Posts

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Diplomacy

Up and to the Duke, who himself told me that Sir J. Lawson was come home to Portsmouth from the Streights, who is now come with great renown among all men, and, I perceive, mightily esteemed at Court by all. The Duke did not stay long in his chamber; but to the King’s chamber, whither by and by the Russia Embassadors come; who, it seems, have a custom that they will not come to have any treaty with our or any King’s Commissioners, but they will themselves see at the time the face of the King himself, be it forty days one after another; and so they did to-day only go in and see the King; and so out again to the Council-chamber.
The Duke returned to his chamber, and so to his closett, where Sir G. Carteret, Sir J. Minnes, Sir W. Batten, Mr. Coventry, and myself attended him about the business of the Navy; and after much discourse and pleasant talk he went away. And I took Sir W. Batten and Captain Allen into the wine cellar to my tenant (as I call him, Serjeant Dalton), and there drank a great deal of variety of wines, more than I have drunk at one time, or shall again a great while, when I come to return to my oaths, which I intend in a day or two. Thence to my Lord’s lodging, where Mr. Hunt and Mr. Creed dined with us, and were very merry. And after dinner he and I to White Hall, where the Duke and the Commissioners for Tangier met, but did not do much: my Lord Sandwich not being in town, nobody making it their business. So up, and Creed and I to my wife again, and after a game or two at cards, to the Cockpitt, where we saw “Claracilla,” a poor play, done by the King’s house (but neither the King nor Queen were there, but only the Duke and Duchess, who did show some impertinent and, methought, unnatural dalliances there, before the whole world, such as kissing, and leaning upon one another); but to my very little content, they not acting in any degree like the Duke’s people. So home (there being here this night Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Martha Batten of our office) to my Lord’s lodgings again, and to a game at cards, we three and Sarah, and so to supper and some apples and ale, and to bed with great pleasure, blessed be God!

who as ambassadors
will not have a treaty with time

be it one day only
in a closet of pleasant talk

the wine cellar
where we do business

the pit where we kiss
like people of ice


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 5 January 1662/63.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

A dress:

a shift, I am told.
Or a tunic. Something
to ease over the folds
and forgive, conceal,
distract, conform—
Whereas I desire
comfort: like skin
but not, just enough
of a caul to keep
me partly out of
the world and in.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Proverbial (15)

(Lord’s day). Up and to church, where a lazy sermon, and so home to dinner to a good piece of powdered beef, but a little too salt. At dinner my wife did propound my having of my sister Pall at my house again to be her woman, since one we must have, hoping that in that quality possibly she may prove better than she did before, which I take very well of her, and will consider of it, it being a very great trouble to me that I should have a sister of so ill a nature, that I must be forced to spend money upon a stranger when it might better be upon her, if she were good for anything.
After dinner I and she walked, though it was dirty, to White Hall (in the way calling at the Wardrobe to see how Mr. Moore do, who is pretty well, but not cured yet), being much afeard of being seen by anybody, and was, I think, of Mr. Coventry, which so troubled me that I made her go before, and I ever after loitered behind. She to Mr. Hunt’s, and I to White Hall Chappell, and then up to walk up and down the house, which now I am well known there, I shall forbear to do, because I would not be thought a lazy body by Mr. Coventry and others by being seen, as I have lately been, to walk up and down doing nothing. So to Mr. Hunt’s, and there was most prettily and kindly entertained by him and her, who are two as good people as I hardly know any, and so neat and kind one to another. Here we staid late, and so to my Lord’s to bed.

good salt is better than anger
good dirt is as good as the Lord


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 4 January 1662/63.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Dead (Wo)Man’s Float

Clasp your knees to your chest. Pretend
you’re an egg in the water; slowly peel
each limb away from the body. Relax.
Let the choppy waves wash over you,
the agitations caused by your starfish
children. This isn’t the first time you’ve
had to take the extra beating that might
really be meant for the absent parent.
Resist the urge to try a Muay Thai
move with fists, elbows, knees, shins.
Observe the sandy bottom, the graceful
lines of kelp; the blue-green bubbles,
prismatic, floating to the surface:
the real masters in the art of holding
the breath. When the sun’s thermometer
eventually cools, stand up slowly.
Let the water stream gently down
your hair. No matter how many times
they’ve seen this, they’ll swear you
are a monster rising from the depths.
All the more reason to steer clear
of clamshells, leave the foam alone.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Age of extinction

