Poems & poem-like things

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

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

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.

November 19, 2024November 18, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

Last Day

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.

November 18, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Evening

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.

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

Muscle Memory

When you are born of immigrants, 
the memories that live 

in your mind and gut aren't just 
your own. Damp t-shirts and towels 

dry in the sun on the balcony 
railing— these too are flags 

of the country of your first 
education, reminding you 

of your ancestors and kin 
who knew how to bend to the soil 

and bow to the rivers, when
to stand up with others and when

to bide time; when to slip, watchful,
into the simmering background.

Their hands know how to wield 
the hoe and transplant the fragile

seedling, how to guide the gleaming
scalpel in the operating theatre

with precision as it enters 
subcutaneous tissue to start

the work of regeneration.  
You will try to keep this

knowledge alive in your own hands:
memory of touch, firm memory of when

it is necessary to quarter and loosen;
memory of how to keep life alive.

November 17, 2024November 18, 2024 by Luisa A. Igloria

When We Gather

It is a small miracle we can still hold
gatherings around the kitchen table, 
share meals of soup and bread and rice 
piled on breakable platters. Here are 
perhaps the first of those days we thought 
would never come— war at every window, 
drought kindling fires through evergreen 
forests; men in suits and ties trading 
our bodies and freedoms for a world 
shrunk to the proportions of their minds. 
But here we are, offering prayers to our dead,
sharing what they taught us of ritual and 
remembrance—fruit for sweetness, water   
and oil for balm; garlic and onions for strength.

November 17, 2024 by Dave Bonta

Easier said

(Lord’s day). To our own church, and at noon, by invitation, Sir W. Pen dined with me, and I took Mrs. Hester, my Lady Batten’s kinswoman, to dinner from church with me, and we were very merry. So to church again, and heard a simple fellow upon the praise of Church musique, and exclaiming against men’s wearing their hats on in the church, but I slept part of the sermon, till latter prayer and blessing and all was done without waking which I never did in my life. So home, and by and by comes my uncle Wight and my aunt and Mr. Norbury and his lady, and we drank hard and were very merry till supper time, and then we parted, my wife and I being invited to Sir W. Pen’s, where we also were very merry, and so home to prayers and to bed.

too simple a music
in swearing and blessing

do hard time and then
invite a prayer

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 17 November 1661.