Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Extremity brings things into sharper relief.
But when Annie Dillard says spend it all, shoot it,
play it, lose it, all, right away, every time, I don't
think she's talking about maxxing out credit cards
or going for broke at the slot machines because the world
is ending tomorrow, or if not tomorrow, very soon after that.
She's talking about the writing life, the life of creation
and how even there, the economics of scarcity seems
to prevail. In summer, we watched an apocalyptic film
in which scientists warn everyone about a comet crashing
into Earth; no one believes them, until of course it's too
late. At that point, when the end happens, I too would like
to sit at a table with the people I love instead of scrambling
for a seat I could probably not afford anyway, on the last
spaceship leaving this planet. Someone will praise the wine,
and we'll try to guess the secret ingredient that lifts
the roast from merely good to amazing. We'll savor each bite, pass
the bowl of lemons and the basket of bread like they were holy.
By coach with Sir W. Pen; my wife and I toward Westminster, but seeing Mr. Moore in the street I light and he and I went to Mr. Battersby’s the minister, in my way I putting in at St. Paul’s, where I saw the quiristers in their surplices going to prayers, and a few idle poor people and boys to hear them, which is the first time I have seen them, and am sorry to see things done so out of order, and there I received 50l. more, which make up 100l. that I now have borrowed of him, and so I did burn the old bond for 50l., and paying him the use of it did make a new bond for the whole 100l. Here I dined and had a good dinner, and his wife a good pretty woman. There was a young Parson at the table that had got himself drunk before dinner, which troubled me to see.
After dinner to Mr. Bowers at Westminster for my wife, and brought her to the Theatre to see “Philaster,” which I never saw before, but I found it far short of my expectations. So by coach home.
seeing the light go
we burn anew
and you
drunk for dinner
trouble me in the heat
of my expectations
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 18 November 1661.