By Any Other Name

Early in the morning rose, and a boy brought me a letter from Poet Fisher, who tells me that he is upon a panegyrique of the King, and desired to borrow a piece of me; and I sent him half a piece.
To Westminster, and there dined with Mr. Sheply and W. Howe, afterwards meeting with Mr. Henson, who had formerly had the brave clock that went with bullets (which is now taken away from him by the King, it being his goods). I went with him to the Sun Tavern and sent for Mr. Butler, who was now all full of his high discourse in praise of Ireland, whither he and his whole family are going by Coll. Dillon’s persuasion, but so many lies I never heard in praise of anything as he told of Ireland. So home late at night and to bed.

Early morning rose—
a poet desired it,
but so many lies I never heard
in praise of anything.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 28 July 1660.

Scottish beasts

Arranzilla

tapping & tugging
at the side of the tent
early morning wind

*

around the headland
from the seal sculpture
this one moves

*

at the Osprey Center
a crowd gathers to watch
squirrels on the feeder

*

no does to herd
the solitary stag haunts
a caravan park

*

blood-red sunset
I raise the midge net
to take a nip

*

with each wingbeat
another yelp
oystercatcher

*

Phil Bennison
Dry Stone Walling
Mole Control

*

out of the water
a black guillemot totters
on its big red feet

*

rock pipit on the beach
meadow pipit on the moor
that same restless tail

*

these hill-walkers
with their lurid greens & yellows!
lizard, tiger beetle

*

on the far hill
white boulders have infiltrated
a herd of sheep

Vita Brevis

What they say of beauty
is that it never makes apology
for itself— But isn’t this true
as well for plainness, for calamity,
for sorrow, for disappointment?

Here is a jar of coins
I’ve rescued through the months
from coat pockets, from the lint
trap in the laundry, from the folds
and linings of our purses.

What can you buy with a roll
of pennies these days, with a hand-
ful of crumpled bills? Come then, let’s lay
the good china on the table, the silverware,
the napkins; let’s feast on what we have.

I used to draw up columns in a ledger:
for every purchase, a sacrifice
forestalling each small pleasure
for the days— I rue now how
I used to only say don’t get

too happy: don’t rest, don’t choose
the window light, the comfort of the armchair
with the pillows; don’t put the little sweet
into your mouth. Too dear, too rapidly,
the dwindling days don’t know delay.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Sacrificial.

Man with a Bag

The last night Sir W. Batten and Sir W. Pen came to their houses at the office. Met this morning and did business till noon. Dined at home and from thence to my Lord’s where Will, my clerk, and I were all the afternoon making up my accounts, which we had done by night, and I find myself worth about 100l. after all my expenses.
At night, I sent to W. Bowyer to bring me a 100l bag that he hath in his hands of my Lord’s in keeping, out of which I paid Mr. Sheply all that remains due to my Lord upon my balance, and took the rest home with me late at night. We got a coach, but the horses were tired and could not carry us farther than St. Dunstan’s. So we ‘light and took a link and so home weary to bed.

Night came at noon
in a bag that I took
home with me—
late night, but the horses
could not carry us
farther than a light ink.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 27 July 1660.

Sacrificial

Early to White Hall, thinking to have a meeting of my Lord and the principal officers, but my Lord could not, it being the day that he was to go and be admitted in the House of Lords, his patent being done, which he presented upon his knees to the Speaker; and so it was read in the House, and he took his place.
I at the Privy Seal Office with Mr. Hooker, who brought me acquainted with Mr. Crofts of the Signet, and I invited them to a dish of meat at the Leg in King Street, and so we dined there and I paid for all and had very good light given me as to my employment there. Afterwards to Mr. Pierces, where I should have dined but I could not, but found Mr. Sheply and W. Howe there. After we had drunk hard we parted, and I went away and met Dr. Castle, who is one of the Clerks of the Privy Seal, and told him how things were with my Lord and me, which he received very gladly. I was this day told how Baron against all expectation and law has got the place of Bickerstaffe, and so I question whether he will not lay claim to wait the next month, but my Lord tells me that he will stand for it.
In the evening I met with T. Doling, who carried me to St. James’s Fair, and there meeting with W. Symons and his wife, and Luellin, and D. Scobell’s wife and cousin, we went to Wood’s at the Pell Mell (our old house for clubbing), and there we spent till 10 at night, at which time I sent to my Lord’s for my clerk Will to come to me, and so by link home to bed. Where I found Commissioner Willoughby had sent for all his things away out of my bedchamber, which is a little disappointment, but it is better than pay too dear for them.

