Month: December 2015

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Notation

“My poignant luxury…” ~ Emily Dickinson

When we returned, all the leaves of the fig
had fallen, and those of the Japanese maple;

the bare ground, covered in tearable
wrappers of the after all easily shed.

All day a glimmering sky spoke in fragments
as if time were sending postcards: how we walked

by the river, how the wind slipped the taste
of moss and salt under our tongues; how I called

when you walked too fast, how at night on the cool
sheets you always fell asleep before I did.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Late Bloomer.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

In which we raise a pint to Via Negativa for surviving its 12th year

Three Via Negativa bloggers in a London pub, 14 December 2015
Three Via Negativa bloggers in a London pub, 14 December 2015 (photo: Ruben Igloria)

My pun of the week: I have been basking in the reflected Igloria of Luisa winning the Resurgence Poetry Prize.* But better even than that was the chance to hang out with two Via Negativa bloggers at the same time when Jean Morris came up from South London to meet Luisa and me and other friends and family for few hours on Tuesday night. It felt like a mini-reunion even thought it was in fact the first time all three of us had gotten together. But that’s the way literary blogger meet-ups always feel, in my experience: we already know each other so well from sharing our truest words online that when we finally meet IRL, it’s possible to bypass the awkward small-talk stage altogether and jump right into the deeper stuff (water, BS, whatever).

Via Negativa is twelve years old today. Thanks to everyone who reads, whether on the site itself, on Feedly or other RSS readers, or via Mailchimp. It’s been a fun ride, and with a little more help from my blogging friends I hope to keep it going for many more years.
__________

*Did you know that BIRGing is a thing? Me neither. Thanks, Wikipedia!

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Late riser

This morning come Mr. Lee, Wade, and Evett, intending to have gone upon our new design to the Tower today; but it raining, and the work being to be done in the open garden, we put it off to Friday next. And so I to the office doing business, and then dined at home with my poor wife with great content, and so to the office again and made an end of examining the other of Mr. Holland’s books about the Navy, with which I am much contented, and so to other businesses till night at my office, and so home to supper, and after much dear company and talk with my wife, to bed.

rain
in the garden
another contented bed


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 17 December 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Coup de grâce

She says she has recurrent dreams of a hot fire licking at her hands and feet, drawing her into its center. She says she sees her sister there, and her husband, motioning for her to cross over to the other side. She is by turns ecstatic and furious. She moans and cries, then bellows like a bull provoked for the matador. She likes the blazing red cape, the suit of lights edged with gold; but not so much the lances. For all these visitations, her body has not given up the ghost. What is it they mean when they say this, anyway? Whose ghost lives in her, spurring the bouts of energy, the hunger for fruit, for bread, roast turkey; the mean anger, the need for control? Whatever it is, when she’s in pain she prays for it to be swift— like a wisp of smoke from a snuffed candle, like a tug in both directions so the gold chain breaks.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Grandiloquent

Up and to the office, and thither came Mr. Coventry and Sir G. Carteret, and among other business was Strutt’s the purser, against Captn. Browne, Sir W. Batten’s brother-in-law, but, Lord! though I believe the Captain has played the knave, though I seem to have a good opinion of him and to mean him well, what a most troublesome fellow that Strutt is, such as I never did meet with his fellow in my life. His talking and ours to make him hold his peace set my head off akeing all the afternoon with great pain.
So to dinner, thinking to have had Mr. Coventry, but he could not go with me; and so I took Captn. Murford. Of whom I do hear what the world says of me; that all do conclude Mr. Coventry, and Pett, and me, to be of a knot; and that we do now carry all things before us; and much more in particular of me, and my studiousnesse, &c., to my great content.
After dinner came Mrs. Browne, the Captain’s wife, to see me and my wife, and I showed her a good countenance, and indeed her husband has been civil to us, but though I speak them fair, yet I doubt I shall not be able to do her husband much favour in this business of Strutt’s, whom without doubt he has abused.
So to the office, and hence, having done some business, by coach to White Hall to Secretary Bennet’s, and agreed with Mr. Lee to set upon our new adventure at the Tower to-morrow. Hence to Col. Lovelace in Cannon Row about seeing how Sir R. Ford did report all the officers of the navy to be rated for the Loyal Sufferers, but finding him at the Rhenish wine-house I could not have any answer, but must take another time. Thence to my Lord’s, and having sat talking with Mr. Moore bewailing the vanity and disorders of the age, I went by coach to my brother’s, where I met Sarah, my late mayde, who had a desire to speak with me, and I with her to know what it was, who told me out of good will to me, for she loves me dearly, that I would beware of my wife’s brother, for he is begging or borrowing of her and often, and told me of her Scallop whisk, and her borrowing of 50s. for Will, which she believes was for him and her father. I do observe so much goodness and seriousness in the mayde, that I am again and again sorry that I have parted with her, though it was full against my will then, and if she had anything in the world I would commend her for a wife for my brother Tom. After much discourse and her professions of love to me and all my relations, I bade her good night and did kiss her, and indeed she seemed very well-favoured to me to-night, as she is always.
So by coach home and to my office, did some business, and so home to supper and to bed.

