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.
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.
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.
Equinox
They aren’t bare yet—trees still hold on
to their banners of green, the heat
a palpable collar around
everything. And yet,
the counters begin
to shift—
one more orange
wing lofting south on currents
toward overwintering. One more
graphite mark moving against clear sky,
finding its place in a swelling wave as daylight fades.
Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 38
A personal selection of posts from around the Anglophone blogosphere, including Substack, with a commitment to following a somewhat haphazardly chosen selection of poets, poetry lovers, literary critics and publishers over time. Although I tend to quote my favorite bits, please do click through and read the whole posts. You can also browse the blog digest archive at Via Negativa or, if you’d like it in your inbox, subscribe on Substack (where the posts might be truncated by some email providers).
This week: yellowing pears, oleander petals, the rattle of swans’ wings, the engines of our envy, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 38”Killing field
Up very betimes by break of day, and got my wife up, whom the thought of this day’s long journey do discourage; and after eating something, and changing of a piece of gold to pay the reckoning, we mounted, and through Baldwicke, where a fayre is kept to-day, and a great one for cheese and other such commodities, and so to Hatfield, it being most curious weather from the time we set out to our getting home, and here we dined, and my wife being very weary, and believing that it would be hard to get her home to-night, and a great charge to keep her longer abroad, I took the opportunity of an empty coach that was to go to London, and left her to come in it to London, for half-a-crown, and so I and the boy home as fast as we could drive, and it was even night before we got home. So that I account it very good fortune that we took this course, being myself very weary, much more would my wife have been. At home found all very well and my house in good order. To see Sir W. Pen, who is pretty well, and Sir J. Minnes, who is a little lame on one foot, and the rest gone to Chatham, viz.: Sir G. Carteret and Sir W. Batten, who has in my absence inveighed against my contract the other day for Warren’s masts, in which he is a knave, and I shall find matter of tryumph, but it vexes me a little. So home, and by and by comes my wife by coach well home, and having got a good fowl ready for supper against her coming, we eat heartily, and so with great content and ease to our own bed, there nothing appearing so to our content as to be at our own home, after being abroad awhile.
day is a long journey
to the field at night
empty as good fortune
to see pretty well
who is a little lame
on one foot
and who has an owl
ready for supper
in her heart
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 21 September 1663.
Split
(Lord’s day). Up, and finding my father somewhat better, walked to Huntingdon church, where in my Lord’s pew, with the young ladies, by my Lord’s own showing me the place, I stayed the sermon, and so to Hinchingbroke, walking with Mr. Shepley and Dr. King, whom they account a witty man here, as well as a good physician, and there my Lord took me with the rest of the company, and singly demanded my opinion in the walks in his garden, about the bringing of the crooked wall on the mount to a shape; and so to dinner, there being Collonel Williams and much other company, and a noble dinner. But having before got my Lord’s warrant for travelling to-day, there being a proclamation read yesterday against it at Huntingdon, at which I am very glad, I took leave, leaving them at dinner, and walked alone to my father’s, and there, after a word or two to my father and mother, my wife and I mounted, and, with my father’s boy, upon a horse I borrowed of Captain Ferrers, we rode to Bigglesworth by the help of a couple of countrymen, that led us through the very long and dangerous waters, because of the ditches on each side, though it begun to be very dark, and there we had a good breast of mutton roasted for us, and supped, and to bed.
what wing broke
a pinion in the garden
before war
the proclamation against it
after a word
the uncouple of us
the itch on each side
to be a good mutt
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 20 September 1663.
Planted
Up pretty betimes, and after eating something, we set out and I (being willing thereto) went by a mistake with them to St. Ives, and there, it being known that it was their nearer way to London, I took leave of them there, they going straight to London and I to Brampton, where I find my father ill in bed still, and Madam Norbery (whom and her fair daughter and sister I was ashamed to kiss, but did, my lip being sore with riding in the wind and bit with the gnatts), lately come to town, come to see my father and mother, and they after a little stay being gone, I told my father my success. And after dinner my wife and I took horse, and rode with marvellous, and the first and only hour of, pleasure, that ever I had in this estate since I had to do with it, to Brampton woods; and through the wood rode, and gathered nuts in my way, and then at Graffam to an old woman’s house to drink, where my wife used to go; and being in all circumstances highly pleased, and in my wife’s riding and good company at this time, I rode, and she showed me the river behind my father’s house, which is very pleasant, and so saw her home, and I straight to Huntingdon, and there met Mr. Shepley and to the Crown (having sent home my horse by Stankes), and there a barber came and trimmed me, and thence walked to Hinchingbroke, where my Lord and ladies all are just alighted. And so I in among them, and my Lord glad to see me, and the whole company. Here I staid and supped with them, and after a good stay talking, but yet observing my Lord not to be so mightily ingulphed in his pleasure in the country as I expected and hoped, I took leave of them, and after a walk in the courtyard in the dark with Mr. Howe, who tells me that my Lord do not enjoy himself and please himself as he used to do, but will hasten up to London, and that he is resolved to go to Chelsey again, which we are heartily grieved for and studious how to prevent if it be possible, I took horse, there being one appointed for me, and a groom to attend me, and so home, where my wife staid up and sister for me, and so to bed, troubled for what I hear of my Lord.
a stake in the wind
I stay in the woods
and drink to the river
behind my house
my trimmed light
a hole in the dark
my joy
an impossible horse
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 19 September 1663.
Atlas of the Body
"Sakit ng kalingkingan, sakit ng buong katawan."
~ Filipino proverb
Pain flares in the smallest joint, outpost almost forgotten,
calling up a cartography that connects the folds of the little
finger to weather in the knee. The ankle smells smoke—
a fire burning in the hinterlands of the brain. Throw cold
water on it, but night after night, the burning starts again.
Press on the valley between thumb and index finger. A covey
of birds thrashes about in your lungs. A figure in a golden hat
leads a flock of tiny animals across the hinge of the collarbone.
It taps its staff in the air, embroidering a path to safety. Oh terrible
atlas, we have no idea what waves slosh up against countries of organs
bordered by currents of blood. Some are so close, we could open a window
and see what was served for dinner on the other side. But what armies
prepare to catapult onslaughts against each other? A spider
ladders down the spine, its ball of grief a pellet rolled up in silk.
12 Questions
~ after Bhanu Kapil
Who are you and who paid the hundred
dollar airport fee you didn't expect?
What do you remember about the day
you walked through the door, and if it
smelled like rain or diesel exhaust?
How will you begin
to piece together a plan for the next
fifteen or fifty years of your life?
Describe the difference between
the face that looked out of the mirror
from autumn last year, and tonight
as the moon drops half a coin in the sky.
Tell me what you know about hinges.
Where will we go when islands
become dust particles floating
with no need for ships?
Who was responsible for the suffering
of children before the sound of cities
falling descended into silence?
What is the width of your ribcage?
How would you live, if you were
allowed to be unlimited?
What are the consequences of pressing
your mouth into the shape of a dirge?
How have you prepared for the death
of your oldest and most exhausted self?
What would you whistle, if you could?