Up and to the office all the morning, and dined alone with my wife at noon, and then to my office all the afternoon till night, putting business in order with great content in my mind. Having nothing now in my mind of trouble in the world, but quite the contrary, much joy, except only the ending of our difference with my uncle Thomas, and the getting of the bills well over for my building of my house here, which however are as small and less than any of the others. Sir W. Pen it seems is fallen very ill again.
So to my arithmetique again to-night, and so home to supper and to bed.

with no night
in the world

how small
the others seem

fallen again
to arithmetic


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 3 January 1662/63.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Indio Lindo

How long is the wait to get on a list?

Are we able to verify that everyone on the reservation
was actually repatriated?

While it is true we know of at least two
brain specimens kept in jars and sent away for further study,
what has been done with the other body parts?

What of the heart, the ankle joint, the fingers
that beat the brass gongs?

How many (real, not acted out) funerals were held on the fairgrounds,
which fairgoers marveled at for their verisimilitude?

Are you tired of my questions? I ask the same ones,
only changing the approach.

Don’t tell me the one about how 300 lbs. of dog meat
were ordered daily from the pound.

Exhibit A: I brought back a pair of mother of pearl earrings, etched
with geometric designs, carefully beaded. They look contemporary.

Exhibit B: The intricate weave in this fabric is impossible
to reduce to mere algorithm.

No one handed out 3D glasses back then, to be recycled after viewing.
Hell yes, every one you gawked at there was real.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Late love song.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Abed

Lay long in bed, and so up and to the office, where all the morning alone doing something or another. So dined at home with my wife, and in the afternoon to the Treasury office, where Sir W. Batten was paying off tickets, but so simply and arbitrarily, upon a dull pretence of doing right to the King, though to the wrong of poor people (when I know there is no man that means the King less right than he, or would trouble himself less about it, but only that he sees me stir, and so he would appear doing something, though to little purpose), that I was weary of it. At last we broke up, and walk home together, and I to see Sir W. Pen, who is fallen sick again. I staid a while talking with him, and so to my office, practising some arithmetique, and so home to supper and bed, having sat up late talking to my poor wife with great content.

in bed all morning
the thin little ear
of my wife


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 2 January 1662/63.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Song for Turning

Here’s a videopoem we made as a sort of New Year’s card to Via Negativa readers, similar to the solstice-themed videopoem we made last year. The footage is all stuff I shot since arriving in London in December (including the hardy soul swimming in the pond at Hampstead Heath—brrr!). I compiled it in rough form and Luisa wrote the following text to go along with it:

Song for Turning

What does the orphan
bird know, picking through the years’ detritus?

And what do worms know of melting glaciers,
as they burrow deeper beneath the last republics of trees?

And in the pond, glassy and riddled with green,
how will the fish translate the water’s

churning clockwork, the cities’ flimsy
defenses against the wind?

A line of buoys marks the space
where arms made windmills in summer.

Sometimes, the sun has the effulgence
of a bride in the middle of winter.

—Luisa A. Igloria, 1 January 2016

The music is part of a track called “London in Winter” by The Passion HiFi, licensed Attribution-only under the Creative Commons.

Here’s wishing all who read here a healthy, happy, and creatively rewarding New Year.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Fine Print

Whatever you do on this day
provides the tentacles for the year.
Whoosh whoosh, whooee. They’ll glow

like a spoked carnival ride, furnish each
porthole-shaped suction cup with embroidered
versions of your face. Take care to make

thoughtful life choices therefore. Linen
is eminently more breathable than pleather.
Whatever you use to bulk up the clam chowder,

understand that the base must still be clams.
Buying more stuff for the recently vacated
shelves makes the oceans sad. How many piano

keys have traveled to some distant salt flat?
Time is always running out, like a slice
of delicious cake everyone wants to taste.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Bienvenidos

My curtains flutter.
The cat licks itself in the doorway
and a box of silverware clatters
to the floor.

Who is raising that cloud of dust
in the distance, who is riding
hard on the road whose end is here
and whose beginning is there?

Tell the sick roses to think
of what they love best— what made
the sweetness in the nectary
before any bud burst from green.

 

In response to Via Negativa: The Sick Rose.