a most troublesome fellow my head
aching to have the world
and knot it up
seeing all the disorder of desire
as a wing for love


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 16 December 1662.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Luisa wins the first annual Resurgence Prize for Ecopoetry

Resurgence Prize winners, judges and presenters pose on stage
L-r: Andrew Motion, Meredi Ortega, Luisa Igloria, Jo Shapcott, Joanna Lumley, Satish Kumar, Claire Collison (photo: Ruben Igloria)

I was thrilled to learn, less than two weeks ago, that a poem by my Via Negativa co-blogger Luisa A. Igloria had been chosen as the first-place winner of the Resurgence Poetry Prize—the world’s first major award for ecopoetry. The judges were the former UK poet laureate Andrew Motion, Alice Oswald, and Jo Shapcott. We weren’t able to say a thing about it in public until after the awards ceremony last night in London, which, since I was already in town for the winter, I was fortunate enough to be able to attend, together with my partner Rachel, Luisa’s husband Ruben and their daughter Gabriela. We’ve just said our good-byes after a whirlwind, three-day tour of London. More about that in future posts here and on Facebook, no doubt.

Resurgence is a long-running British magazine focusing on ecology. It has always made room for poetry in its pages, but this was the first year their parent nonprofit has awarded the Resurgence Prize.

With a first prize of £5,000 for the best single poem embracing ecological themes, the award ranks amongst the highest of any English language single poem competition. Second prize is £2,000 and third prize £1,000.

Founded in the spring of 2014 by the former UK Poet Laureate Sir Andrew Motion, actress and green campaigner Joanna Lumley, and entrepreneur and environmentalist Peter Phelps, the Resurgence Poetry Prize reflects the founders’ shared passion for and commitment to poems that investigate and challenge the interrelationship between nature and human culture (read more on Ecopoetry).

The awards ceremony was held at a gorgeous, Victorian temple to art, the Leighton House Museum, and was emceed by actress and activist Joanna Lumley. Resurgence editor Satish Kumar kicked things off with a inspiring speech singing the praises of poets and poetry, followed by short readings of their own poetry by Andrew Motion and Jo Shapcott. Then the three prizes were awarded. The following, somewhat dodgy video begins with Shapcott’s description of the winning poem. The poets hadn’t been given any particular instruction on how to prepare for the ceremony, other than that they might be asked to read their poems (which they were), but Luisa took it upon herself to write a short acceptance speech as well, jotting down ideas in odd moments as we raced around London snapping photos in front of famous and not-so-famous monuments. Here’s her speech, followed by the poem:

The Resurgence people prepared a lovely booklet of the winning poems to hand out to everyone at the ceremony, and they’ve announced the winners on their Facebook page:

Here are the winners! Winning poems will be published on the website this week.

1) Luisa Igloria / Auguries
2) Claire Collison / The Architect
3) Meredi Ortega / Moving into Hannah’s house

SHORT LISTED – IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

Sue Proffitt / Bluebells
Judy Brown / Coelacanth
Elaine Ewart / Fen, Again
Nicola Healey / Robin Interlude
Geraldine Clarkson / snow rules
Ruth Wiggins / Tasmanian Tiger
Ruth Yates / The tiny death ritual

Much was made of the fact that all ten winners in this blind contest were women, with Andrew Motion remarking that male poets might become an endangered species—an interesting choice of words for an ecology-focused event. I do hope this portends some kind of righting of the gender balance in the traditionally male-dominated official poetry culture in the US and UK.

UPDATE (17 Dec): The winning poems are up on the Resurgence Prize website, together with a press release.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Three pictures of my mother

She is beautiful in that photograph where they are dancing. I don’t know the occasion, but around them is a roomful of other couples also dancing. She has a beauty mole penciled on her cheek, slightly to the right of her lip. Her eyebrows are two perfect arches and her hair is dark like a beehive. I think there are dots on her dress. Where is this photograph? I would like very much to have it.

*

In another shot she is posing on a terrace overlooking the crater lake with Taal volcano in the center. She is beside a famous painter who has nonetheless been introduced to us as the wife of a famous painter. She is a long-lost cousin of my father, and she paints in the naif style, with audacious colors and bold outlines. All her paintings are of saints and religious icons. You could say that piety is her subject. My mother looks like a young Audrey Hepburn with a cropped hairstyle, in a plain black dress she sewed herself.

