Via Negativa

November 23, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

To Westminster with my wife (she to her father’s), and about 10 o’clock back again home, and there I to the office a little, and thence by coach with Commissioner Pett to Cheapside to one Savill, a painter, who I intend shall do my picture and my wife’s. Thence I to dinner at the Wardrobe, and so home to the office, and there all the afternoon till night, and then both Sir Williams to my house, and in comes Captain Cock, and they to cards. By and by Sir W. Batten and Cock, after drinking a good deal of wine, went away, and Sir W. Pen staid with my wife and I to supper, very pleasant, and so good night. This day I have a chine of beef sent home, which I bespoke to sen d, and did send it as a present to my uncle Wight.

my wife to her father’s
home and I

to a little heap of a house
in the cards I have

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 23 November 1661.

November 22, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

After Rilke

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Again and again, Rilke says. I know
the little churchyard he mentions, 
why it seems inviting to walk 
amid the names nestled in the grass
and lie down among them, considering
the immensity of what is to come. 
Again and again, and I don't feel
ready, but I take heart since the poet 
mentions flowers and wizened trees, even
the possibility of resting my helplessness;
of arms encircling me, even as stars fall.

November 22, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Day break

Within all the morning, and at noon with my wife, by appointment to dinner at the Dolphin, where Sir W. Batten, and his lady and daughter Matt, and Captain Cocke and his lady, a German lady, but a very great beauty, and we dined together, at the spending of some wagers won and lost between him and I; and there we had the best musique and very good songs, and were very merry and danced, but I was most of all taken with Madam Cocke and her little boy, which in mirth his father had given to me. But after all our mirth comes a reckoning of 4l., besides 40s. to the musicians, which did trouble us, but it must be paid, and so I took leave and left them there about eight at night. And on foot went to the Temple, and then took my cozen Turner’s man Roger, and went by his advice to Serjeant Fountaine and told him our case, who gives me good comfort in it, and I gave him 30s. fee. So home again and to bed. This day a good pretty maid was sent my wife by Mary Bowyer, whom my wife has hired.

within the morning
is a great lost music
given to the night

we turn old again

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 22 November 1661.

November 21, 2024November 21, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Instructions for Describing What Happened When You Have No Words for What Happened

You might say hour by hour 

is how day moves closer to the mouth
of night. The soft early hours, your feet 

touching the cold bathroom tile. Acidity 

of coffee that hits your gut before you even start 
the drip. Midday, pulling your tasks toward you 

like pine needles raked into a pile 

at the edge of your yard. Briefly, you think 
the mist has cleared enough to show a bit of blue 

in the sky. Then noon comes with a snort and a whinny, 

saying to hell with your lists and good 
intentions. Surely there's some kind of trick, like the one 

designers recommend, where you hang mirrors in all

shapes and sizes on the walls of your too-
small rooms to create the impression of space? 

Love can make you fearful and love can make you 

brave. Now it is the hour when you sit like a slug 
in a velvet armchair, feeling  the ache 

of your softness. But you will not cast salt into the garden 

so it might wound other beings. Hour by hour we move 
into the sudden swallow of dark. Hour by hour 

we wait until it spits us out again.

November 21, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Traditional

In the morning again at looking over my last night’s papers, and by and by comes Mr. Moore, who finds that my papers may do me much good. He staid and dined with me, and we had a good surloyne of rost beefe, the first that ever I had of my own buying since I kept house; and after dinner he and I to the Temple, and there showed Mr. Smallwood my papers, who likes them well, and so I left them with him, and went with Mr. Moore to Gray’s Inn to his chamber, and there he shewed me his old Camden’s “Britannica”, which I intend to buy of him, and so took it away with me, and left it at St. Paul’s Churchyard to be bound, and so home and to the office all the afternoon; it being the first afternoon that we have sat, which we are now to do always, so long as the Parliament sits, who this day have voted the King 120,000l. to be raised to pay his debts. And after the office with Sir W. Batten to the Dolphin, and drank and left him there, and I again to the Temple about my business, and so on foot home again and to bed.

who finds paper ever
in the papers

who likes the old way
of all ways

as I sit who is off
out on foot

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 21 November 1661.

November 20, 2024November 20, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

14 Years

Today marks 14 years of my daily writing practice — 
I've written at least one poem a day since a snowed-in morning 
(rare in these parts on the eastern seaboard, probably even 
more rare now because of climate change) in 2010 when I drifted 
over to Dave Bonta's microblog The Morning Porch, and where 
I read his post that day - and was moved to respond in the 
comments box in a poem.  I did that for a few more days 
afterwards; though I'm not sure I posted all of them in this 
same way. Dave noticed, and invited me to post my poems 
on Via Negativa — and I've been doing that ever since.

