Via Negativa

February 14, 2014February 15, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Yield

There’s the man with the limp we see in church, walking with his old lady to the corner market. Why are people wandering about clutching red mylar balloons in their clumsy hands? The busboy is cleaning the menu boards on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. College students are smoking on the steps, talking like philosophers, trying to impress their girlfriends. The cops are cruising in their cars with the windows cracked, their elbows jutting out in obtuse angles. Don’t blow me a kiss, give me a real one. Yield, says the traffic sign. Two little girls with unruly braids turn their brown paper goody bags upside down the faster to get to the strawberry pink lollies and chocolate hearts. May all beings be happy, the Buddha said; may all beings be free from suffering. Those girls don’t need to be told that, even if the gold foil doily hearts are stuck on upside down.

In response to Via Negativa: On the Way to Santiago, 1978.

February 14, 2014February 14, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Valentine’s Day dreams

This entry is part 21 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

First an opossum crawls into our bed.
He’s tame, you cry.
Those are just love-bites.

Then it’s a long-haired white cat,
purring and snuggling.
Get her out of here, you groan.

I wake to a heavy snowfall,
the old dog statue in the yard
just a bump under the blanket.

Right after drafting this poem, I found out that Rachel’s (short-haired) white cat in London was killed last night. RIP Mario.

February 13, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Blazon

To my Lord’s, and there with him all the morning, and then (he going out to dinner) I and Mr. Pickering, Creed, and Captain Ferrers to the Leg in the Palace to dinner, where strange Pickering’s impertinences. Thence the two others and I after a great dispute whither to go, we went by water to Salsbury Court play-house, where not liking to sit, we went out again, and by coach to the Theatre, and there saw “The Scornfull Lady,” now done by a woman, which makes the play appear much better than ever it did to me. Then Creed and I (the other being lost in the crowd) to drink a cup of ale at Temple Bar, and there we parted, and I (seeing my father and mother by the way) went home.

To her leg in lace
her rings
her after-play
her heat
her full pear
her lost temple
her art
I see my way.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 12 February 1660/61.

February 13, 2014February 14, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Sledding

This entry is part 20 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

The spruce grove
at the top of the hollow
harbors a north-woods chill.

Seated on a runner sled
I hurtle down into
the sunlit field,

my shadow like a witching rod
stretched out before me,
alive to every bump and dip.

February 13, 2014February 13, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

from Ghost Blueprints

“Lord, give a little.” ~ D. Bonta

The fisherman pointed
toward the channel

where the water surged
blind as they slept

beneath roofs
flimsy with fronds—

And then he walked
the length of shore

pointing out cornerstones
of torn foundations,

beds, mirrors,
vanities, suitcases

swiveled toward
the ocean’s inky mouth.

In response to Via Negativa: Winter prayer.

February 12, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Joinery

At the office all the morning. Dined at home, and then to the Exchange, and took Mr. Warren with me to Mr. Kennard, the master joiner, at Whitehall, who was at a tavern, and there he and I to him, and agreed about getting some of my Lord’s deals on board to-morrow.
Then with young Mr. Reeve home to his house, who did there show me many pretty pleasures in perspectives, that I have not seen before, and I did buy a little glass of him cost me 5s. And so to Mr. Crew’s, and with Mr. Moore to see how my father and mother did, and so with him to Mr. Adam Chard’s (the first time I ever was at his house since he was married) to drink, then we parted, and I home to my study, and set some papers and money in order, and so to bed.

The master joiner agreed about
the many pretty pleasures
in a glass house.
Since he was married to drink,
we parted, I home
to my paper bed.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 11 February 1660/61.

February 12, 2014February 12, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

from Ghost Blueprints

Elusive hornbill,
ground warbler,

songbird with
weak wings—

The ornithologist checks
his notes but won’t

find your names
listed there. Instead,

in a clearing he begins
to calculate

how much work it will take
to carve a city

out of the hills,
with compass and lawnmower.

In response to Via Negativa: Pastoral.

February 12, 2014March 15, 2014 by Dave Bonta

Pastoral

This entry is part 19 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

The squirrel’s tracks end
in a smudge of blood on the snow,
one tuft of fur

and the long furrow
its dangling tail drew
beside the fox’s footprints.

Alone in the field,
a bulldozer lowers its blade
to a white and heavy harvest.

February 12, 2014February 12, 2014 by Luisa A. Igloria

Ghost Monorail

(poems of the abandoned or disrupted)

From my office
window, angle
of tree limbs in winter
offset by these un-
finished platforms.

Like that station
in Pound’s metro:

almost I see
the running stroke:

brush, clumps of color
that could be faces.

On summer evenings
if you closed your eyes,
sometimes it’s possible
to imagine standing
by the pillars of much
older ruins.

A grid defines
periphery, limits
of what we wanted
to deliver or
enclose.

I kind of like
the unfinished—
how it lapses
into space
at the end.

This is
the real
lesson:
levitation
is the dream
of every
earth-
bound
thing.

Other than that,
we go about
our business:
no need to oil
our wheels
from too
much
habit.

February 11, 2014May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Winter prayer

(Lord’s day). Took physique all day, and, God forgive me, did spend it in reading of some little French romances. At night my wife and I did please ourselves talking of our going into France, which I hope to effect this summer. At noon one came to ask for Mrs. Hunt that was here yesterday, and it seems is not come home yet, which makes us afraid of her. At night to bed.

Lord, give a little.
My wife and I lease ourselves to hope:
summer was here yesterday
and is not come home.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 10 February 1660/61.