Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
It's as if no one
is supposed to change
in any way, as if
the self in the moment
it meets another
becomes fixed in
that knowledge of
the other. Remember
that day, salt
in your hair, sunburn
peeling off
my shoulders? The shore,
receding then
as it does now.
At the office sitting all the morning, and then home to dinner with my wife, and after dinner she and I passing an hour or two in ridiculous talk, and then to my office, doing business there till 9 at night, and so home and to supper and to bed.
My house is now in its last dirt, I hope, the plasterer and painter now being upon winding up all my trouble, which I expect will now in a fortnight’s time, or a little more, be quite over.
passing in the night
now dirt
now wind
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 28 October 1662.
Up, and after giving order to the plasterer now to set upon the finishing of my house, then by water to wait upon the Duke, and walking in the matted Gallery, by and by comes Mr. Coventry and Sir John Minnes, and then to the Duke, and after he was ready, to his closet, where I did give him my usual account of matters, and afterwards, upon Sir J. Minnes’ desire to have one to assist him in his employment, Sir W. Pen is appointed to be his, and Mr. Pett to be the Surveyor’s assistant. Mr. Coventry did desire to be excused, and so I hope (at least it is my present opinion) to have none joined with me, but only Mr. Coventry do desire that I would find work for one of his clerks, which I did not deny, but however I will think of it, whether without prejudice to mine I can do it.
Thence to my Lord Sandwich, who now-a-days calls me into his chamber, and alone did discourse with me about the jealousy that the Court have of people’s rising; wherein he do much dislike my Lord Monk’s being so eager against a company of poor wretches, dragging them up and down the street; but would have him rather to take some of the greatest ringleaders of them, and punish them; whereas this do but tell the world the King’s fears and doubts. For Dunkirk; he wonders any wise people should be so troubled thereat, and scorns all their talk against it, for that he says it was not Dunkirk, but the other places, that did and would annoy us, though we had that, as much as if we had it not. He also took notice of the new Ministers of State, Sir H. Bennet and Sir Charles Barkeley, their bringing in, and the high game that my Lady Castlemaine plays at Court (which I took occasion to mention as that that the people do take great notice of), all which he confessed. Afterwards he told me of poor Mr. Spong, that being with other people examined before the King and Council (they being laid up as suspected persons; and it seems Spong is so far thought guilty as that they intend to pitch upon him to put to the wracke or some other torture), he do take knowledge of my Lord Sandwich, and said that he was well known to Mr. Pepys. But my Lord knows, and I told him, that it was only in matter of musique and pipes, but that I thought him to be a very innocent fellow; and indeed I am very sorry for him. After my Lord and I had done in private, we went out, and with Captain Cuttance and Bunn did look over their draught of a bridge for Tangier, which will be brought by my desire to our office by them to-morrow.
Thence to Westminster Hall, and there walked long with Mr. Creed, and then to the great half-a-crown ordinary, at the King’s Head, near Charing Cross, where we had a most excellent neat dinner and very high company, and in a noble manner.
After dinner he and I into another room over a pot of ale and talked. He showed me our commission, wherein the Duke of York, Prince Rupert, Duke of Albemarle, Lord Peterborough, Lord Sandwich, Sir G. Carteret, Sir William Compton, Mr. Coventry, Sir R. Ford, Sir William Rider, Mr. Cholmley, Mr. Povy, myself, and Captain Cuttance, in this order are joyned for the carrying on the service of Tangier, which I take for a great honour to me.
He told me what great faction there is at Court; and above all, what is whispered, that young Crofts is lawful son to the King, the King being married to his mother. How true this is, God knows; but I believe the Duke of York will not be fooled in this of three crowns.
Thence to White Hall, and walked long in the galleries till (as they are commanded to all strange persons), one come to tell us, we not being known, and being observed to walk there four or five hours (which was not true, unless they count my walking there in the morning), he was commanded to ask who we were; which being told, he excused his question, and was satisfied. These things speak great fear and jealousys. Here we staid some time, thinking to stay out the play before the King to-night, but it being “The Villaine,” and my wife not being there, I had no mind.
So walk to the Exchange, and there took many turns with him; among other things, observing one very pretty Exchange lass, with her face full of black patches, which was a strange sight. So bid him good-night and away by coach to Mr. Moore, with whom I staid an hour, and found him pretty well and intends to go abroad tomorrow, and so it raining hard by coach home, and having visited both Sir Williams, who are both sick, but like to be well again, I to my office, and there did some business, and so home and to bed.
At Sir W. Batten’s I met with Mr. Mills, who tells me that he could get nothing out of the maid hard by (that did poyson herself) before she died, but that she did it because she did not like herself, nor had not liked herself, nor anything she did a great while. It seems she was well-favoured enough, but crooked, and this was all she could be got to say, which is very strange.
after giving Now
to the gallery
of the present opinion
to have one of mine in amber
alone against a company
of doubts
and all the talk
of bringing suspected persons
up to the owl
I am sorry in private
take action and whisper
to the mother crow
one come to walk here
in the morning
her face full of rain
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 27 October 1662.
A personal selection of posts from the Poetry Blogging Network and beyond. 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: the miracle of chance, fluff under pressure, a man in a shattered house, a charm against the inconceivable, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 43”
Every day she walked in and out of that green garden gate
from the world inside and its little rooms. The world outside,
the sky's ceiling, criss-crossed with stars and constellates,
held out a promise of myriad destinations. Not late
at all, not yet. To bloom has no fixed season, no guide.
Every day she walked in and out of that green garden gate.
With time, distances gradually increased. The hand of fate
waved, conjuring one mirage after another. She was its bride.