Out of my daily practice, I've learned some helpful things 
about myself and my process; and I've put together 4 books 
and 4 chapbooks from the running review (and the revisions) 
I do of my writing. At least, these are things that I've found 
to apply to myself—

- Writing is the best way to keep writing.
- Before any thought of publication, there's the joy of 
meeting yourself on the page.
- Doing this (above) reminds me every day that writing 
is an opportunity to play; to follow ideas down rabbit holes, 
discover things, pay attention in this space of writing, 
no matter how brief every day (I typically do 30-45 minutes).
- Writing poems, I've found, is my preferred form for 
"processing" how I experience the world: in language, in images.
- Despite what anyone will tell you about "published is 
published in whatever form," your writing is yours. 

Especially in the last 2 weeks, I feel even more intensely 
how poetry has the capacity to "save" me - from utter, 
unfocused distraction; from utter despair...

I'm very grateful for my daily practice, and I'm very grateful 
for the additional writing community I've become connected 
to through the years, through Dave and Via Negativa.

If you click on this version of this post on my website, 
you'll also see some photos from the poetry zine workshop 
session in the undergraduate+grad Advanced Poetry Workshop 
I'm teaching this fall.

November 20, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Low information

To Westminster Hall by water in the morning, where I saw the King going in his barge to the Parliament House; this being the first day of their meeting again. And the Bishops, I hear, do take their places in the Lords House this day. I walked long in the Hall, but hear nothing of news, but what Ned Pickering tells me, which I am troubled at, that Sir J. Minnes should send word to the King, that if he did not remove all my Lord Sandwich’s captains out of this fleet, he believed the King would not be master of the fleet at its coming again: and so do endeavour to bring disgrace upon my Lord. But I hope all that will not do, for the King loves him.
Hence by water to the Wardrobe, and dined with my Lady, my Lady Wright being there too, whom I find to be a witty but very conceited woman and proud. And after dinner Mr. Moore and I to the Temple, and there he read my bill and likes it well enough, and so we came back again, he with me as far as the lower end of Cheapside, and there I gave him a pint of sack and parted, and I home, and went seriously to look over my papers touching T. Trice, and I think I have found some that will go near to do me more good in this difference of ours than all I have before. So to bed with my mind cheery upon it, and lay long reading Hobbs his “Liberty and Necessity,” and a little but very shrewd piece, and so to sleep.

to take the place of news
what word would ring

all love War
like a cheap pint of cheer

reading is a necessity
to sleep

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 20 November 1661.

November 20, 2024November 18, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Small Spaces

When we moved into this house, soon
it became clear: we could learn to live
with the uneven spackle on the ceiling,
without doors for the built-in closets.

And soon we realized our heavy 
dining table, even without the removable 
leaf, barely fit in the dining room. 
Those who sat on one side had their backs 

right up to the wall, and those on the other 
could lean their arms on the counter. We sold 
the table and bought instead a smaller, plainer 
one which freed up some space, just a little. 

But how happy we were to find our coffeetable 
in a dusty corner of a thrift store— for a song, 
as they say: solid wood, only scratched in two 
places. What is furniture after all but the props 

in a play for which we've had no rehearsals; 
or little spots of color where we'll put up our feet 
at night? We invite students to join us at Thanksgiving, 
friends for potlucks. There isn't much space but there's

rice and bread; so many stories, savory things. Someone 
always brings dessert. Whatever the next act, it's bound 
to be interesting. So much in the world is terrible; 
but here, I don't want any of it to end yet.

November 19, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Levels of care

At the office all the morning, and coming home found Mr. Hunt with my wife in the chamber alone, which God forgive me did trouble my head, but remembering that it was washing day and that there was no place else with a fire for him to be in, it being also cold weather, I was at ease again. He dined with us, and after dinner took coach and carried him with us as far as my cozen Scott’s, where we set him down and parted, and my wife and I staid there at the christening of my cozens boy, where my cozen Samuel Pepys, of Ireland, and I were godfathers, and I did name the child Samuel. There was a company of pretty women there in the chamber, but we staid not, but went with the minister into another room and eat and drank, and at last, when most of the women were gone, Sam and I went into my cozen Scott, who was got off her bed, and so we staid and talked and were very merry, my she-cozen, Stradwick, being godmother. And then I left my wife to go home by coach, and I walked to the Temple about my law business, and there received a subpoena for T. Trice. I carried it myself to him at the usual house at Doctors Commons and did give it him, and so home and to bed. It cost me 20s., between the midwife and the two nurses to-day.

in the godhead
ash and fire

weather and the land
father and mother us

the usual doctors
give me a bed

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 19 November 1661.