Ascetic

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Going forth this morning I met Mr. Davenport and a friend of his, one Mr. Furbisher, to drink their morning draft with me, and I did give it them in good wine, and anchovies, and pickled oysters, and took them to the Sun in Fish Street, there did give them a barrel of good ones, and a great deal of wine, and sent for Mr. W. Bernard (Sir Robert’s son), a grocer thereabouts, and were very merry, and cost me a good deal of money, and at noon left them, and with my head full of wine, and being invited by a note from Luellin, that came to my hands this morning in bed, I went to Nick Osborne’s at the Victualling Office, and there saw his wife, who he has lately married, a good sober woman, and new come to their home. We had a good dish or two of marrowbones and another of neats’ tongues to dinner, and that being done I bade them adieu and hastened to Whitehall (calling Mr. Moore by the way) to my Lord Privy Seal, who will at last force the clerks to bring in a table of their fees, which they have so long denied, but I do not join with them, and so he is very respectful to me. So he desires me to bring in one which I observe in making of fees, which I will speedily do. So back again, and endeavoured to speak with Tom Trice (who I fear is hatching some mischief), but could not, which vexed me, and so I went home and sat late with pleasure at my lute, and so to bed.

going to the sun with
my head full of wine
and my sober bones

the tongues of long-
denied desires
devour me


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 6 November 1661.

The Labor of Care

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
O for a windfall of care, to take us through
the unkindness of days. The kind of care

not afraid of touch, not afraid to come close,
you know? To ask Are you OK? Maybe

even to hug. The world is full of hard things
no one wants to talk about, even if we

really wish we could just let the moment lead
from the cultivated labor of surfaces to

the awkward surrender of our innermosts. I wish
we could sit without fidgeting, talk without

thinking of the quickest escape. Let's tell each
other, before they skitter like rocks into a well,

what words we've had to invent sometimes, to signal
that we want to talk about love or being alive.

Handicapped

Sam Pepys and me

At the office all the morning. At noon comes my brother Tom and Mr. Armiger to dine with me, and did, and we were very merry. After dinner, I having drunk a great deal of wine, I went away, seeming to go about business with Sir W. Pen, to my Lady Batten’s (Sir William being at Chatham), and there sat a good while, and then went away (before I went I called at home to see whether they were gone, and found them there, and Armiger inviting my wife to go to a play, and like a fool would be courting her, but he is an ass, and lays out money with Tom, otherwise I should not think him worth half this respect I shew him). To the Dolphin, where he and I and Captain Cocke sat late and drank much, seeing the boys in the streets flying their crackers, this day being kept all the day very strictly in the City. At last broke up, and called at my Lady Batten’s again and would have gone to cards, but Sir W. Pen was so fuddled that we could not try him to play, and therefore we parted, and I home and to bed.

having drunk a great deal
with one arm

I go like a captain flying
into a fuddle


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 5 November 1661.

At Any Cost, the Light

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
I am fond of them, love the way they flock 
to the light by the porch, any lantern left

on the patio, the one window which looks
like an orange stamp in the corner of any

dark envelope of a house. Their circling
is insistent; is trance, is lyric in search

of reassuring refrain. Moss darkens
the backs of trees, so even in daytime,

they look like they are signalling some
marbled meaning from underneath

the earth. We should be so lucky to be
streaked by their dust—a windfall, when

otherwise the world is over-careful.
Not touching. Not coming too close.

Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 44

Poetry Blogging Network

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: what worms are eating, invisible dogs, fishing for Leviathan, the presence of birds, and much more. Enjoy.

Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2024, Week 44”

Poet

Sam Pepys and me

In the morning, being very rainy, by coach with Sir W. Pen and my wife to Whitehall, and sent her to Mrs. Hunt’s, and he and I to Mr. Coventry’s about business, and so sent for her again, and all three home again, only I to the Mitre (Mr. Rawlinson’s), where Mr. Pierce, the Purser, had got us a most brave chine of beef, and a dish of marrowbones. Our company my uncle Wight, Captain Lambert, one Captain Davies, and purser Barter, Mr. Rawlinson, and ourselves; and very merry. After dinner I took coach, and called my wife at my brother’s, where I left her, and to the Opera, where we saw “The Bondman,” which of old we both did so doat on, and do still; though to both our thinking not so well acted here (having too great expectations), as formerly at Salisbury-court. But for Betterton he is called by us both the best actor in the world. So home by coach, I lighting by the way at my uncle Wight’s and staid there a little, and so home after my wife, and to bed.

the morning rain
a pen in her purse

marrowbone of an inkwell
to bury in the light


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 4 November 1661. An homage to erasure poet Sarah J. Sloat, whose long-running blog on Blogspot was called The Rain in Her Purse.

Prayer for Moths

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
When is it a haunting, and when a premonition?
I feel more haunted by the ghosts of the present
than the past. Some have stopped responding

when I call; and there are those that message or
text at all hours. After I get off the line with them,
I am nearly always doubled over with sadness;

their voices carry so much suffering, and I am
skewered by my inability to make their pain
go away. This is how I know the ancestors

do not become gods or angels when they
pass from our midst— rather, we are warp and
woof in a fabric stretched and threaded through

with our shared griefs. But o, for a hundred moth-
mouths, to work on a rending that admits more light.

Re-creational

Sam Pepys and me

(Lord’s day). This day I stirred not out, but took physique, and it did work very well, and all the day as I was at leisure I did read in Fuller’s Holy Warr, which I have of late bought, and did try to make a song in the praise of a liberall genius (as I take my own to be) to all studies and pleasures, but it not proving to my mind I did reject it and so proceeded not in it. At night my wife and I had a good supper by ourselves of a pullet hashed, which pleased me much to see my condition come to allow ourselves a dish like that, and so at night to bed.

I work at leisure
a holy war

I have bought a song
to be in my mind

and a good supper
of ash on a dish


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 3 November 1661.

Second Person, First Person

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
Tensile line, tether— you marvel at how surely
          a spider sends forth filament after filament
and swings its whole body weight into empty 
         space. How do you learn to be brave like that,
learn to trust that something set loose could still
        keep from flying off into the void? You put on
another pair of socks, pour water into the kettle,
        wait for it to boil. And I write “you,” though we  
know it’s just another way we try to keep some
        distance from the self, especially when it looks
at itself and feels too close. But yes,  I’m writing about 
       myself, now;  writing of how sometimes I can’t tell 
a window from a door, can’t tell the difference
       between premonition, undercurrent, a haunting.
 

Boom

Sam Pepys and me

At the office all the morning; where Sir John Minnes, our new comptroller, was fetched by Sir Wm. Pen and myself from Sir Wm. Batten’s, and led to his place in the office. The first time that he had come hither, and he seems a good fair condition man, and one that I am glad hath the office.
After the office done, I to the Wardrobe, and there dined, and in the afternoon had an hour or two’s talk with my Lady with great pleasure. And so with the two young ladies by coach to my house, and gave them some entertainment, and so late at night sent them home with Captain Ferrers by coach.
This night my boy Wayneman, as I was in my chamber, I overheard him let off some gunpowder; and hearing my wife chide him below for it, and a noise made, I call him up, and find that it was powder that he had put in his pocket, and a match carelessly with it, thinking that it was out, and so the match did give fire to the powder, and had burnt his side and his hand that he put into his pocket to put out the fire. But upon examination, and finding him in a lie about the time and place that he bought it, I did extremely beat him, and though it did trouble me to do it, yet I thought it necessary to do it. So to write by the post, and to bed.

a new air
after the war

and you and I are a match
give fire to fire


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 2 November 1661.