Thinking of
the Lord, I took
a dish of meat
for a light.
I should have dined,
but could not
part with
my question.
We come home
to disappointment,
pay too dear.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 26 July 1660.

Ghazal of the Postcolonial

Poems inscribed on a side of bamboo, passed through villages
from hand to hand. This beautiful, flowing syllabary is precolonial.

Be careful when you use the ancient scripts as tattoo art
around your arms. It might read “liar” instead of precolonial.

The season’s prints are tribal, ethnic: tie-dyed, resembling
knotted bark. This ikat weave, suddenly fashionable: the precolonial—

Petite, Extra Small, Small, Medium, Large, Extra Large, Extra Extra Large:
the pliant leaf in one-size-fits-all. Who wore it best? us precolonials?

One fold of collar, one pass at sleeve. Piece by piece,
the pattern. What version predates all others? The precolonial.

A white man publishes in India, Hong Kong, or Spain; it’s no big deal.
When a writer of color does the same, she’s only as good as precolonial.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Pinnipedestrian.

Defogging

In the morning at the office, and after that down to Whitehall, where I met with Mr. Creed, and with him and a Welsh schoolmaster, a good scholar but a very pedagogue, to the ordinary at the Leg in King Street. I got my certificate of my Lord’s and my being sworn. This morning my Lord took leave of the House of Commons, and had the thanks of the House for his great services to his country.
In the afternoon (but this is a mistake, for it was yesterday in the afternoon) Monsieur L’Impertinent and I met and I took him to the Sun and drank with him, and in the evening going away we met his mother and sisters and father coming from the Gatehouse; where they lodge, where I did the first time salute them all, and very pretty Madame Frances is indeed. After that very late home and called in Tower Street, and there at a barber’s was trimmed the first time. Home and to bed.

Agog at the morning mist,
I met the sun at the gate
where a barber trimmed me.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 25 July 1660.

Pinnipedestrian

To White Hall, where I did acquaint Mr. Watkins with my being sworn into the Privy Seal, at which he was much troubled, but put it up and did offer me a kinsman of his to be my clerk, which I did give him some hope of, though I never intend it. In the afternoon I spent much time in walking in White Hall Court with Mr. Bickerstaffe, who was very glad of my Lord’s being sworn, because of his business with his brother Baron, which is referred to my Lord Chancellor, and to be ended to-morrow. Baron hath got a grant beyond sea to come in before the Reversioners of the Privy Seal. This afternoon Mr. Mathews came to me, to get a certificate of my Lord’s and my being sworn, which I put in some forwardness, and so home and to bed.

Kin to the seal,
I walk beyond the version
of the sea I am.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 24 July 1660.

Abacus

“…This life/ that hurts like a son of a bitch.” – Paul Guest, “Love in the Singular”

This tree that opens its arms to reveal a pattern of pencilled ribs.
This summer of restarts, of ebbs and flows among detritus of beach umbrellas.
This sky, metallic as a makeshift lantern in which holes have been punched with a nail.
This girl that sings in the yard with a voice to rival the edge of a rusty blade.
This grandmother who implores her to stop in the name of God else the chickens might die.
This mother-in-law who would marry her son if she could.
This man who bows his head and lets himself be led to the kitchen to eat with the slaves.
This mouth that slavers at the smell of cheese and bread despite its nine missing teeth.
This leg that jerks in the night from dreams of desert fires and limbless boys.
This morning full of the relentless whirring of cicadas in the trees.
This cup cracked at the bottom and the rim in which a Maid of Orleans jasmine buds.
This handful of salt at the bottom of the jar which gives itself to the broth.
This leaf which unseen insects chew into lace each night.
This purse that spends and spends itself until there is no more.
This appetite that’s never slaked.
This clean white suit and faded hat, these old but polished shoes.
This billfold with loose change.
This silver ring, this rosary, snapped in the middle to break the chain.