Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Early October:
they go behind the curtain
to administer death.
The universe has other plans.
Death returns the prisoner twice.
Bells split the evening,
and a sentence is split, too.
Who wants to come back
an unintended postscript,
a stone rolled back into place?
Up and betimes to my office, and then to sit, where Sir G. Carteret, Sir W. Batten, Sir W. Pen, Sir J. Minnes, Mr. Coventry and myself, a fuller board than by the King’s progresse and the late pays and my absence has been a great while.
Sat late, and then home to dinner. After dinner I by water to Deptford about a little business, and so back again, buying a couple of good eeles by the way, and after writing by the post, home to see the painter at work, late, in my wife’s closet, and so to supper and to bed, having been very merry with the painter, late, while he was doing his work.
This day the King and Court returned from their progress.
time to sit myself
in the sand
my absence has been
great water for a little eel
my wife having
been very merry
while I work
in an urn
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 1 October 1663.
Would you say animals
are lonely, or that a cloud
yearns for what it doesn't
understand?
Even a puddle left over
from last night's rain, drying
in the sun, holds what it can
of the sky.
Rose very well, and my hearing pretty well again, and so to my office, by and by Mr. Holliard come, and at my house he searched my ear, and I hope all will be well, though I do not yet hear so well as I used to do with my right ear.
So to my office till noon, and then home to dinner, and in the afternoon by water to White Hall, to the Tangier Committee; where my Lord Tiviott about his accounts; which grieves me to see that his accounts being to be examined by us, there are none of the great men at the Board that in compliment will except against any thing in his accounts, and so none of the little persons dare do it: so the King is abused.
Thence home again by water with Sir W. Rider, and so to my office, and there I sat late making up my month’s accounts, and, blessed be God, do find myself 760l. creditor, notwithstanding that for clothes for myself and wife, and layings out on her closett, I have spent this month 47l.. So home, where I found our new cooke-mayde Elizabeth, whom my wife never saw at all, nor I but once at a distance before, but recommended well by Mr. Creed, and I hope will prove well. So to supper, prayers, and bed.
This evening Mr. Coventry is come to St. James’s, but I did not go see him, and tomorrow the King, Queen, Duke and his Lady, and the whole Court comes to towne from their progresse. Myself and family well, only my father sicke in the country.
All the common talke for newes is the Turke’s advance in Hungary, &c.
I hope I do not yet owe
my right ear
of no account
I am one little person
abused by a creditor
I never saw
at a distance prayers
become the only country
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday30 September 1663.
Took two pills more in the morning and they worked all day, and I kept the house. About noon dined, and then to carry several heavy things with my wife up and down stairs, in order to our going to lie above, and Will to come down to the Wardrobe, and that put me into a violent sweat, so I had a fire made, and then, being dry again, she and I to put up some paper pictures in the red chamber, where we go to lie very pretty, and the map of Paris. Then in the evening, towards night, it fell to thunder, lighten, and rain so violently that my house was all afloat, and I in all the rain up to the gutters, and there dabbled in the rain and wet half an hour, enough to have killed a man. That done downstairs to dry myself again, and by and by come Mr. Sympson to set up my wife’s chimney-piece in her closett, which pleases me, and so that being done, I to supper and to bed, shifting myself from top to toe, and doubtful of my doing myself hurt.
I work to carry several
heavy things
a lie the war
that fire-red
map in my gut
enough to have killed me
my wife in bed
shifting
doubtful
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 29 September 1663.
It was a time whose fine details are blurred,
like landscape through a window streaked
with rain. The city I grew up in, mirage
of lights and midnight arrivals, departures.
Who said to me once, You write so well
about suffering? That gave me
pause. And another time, I am so glad
I don't have to think of things like that.
Trees bent by the long monsoon,
unceasing eddies in the lake; mildew
collecting intentions on the bathroom
walls— Do these, too, speak of suffering?
One afternoon we listened to music
composed on the spot, pulled as if silk
out of the air by numinous beings.
Years of training and practice
behind the sureness of the first key
touched, and then the next. Perhaps
this is how the agonies of choice
and doubt can be haltered. There
they are, where you've led and left
them in the meadow, quiet now
in the clover. They nuzzle the grass,
the soil, each other. When you call
to them, they come. It doesn't
matter if one limps, or if they've
seen better days.
May the falling needle stop short of disaster, and the reaping
just short of grim. May the curtains open again to let us know
there is an encore or an interim.
May the miracle of your blueprint system create a new
defense against attacking cells, and the lesions on
your back transfigure into a blindingly empty field.
May the atoms of a pure and orderly crystal
attempt (in theory) to reach precisely zero, but
may this state remain impossible to achieve.
May the many sums subtracted from my life-
time (work, years, tears, failure) build back
an edifice impossible to subdue.
Up, though with pain in my head, stomach, and ear, and that deaf so as in my way by coach to White Hall with Sir J. Minnes I called at Mr. Holliard’s, who did give me some pills, and tells me I shall have my hearing again and be well. So to White Hall, where Sir J. Minnes and I did spend an hour in the Gallery, looking upon the pictures, in which he hath some judgment. And by and by the Commissioners for Tangier met: and there my Lord Teviott, together with Captain Cuttance, Captain Evans, and Jonas Moore, sent to that purpose, did bring us a brave draught of the Mole to be built there; and report that it is likely to be the most considerable place the King of England hath in the world; and so I am apt to think it will. After discourse of this, and of supplying the garrison with some more horse, we rose; and Sir J. Minnes and I home again, finding the street about our house full, Sir R. Ford beginning his shrievalty to-day and, what with his and our houses being new painted, the street begins to look a great deal better than it did, and more gracefull.
Home and eat one bit of meat, and then by water with him and Sir W. Batten to a sale of old provisions at Deptford, which we did at Captain Boddily’s house, to the value of 600l. or 700l., but I am not satisfied with the method used in this thing.
Then home again by water, and after a little at my office, and visit Sir W. Pen, who is not very well again, with his late pain, home to supper, being hungry, and my ear and cold not so bad I think as it was. So to bed, taking one of my pills. Newes that the King comes to town for certain on Thursday next from his progresse.
in my stomach I have met
mole-like
most of the world
and I am full
better than full
of meat and visions
but I am not satisfied
again and again
being hungry
and an ogre
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 28 September 1663.
A personal selection of posts from around the Anglophone blogosphere, including Substack, with a commitment to following a somewhat haphazardly chosen selection of poets, poetry lovers, literary critics and publishers over time. 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: September tomatoes, ghost pixels, locoweed, rejection season, an ode to the multiple orgasm, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 39”
The heel that falls clean
off a shoe. The fray
that begins before the garment's
final stitch. Shards of torn
underlayment the roofers
tossed to the ground.
Massive sheets of ice
and rock that shear
off the mountain, plunging
7,000 feet into the river
below. Displacement
releases energy in all
directions. Then retreat,
followed by a wave
that knocks down everything
in its path.