*

I vaguely remember seeing a thin album of wedding pictures, all in sepia. I do not think she wore a veil. Her dress was either a sheath, or it wasn’t. I think they had a picture of them cutting a cake. From the church ceremony, a picture of my father’s niece and nephew putting the cord around their shoulders. The cord like an 8. Infinity grounded by a knot in the center.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Theopaschite

Up and to my Lord’s and thence to the Duke, and followed him into the Park, where, though the ice was broken and dangerous, yet he would go slide upon his scates, which I did not like, but he slides very well. So back and to his closett, whither my Lord Sandwich comes, and there Mr. Coventry and we three had long discourse together about the matters of the Navy; and, indeed, I find myself more and more obliged to Mr. Coventry, who studies to do me all the right he can in every thing to the Duke.
Thence walked a good while up and down the gallerys; and among others, met with Dr. Clerke, who in discourse tells me, that Sir Charles Barkeley’s greatness is only his being pimp to the King, and to my Lady Castlemaine. And yet for all this, that the King is very kind to the Queen; who, he says, is one of the best women in the world. Strange how the King is bewitched to this pretty Castlemaine.
Thence to my Lord’s, and there with Mr. Creed, Moore, and Howe to the Crown and dined, and thence to Whitehall, where I walked up and down the gallerys, spending my time upon the pictures, till the Duke and the Committee for Tangier met (the Duke not staying with us), where the only matter was to discourse with my Lord Rutherford, who is this day made Governor of Tangier, for I know not what reasons; and my Lord of Peterborough to be called home; which, though it is said it is done with kindness, yet all the world may see it is done otherwise, and I am sorry to see a Catholick Governor sent to command there, where all the rest of the officers almost are such already. But God knows what the reason is! and all may see how slippery places all courtiers stand in.
Thence by coach home, in my way calling upon Sir John Berkenheade, to speak about my assessment of 42l. to the Loyal Sufferers; which, I perceive, I cannot help; but he tells me I have been abused by Sir R. Ford, which I shall hereafter make use of when it shall be fit.
Thence called at the Major-General’s, Sir R. Browne, about my being assessed armes to the militia; but he was abroad; and so driving through the backside of the Shambles in Newgate Market, my coach plucked down two pieces of beef into the dirt, upon which the butchers stopped the horses, and a great rout of people in the street, crying that he had done him 40s. and 5l. worth of hurt; but going down, I saw that he had done little or none; and so I give them a shilling for it and they were well contented, and so home.
And there to my Lady Batten’s to see her, who tells me she hath just now a letter from Sir William, how that he and Sir J. Minnes did very narrowly escape drowning on the road, the waters are so high; but is well. But, Lord! what a hypocrite-like face she made to tell it me.
Thence to Sir W. Pen and sat long with him in discourse, I making myself appear one of greater action and resolution as to publique business than I have hitherto done, at which he listens, but I know is a rogue in his heart and likes not, but I perceive I may hold up my head, and the more the better, I minding of my business as I have done, in which God do and will bless me. So home and with great content to bed, and talk and chat with my wife while I was at supper, to our great pleasure.

in a broken and dangerous world
how kind are the slippery places

all the loyal sufferers
down in the dirt

a great rout of hurt drowning
on the road like a rogue heart

like a better God
to chat with at supper


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 15 December 1662.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Condolence

It is the year we have boarders, two college students from Thailand: long-legged and dusky Mu, pale and flat-chested Pom. For breakfast they like things like coconut jam on bread. One Saturday they’re showing my parents how to make a sweet-salty dip with shrimp paste for tart green mangos, and Thai iced tea. When they serve the drinks I watch the dense layer of sweetened milk make sinuous curls through the red-earth-colored liquid in tall beaded glasses. I know this milk is something that also goes into custards and flan, but you can spoon and eat it straight from the can with the red and white striped label. I don’t know why my father keeps mentioning this milk— “Condolence, my condolences,” he says into the phone— when a friend calls to say his mother has died. Perhaps this sweetness is a cure for sorrow. Perhaps its creamy thick ribbons wrap the throat and tongue in a cocoon to make them impervious to the dark salt of tears.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Sleepless

(Lord’s day). Lay with great content talking with my wife in bed, and so up and to church and then home, and had a neat dinner by ourselves, and after dinner walked to White Hall and my Lord’s, and up and down till chappell time, and then to the King’s chappell, where I heard the service, and so to my Lord’s, and there Mr. Howe and Pagett, the counsellor, an old lover of musique. We sang some Psalms of Mr. Lawes, and played some symphonys between till night, that I was sent for to Mr. Creed’s lodging, and there was Captain Ferrers and his lady and W. Howe and I; we supped very well and good sport in discourse. After supper I was sent for to my Lord, with whom I staid talking about his, and my owne, and the publique affairs, with great content, he advising me as to my owne choosing of Sir R. Bernard for umpire in the businesses between my uncle and us, that I would not trust to him upon his direction, for he did not think him a man to be trusted at all; and so bid him good night, and to Mr. Creed’s again; Mr. Moore, with whom I intended to have lain, lying physically without sheets; and there, after some discourse, to bed, and lay ill, though the bed good, my stomach being sicke all night with my too heavy supper.

I hear music in the night
lying without sheets
my stomach sick


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 14 December 1662.