The sky was dark, the star-crossed ceiling its vast estate.
Things had not happened yet. Pages unwritten said Just wait.
But she learned— she too could choose a move, even a joyride.
Every day she walked in and out of that green garden gate,
straightening her spine and collar. How many steps to checkmate?
Water doesn't disappear, only shifts with riptides, moon-tides.
The sky's broad ceiling, criss-crossed with stars— calculate
how long it took them to find their place, the space
for measuring the length and depth of their existence.
Every day she walked in and out of that green garden gate.
The sky's vast ceiling ticked with stars and constellates.
(Lord’s day). Up and put on my new Scallop, and is very fine. To church, and there saw the first time Mr. Mills in a surplice; but it seemed absurd for him to pull it over his ears in the reading-pew, after he had done, before all the church, to go up to the pulpitt, to preach without it.
Home and dined, and Mr. Sympson, my joyner that do my diningroom, and my brother Tom with me to a delicate fat pig. Tom takes his disappointment of his mistress to heart; but all will be well again in a little time. Then to church again, and heard a simple Scot preach most tediously. So home, and to see Sir W. Batten, who is pretty well again, and then to my uncle Wight’s to show my fine band and to see Mrs. Margaret Wight, but she was not there. All this day soldiers going up and down the town, there being an alarm and many Quakers and others clapped up; but I believe without any reason: only they say in Dorsetshire there hath been some rising discovered. So after supper home, and then to my study, and making up my monthly account to myself. I find myself, by my expense in bands and clothes this month, abated a little of my last, and that I am worth 679l. still; for which God be praised. So home and to bed with quiett mind, blessed be God, but afeard of my candle’s going out, which makes me write thus slubberingly.
my call seemed absurd
to preach joy
to a delicate pig
but I believe without
any reason
only sing
after supper
making a little
quiet slubbering
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 26 October 1662.
~ after Joy Harjo
Remember your last name,
where that thread came from,
connecting you to the one who came
before, and the one even farther back.
Remember your middle name,
the one that tied you to the womb
before the cord was clamped at two
ends and cut, then the flash of light
and your mouth opening into its first
cry. And remember your first name,
how someone plucked it out of a page
perhaps, or a list, or a story with
a face a mouth a nose upturned
like yours, eyebrows whose crests
touched a universe of hopes.
Remember all your names now,
for the moment you'll stand
in a window well trying to remember
how you're called, how to call.
Up and to the office, and there with Mr. Coventry sat all the morning, only we two, the rest being absent or sick. Dined at home with my wife upon a good dish of neats’ feet and mustard, of which I made a good meal. All the afternoon alone at my office and among my workmen, who (I mean the joyners) have even ended my dining room, and will be very handsome and to my full content.
In the evening at my office about one business or another, and so home and to bed, with my mind every day more and more quiet since I come to follow my business, and shall be very happy indeed when the trouble of my house is over.
only we two
feet among hands
full of a quiet business
shall be happy
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 25 October 1662.
Are you ignoring my message or are we
in the middle of some strange
literary cliffhanger?
I'm pitching real readers, real reviews,
real visibility, and you're giving me
the silent treatment like I'm asking you
for your Netflix password.
Reading your work felt like stepping
into a space where memory, language,
and feeling are held with such
tenderness and clarity that they
reshape the air around them.
What struck me most is how your voice
moves between sharpness and gentleness
the way a single line can evoke
both joy and ache in the same
breath.
Poetry that lingers
deserves a wider audience.
I promised myself I would't turn
into that person who follows up...
but here I am, waving like a slightly
unhinged fan at a book signing.
After with great pleasure lying a great while talking and sporting in bed with my wife (for we have been for some years now, and at present more and more, a very happy couple, blessed be God), I got up and to my office, and having done there some business, I by water, and then walked to Deptford to discourse with Mr. Lowly and Davis about my late conceptions about keeping books of the distinct works done in the yards, against which I find no objection but their ignorance and unwillingness to do anything of pains and what is out of their ordinary dull road, but I like it well, and will proceed in it. So home and dined there with my wife upon a most excellent dish of tripes of my own directing, covered with mustard, as I have heretofore seen them done at my Lord Crew’s, of which I made a very great meal, and sent for a glass of wine for myself, and so to see Sir W. Pen, who continues bed-rid in great pain, and hence to the Treasury to Sir J. Minnes paying off of tickets, and at night home, and in my study (after seeing Sir W. Batten, who also continues ill) I fell to draw out my conceptions about books for the clerk that cheques in the yard to keep according to the distinct works there, which pleases me very well, and I am confident it will be of great use. At 9 at night home, and to supper, and to bed.
This noon came to see me and sat with me a little after dinner Mr. Pierce, the chyrurgeon, who tells me how ill things go at Court: that the King do show no countenance to any that belong to the Queen; nor, above all, to such English as she brought over with her, or hath here since, for fear they should tell her how he carries himself to Mrs. Palmer; insomuch that though he has a promise, and is sure of being made her chyrurgeon, he is at a loss what to do in it, whether to take it or no, since the King’s mind is so altered in favour to all her dependants, whom she is fain to let go back into Portugall (though she brought them from their friends against their wills with promise of preferment), without doing any thing for them. But he tells me that her own physician did tell him within these three days that the Queen do know how the King orders things, and how he carries himself to my Lady Castlemaine and others, as well as any body; but though she hath spirit enough, yet seeing that she do no good by taking notice of it, for the present she forbears it in policy; of which I am very glad. But I pray God keep us in peace; for this, with other things, do give great discontent to all people.
after years of books
I find their sand in my glass
my pen continues to draw
on the well of night
a surgeon at a loss what to do
with her own body
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 24 October 1662.