Posts

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

No longer the same

“walk into the city to be changed…” ~ D. Bonta

And you were, even before you packed
your bags: the fact of the matter
being that the ghost of a place
haunted you, sowed seeds that turned
into blooms you could not name—

In the garden, by the shed, the bees
make a home they still remember
after traveling through fields
and vines, looking for their own
kinds of sweet. Green rows

undulate like a sea in the sun—
in the country that keeps them,
they’ll never know the luminous script
of snow, the quiet sift when leaves
abandon the arms that held them.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Reinvention.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Slow dance

(Easter day). Up and this day put on my close-kneed coloured suit, which, with new stockings of the colour, with belt, and new gilt-handled sword, is very handsome.
To church alone, and so to dinner, where my father and brother Tom dined with us, and after dinner to church again, my father sitting below in the chancel. After church done, where the young Scotchman preaching I slept all the while, my father and I to see my uncle and aunt Wight, and after a stay of an hour there my father to my brother’s and I home to supper, and after supper fell in discourse of dancing, and I find that Ashwell hath a very fine carriage, which makes my wife almost ashamed of herself to see herself so outdone, but to-morrow she begins to learn to dance for a month or two.
So to prayers and to bed. Will being gone, with my leave, to his father’s this day for a day or two, to take physique these holydays.

is my knee red
which hand is handsome

alone with each other
we begin to learn to dance

for two to pray
being one is holy


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 19 April 1663.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Senescence

Up betimes and to my office, where all the morning. At noon to dinner. With us Mr. Creed, who has been deeply engaged at the office this day about the ending of his accounts, wherein he is most unhappy to have to do with a company of fools who after they have signed his accounts and made bills upon them yet dare not boldly assert to the Treasurer that they are satisfied with his accounts. Hereupon all dinner, and walking in the garden the afternoon, he and I talking of the ill management of our office, which God knows is very ill for the King’s advantage. I would I could make it better.
In the evening to my office, and at night home to supper and bed.

the deep age of this day
ending with a company of ills

no satisfied walking in the garden
no talking god

no age could make
better evening at night


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 18 April 1663.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Ode to the Ampersand

Conjoiner, annexer, never
quite finished one, I admire
the way you coolly tuck
one foot behind your calf
while signaling the waiter
to bring one more pot
of Turkish tea or coffee,
one more plate of bread
or sweets— & I admire
how you never really run
out of things to say
while giving the general
impression you’re not
simply babbling—
& the diplomatic turn
to include everyone around
the table, first to last &
sometimes once again—
You can always be
counted on to be the one
who’ll never take no for
an answer, or at least
who’ll never think it
will be the last word—
& for some reason
at this very moment
I remember my kindergarten
teacher holding up a stem
of orange wire cleaner,
twisting it into a clever
loop & saying Look at all
the many shapes you
can make with this—

Posted on by Dave Bonta

The Grave Dug by Beasts: a new videopoem by Swoon

This entry is part 12 of 12 in the series The Temptations of Solitude


Watch on Vimeo.

The other videopoem that my friend Marc Neys AKA Swoon surprised me with at my birthday party (see yesterday’s post) was this interpretation of a poem I’d written in response to a painting by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, one of a series of ekphrastic poems I wrote in response to his series of paintings The Temptations of Solitude. (These poems were later collected along with the work of five other poets in a beautiful little anthology called The Book of Ystwyth: Six Poets on the Art of Clive Hicks-Jenkins, and you can watch the videos of our group reading at the 2011 book launch.)

I made my own videopoem with this text back in 2012, and while I wouldn’t call it a failure, I do think it rather pales in comparison to Marc’s. Nevertheless, it’s fascinating how the creative spark originally struck by Clive continues to give rise to new works of art. As Clive himself commented when I shared the video on Facebook last month: “I love the way art begets art begets art begets art. This is hauntingly beautiful.”

Sadly, this is among the last videopoems that Marc plans to make for a while. He told me he’s taking a year off from filmmaking to concentrate on other things—especially his music. Here’s hoping that when he does go back to making poetry films, it will be with new energy and fresh perspectives on the genre. His influence over the international videopoem and poetry film scene so far has been enormous.

For what it’s worth, I’ve added this and the videos I shared yesterday to the Plummer’s Hollow Poet channel on Vimeo, which is probably the best place to browse videos made with my own poems (since I don’t share those at my site Moving Poems).

