found Mr. Sanchy and Mrs. Mary Archer, sister to the fair Betty, whom I did admire at Cambridge, and thence took them to the Fleece in Covent Garden, there to bid good night to Sir W. Pen who staid for me; but Mr. Sanchy could not by any argument get his lady to trust herself with him into the tavern, which he was much troubled at, and so we returned immediately into the city by coach, and at the Mitre in Cheapside there light and drank, and then set her at her uncle’s in the Old Jewry. And so he and I back again thither, and drank till past 12 at night, till I had drank something too much. He all the while telling me his intention to get a girl who is worth 1000l., and many times we had her sister Betty’s health, whose memory I love. At last parted, and I well home, only had got cold and was hoarse and so to bed.

The dog all afternoon
is master of the yard.
I play with
his trust, troubled
by love as art.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 25 November 1661.

November 26, 2014November 26, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Where there’s fire

Where there’s fire
there’s smoke and tear gas
burning eyes
a burning in the gut.

Where there’s fire
there’s a smokescreen
the CNN reporter saying
of course he smells marijuana
the grand-jury white-out
the felonious cigarillos.

Where there’s fire
there’s a smoking gun
trajectories inescapable as the weather
in upraised arms that couldn’t
surrender enough.

Where there’s fire
there’s a cross we keep handy
for special occasions.
Look how quickly its outstretched arms
go up in smoke.

November 26, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

A Carol

How we pined for colder
months that meant relief
at last from summer’s scorching;
and for mornings when we could wake
to the small marvel of seeing
our breath rendered like script,
visible, exhaled into the frosty air
out on the porch— And how we rejoiced
at never-to-be-repeated pleasures,
like having collected the right
number of bottle caps to flatten
on the gravel driveway with a hammer, punch
holes in their hearts with a pick then string them
with a bracelet of wire to make a sound akin
to tambourines— And they were just
the right thing for those dark evenings
before Christmas, our scraggly, snot-nosed band
going from house to house in the neighborhood,
quavering faulty carols learned
from the radio, waiting for the doors
to open and the gifts of coins or sweets,
or better yet to be invited in.

November 25, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Police report

(Lord’s day). Up early, and by appointment to St. Clement lanes to church, and there to meet Captain Cocke, who had often commended Mr. Alsopp, their minister, to me, who is indeed an able man, but as all things else did not come up to my expectations. His text was that all good and perfect gifts are from above. Thence Cocke and I to the Sun tavern behind the Exchange, and there met with others that are come from the same church, and staid and drank and talked with them a little, and so broke up, and I to the Wardrobe and there dined, and staid all the afternoon with my Lady alone talking, and thence to see Madame Turner, who, poor lady, continues very ill, and I begin to be afraid of her. Thence homewards, and meeting Mr. Yong, the upholster, he and I to the Mitre, and with Mr. Rawlinson sat and drank a quart of sack, and so I to Sir W. Batten’s and there staid and supped, and so home, where I found an invitation sent my wife and I to my uncle Wight’s on Tuesday next to the chine of beef which I presented them with yesterday. So to prayers and to bed.

Captain Cock
is an able man
but his gifts are little—all talk—
and he continues to be afraid
of the holster.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 24 November 1661.

November 25, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Two

This entry is part 19 of 27 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2014

Miserable when I do not spend,
miserable when I do—

Worried when I cannot give,
worried when I do—

Anxious when I give my word,
anxious when I can’t—

Surely there are
other countries tucked
between these promontories

of two, where the light need not
go dark when it is dark—

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

November 24, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Reporter

To Westminster with my wife (she to her father’s), and about 10 o’clock back again home, and there I to the office a little, and thence by coach with Commissioner Pett to Cheapside to one Savill, a painter, who I intend shall do my picture and my wife’s. Thence I to dinner at the Wardrobe, and so home to the office, and there all the afternoon till night, and then both Sir Williams to my house, and in comes Captain Cock, and they to cards. By and by Sir W. Batten and Cock, after drinking a good deal of wine, went away, and Sir W. Pen staid with my wife and I to supper, very pleasant, and so good night. This day I have a chine of beef sent home, which I bespoke to send, and did send it as a present to my uncle Wight.

Back home to
a heap of cards,
ink and pen my supper
and good night.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 23 November 1661.

November 24, 2014December 11, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Practice

This entry is part 18 of 27 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2014

The first warm day since autumn’s onset—
and sounds of soccer practice drift
across the street: the coach’s whistle,

his animated urging, the familiar
thunk of contact as the ball sails
toward its intended target

to a chorus of cheers. Behind glass
in the building next door, a line of girls,
their supple limbs a sheathed uniform

making a pale pink movement like a wave.
A woman waiting on the bench turns to ask,
And how is your daughter? In this as in all

things, the metronome ticks audibly:
measure against measure, unfaltering,
timed against the pulse that set it there.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

November 23, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Taiji

Within all the morning, and at noon with my wife, by appointment to dinner at the Dolphin, where Sir W. Batten, and his lady and daughter Matt, and Captain Cocke and his lady, a German lady, but a very great beauty, and we dined together, at the spending of some wagers won and lost between him and I; and there we had the best musique and very good songs, and were very merry and danced, but I was most of all taken with Madam Cocke and her little boy, which in mirth his father had given to me. But after all our mirth comes a reckoning of 4l., besides 40s. to the musicians, which did trouble us, but it must be paid, and so I took leave and left them there about eight at night. And on foot went to the Temple, and then took my cozen Turner’s man Roger, and went by his advice to Serjeant Fountaine and told him our case, who gives me good comfort in it, and I gave him 30s. fee. So home again and to bed. This day a good pretty maid was sent my wife by Mary Bowyer, whom my wife has hired.

Within the dolphin,
a great lost music
given to the night.
And the fountain—
so pretty a red.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 22 November 1661.