Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Not between the proverbial rock
and a hard place, but between
the softer and the harder
impermanence: therefore,
everything’s improvisation,
the voice thrown against
a closet wall, into a room,
into the rifts between rock.
And each time, a slight echo
returns: little eddy
and reminder, little
reverberation—
The train in passing goes.
Light dips beyond the trees.
A hand, lifted in that slow-
motion gesture of waving.
In response to Morning Porch and thus: such tender emptiness.
Betimes to my Lord. Extremely much people and business. So with him to Whitehall to the Duke.
Back with him by coach and left him in Covent Garden. I back to Will’s and the Hall to see my father. Then to the Leg in King Street with Mr. Moore, and sent for L’Impertinent to dinner with me. After that with Mr. Moore about Privy Seal business. To Mr. Watkins, so to Mr. Crew’s. Then towards my father’s met my Lord and with him to Dorset House to the Chancellor. So to Mr. Crew’s and saw my Lord at supper, and then home, and went to see Mrs. Turner, and so to bed.
Me: my extreme business.
I see my father, that wit,
the war with chance.
My lord Me, we turn.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 11 June 1660.
Made heavy by rain,
the heads of hydrangea
droop to the ground.
I do not come
looking for trouble—
Nor do I want to take away
your joy. Leaves
of the dogwood tipped
silver, leaves
of the ginkgo
spliced open
like fans—
At a certain hour,
one by one, each
evening almost
like a birthday:
street lamps
flicker on.
In response to Via Negativa: Birthday of Desire.
(Lord’s day.) At my father’s found my wife and to walk with her in Lincoln’s Inn walks.
O my fat found wife to walk with!
In, in I walk.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 10 June 1660.
“…A lost horse
to carry me
to the tomb.”
~ “Hard Ride,” Dave Bonta
The teacher said, Mind the tempo of the beat—
and I started, thinking I’d heard The tempo of the beast,
which made me recall Yeats’ poem with that creature slouching
toward a famous middle eastern city to be born. Man or beast,
outcast in the dead of winter; the world in shambles, the world
a gyre with broken teeth on whose temple steps lie beasts
in their own blood. But if he slunk toward the fabled city,
toward the hour of his birth, that could only mean this beast
was its own ungainly steed, its own doula, primigravida. Who can tell
now womb from maw when terror and all manner of beastly
rapes are foisted off as amusement, cheap thrills, entertainment? The lost
and wounded limp through these deserts filled with dying bees.
Our noses to the ground, we try to keep company, our saddlebags light:
one step in front of the other, sights trained ahead, stumbling after the beat.
In response to Via Negativa: Hard Ride.
Up betimes. 25s the reckoning for very beer. Paid the house and by boats to London, six boats. Mr. Moore, W. Howe and I, and then the child in the room of W. Howe.
Landed at the Temple. To Mr. Crews. To my father’s and put myself into a handsome posture to wait upon my Lord. Dined there.
To Mr. Crews again. In the way met Dr Clerke and Mr. Pierce.
To White-Hall with my Lord and Mr. Edw. Montagu. Found the King in the parke. There walked. Gallantry great.
To Will How till 10 at night. Back and to my fathers.
Bet for beer, I put
the white king
in the park at night.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 9 June 1660.
Out early, took horses at Deale. I troubled much with the King’s gittar, and Fairbrother, the rogue that I intrusted with the carrying of it on foot, whom I thought I had lost.
Col. Dixwell’s horse taken by a soldier and delivered to my Lord, and by him to me to carry to London.
Came to Canterbury, dined there. I saw the minster and the remains of Becket’s tomb. To Sittingborne and Rochester. At Chatham and Rochester the ships and bridge.
Mr. Hetly’s mistake about dinner.
Come to Gravesend. A good handsome wench I kissed, the first that I have seen a great while.
Supped with my Lord, drank late below with Penrose, the Captain. To bed late, having first laid out all my things against to-morrow to put myself in a walking garb. Weary and hot to bed to Mr. Moore.
A horse with
the king’s guitar.
A lost horse
to carry me
to the tomb.
I kiss a late rose,
having laid out
my walking garb,
weary and hot.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 8 June 1660.
“Who remembers paradise?” ~ Marne Kilates, from “The Panels of Hieronymus Bosch”
I don’t think there were any sheep—
Or there may have been, but I didn’t see them.
Not fences either, no abacus clicking
bead by bead as each jumped over, fleece
catching in the bramble but more or less
keeping time to the ticking of the clock.
I was sleepless for such an eternity,
the apple had not yet fallen from the tree;
and the mathematician had not yet discovered
that bright chain of numbers spilling
over the narrow edge of the page, proof
of a problem everyone said could not be solved.
At some point the mathematician must have gone
to bed. At some point he must have taken off
his linen collar, his boots, breeches, hose,
exchanging these for a shapeless night-gown.
Infinitesimal, they called it—
that calculus for finding tangent
lines to curves, the canopy space
under curves, the lantern chain
of the day’s domestic worries
gathered in bubbled rows of helium
beneath the ceiling— And me,
as if on the ocean bed, hoping
at some point to fall asleep.
In response to Via Negativa: Insomniac.
About one in the morning, W. Howe called me up to give him a letter to carry to my Lord that came to me to-day, which I did and so to, sleep again. About three in the morning the people began to wash the deck, and the water came pouring into my mouth, which waked me, and I was fain to rise and get on my gown, and sleep leaning on my table.
This morning Mr. Montagu went away again.
After dinner come Mr. John Wright and Mr. Moore, with the sight of whom my heart was very glad. They brought an order for my Lord’s coming up to London, which my Lord resolved to do tomorrow.
All the afternoon getting my things in order to set forth to-morrow. At night walked up and down with Mr. Moore, who did give me an account of all things at London. Among others, how the Presbyterians would be angry if they durst, but they will not be able to do any thing.
Most of the Commanders on board and supped with my Lord.
Late at night came Mr. Edw. Pickering from London, but I could not see him this night.
I went with Mr. Moore to the Master’s cabin, and saw him there in order to going to bed.
After that to my own cabin to put things in order and so to bed.
One in the morning. How to sleep?
Ash came pouring into my mouth.
I sleep on my table after dinner
and at night walk up and down in bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 7 June 1660.