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Washing up

After we wiped down the length
of where we sat to eat at the table,

we took the stack of dishes to wash
at the “dirty kitchen,” a sink

set into a cement counter out in the yard.
Under moonlight, it was pleasant to talk

and make soapy circles on the melamine plates
then rinse them. Trickle of water from the tap;

or, dunk them all in a larger basin filled
with rainwater. Under the honeysuckle vines

the rest of the world then seemed something
that could still be kept at bay. Who knows

when it turned, or how long the watchful trees
continued to take tally as we carried damp

kitchen towels and armfuls of clean circles
back into the house, ready for use once again?

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Reinvention

Up by five o’clock as I have long done and to my office all the morning, at noon home to dinner with my father with us. Our dinner, it being Good Friday, was only sugarsopps and fish; the only time that we have had a Lenten dinner all this Lent.
This morning Mr. Hunt, the instrument maker, brought me home a Basse Viall to see whether I like it, which I do not very well, besides I am under a doubt whether I had best buy one yet or no, because of spoiling my present mind and love to business.
After dinner my father and I walked into the city a little, and parted and to Paul’s Church Yard, to cause the title of my English “Mare Clausum” to be changed, and the new title, dedicated to the King, to be put to it, because I am ashamed to have the other seen dedicated to the Commonwealth.
So home and to my office till night, and so home to talk with my father, and supper and to bed, I have not had yet one quarter of an hour’s leisure to sit down and talk with him since he came to town, nor do I know till the holidays when I shall.

done with our only sugar
and only me

we hunt a home like the best spoil
walk into the city to be changed

I am ashamed to have seen
a common town


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 17 April 1663.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

The conversation continues: two videopoems

This entry is part 29 of 29 in the series Conversari

Back in 2011 and 2012, Rachel Rawlins and I had a public dialogue in poems and photos between this blog and hers. Usually I would write a poem, and she would respond with a photo that commented on the text in some way. We called it Conversari. Recently two new videopoems have extended this exercise in ekphrastic call-and-response.

Back on February 27, the Saturday after my 50th birthday, Rachel and a bunch of other friends surprised me with a videopoetry-themed party in the upstairs room of a nearby pub in London. Our friends Marc Neys and Katrijn Clemer came over from Belgium for the weekend, and Marc—AKA Swoon—acted as VJ at the party with a whole program of videopoems by different masters of the art, including two new ones of his own using texts I’d written. One of them adapted the poem “Hit the Lights” from the Conversari series, with a voiceover contributed by Rachel, which significantly changed how I heard the poem. (I didn’t even recognize it as my own at first, which is always a pleasure.) Marc incorporated some great footage of brown bears, a choice which gains in significance as the film proceeds. It was a terrific videopoem all around, I thought:

Watch on Vimeo.

On my birthday itself, we had gone to the old resort town of Southwold on the East Anglian coast, and were blessed with unseasonably warm and mild weather. We stayed in a grand old hotel associated with Adnams brewery, one of my favorite British brewers. I’ve shared some of my still photos from that trip, but I also shot some video footage, including a couple of great, unscripted moments from Rachel, one in our hotel room and one on the beach. The other day I finally thought of a way to use it, tweaking another poem from the Conversari series (mainly adding a couple of lines to make a better fit with the imagery). Here’s the result:

Watch on Vimeo.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

There’s one type of letter written over and over

Inside one of the fortune cookies delivered
to our table: “You have a yearning for perfection.”

It’s like that, like the dancers we saw onstage
taking turns, cradling each other’s heads

in their arms before pushing off again
or falling through space. But more than that,

it’s the longing for the once held
that still calls with such deep affection—

In some old plays, when the traveler turns
his sleeve inside out it means

he is still lost on some interminable journey.
Under the moon, the white moths are breathing;

we take off our shoes and socks
just to step on the grass.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Housekeeper.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Politics

Up betimes and to my office, met to pass Mr. Pitt’s (anon Sir J. Lawson’s Secretary and Deputy Treasurer) accounts for the voyage last to the Streights, wherein the demands are strangely irregular, and I dare not oppose it alone for making an enemy and do no good, but only bring a review upon my Lord Sandwich, but God knows it troubles my heart to see it, and to see the Comptroller, whose duty it is, to make no more matter of it. At noon home for an hour to dinner, and so to the office public and private till late at night, so home to supper and bed with my father.

where the demands are strange
are for making an enemy

do I know my heart whose duty
is to make more at the public supper


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 16 April 1663.