Via Negativa

February 20, 2026February 19, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Up and to my office, where abundance of business all the morning. Dined by my wife’s bedside, she not being yet well. We fell out almost upon my discourse of delaying the having of Ashwell, where my wife believing that I have a mind to have Pall, which I have not, though I could wish she did deserve to be had. So to my office, where by and by we sat, this afternoon being the first we have met upon a great while, our times being changed because of the parliament sitting. Being rose, I to my office till twelve at night, drawing out copies of the overcharge of the Navy, one to send to Mr. Coventry early to-morrow. So home and to bed, being weary, sleepy, and my eyes begin to fail me, looking so long by candlelight upon white paper.
This day I read the King’s speech to the Parliament yesterday; which is very short, and not very obliging; but only telling them his desire to have a power of indulging tender consciences, not that he will yield to have any mixture in the uniformity of the Church’s discipline; and says the same for the Papists, but declares against their ever being admitted to have any offices or places of trust in the kingdom; but, God knows, too many have.

where morning fell
almost as a pall
over the bed

my eyes fail
looking so long
upon white uniformity

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 19 February 1662/63.

February 19, 2026February 18, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Fine Thank You and How Was Your Day?

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

We were joking about shadow bodies, doppelgängers, 
our bodies that don't quite feel awake until they 
have washed their faces and drank at least a cup 
of strong dark coffee. My doppelgänger ordered 
a coffee that the student barista made behind 
the counter, but with nondairy milk because of 
lactose intolerance and because though I love 
coffee, too much sometimes trips up the acidity 
in my stomach. Yet I drink it all day long, I 
nurse my one cup of coffee and make it last, or 
my shadow self will make myself another cup at home 
later in the evening because oh god she just loves 
the smell of coffee. I've been thinking of the body 
as a kind of garden, luxuriant with texture and
scent, dotted with underground caves where fireflies
sequin the water. Not that garden in the first story  
of exile where a snake in the grass wasn't there 
to play but brought a non-multiple choice test and 
a loaded answer key. My body doesn't feel like its 
core is merely a leftover rib or an afterthought. 
So many mornings my body might feel like a mess 
of limbs and thinning hair, callused heels, creaking
knees. But I would rather be a constellation of lights
winking at the edge of the ceiling, festive beyond
the holidays— wouldn't you? In the Bolivian restaurant 
where the tamales are warm and the sauce is creamy 
with a hint of heat, my body sinks into the orange 
bucket seat and feels short as a child, but it knows 
it couldn't wait to get out of the office. Someone makes 
a joke or a pun. Can't even remember how exactly it went 
now— divot, diva, treble, trouble?— but enough to produce 
a grand cackle. Funny how little plates of food and a little 
drink of something nice with friends is so restorative, even 
in this little city by the coast where sometimes it snows 
but mostly it floods and likely you'd have to travel 
somewhere to ski down the bright, powdered sides 
of mountains and breathe in the cold, lacerating 
air that says Do you feel that, do your lungs and 
the rest of you remember when last you felt so alive?

February 18, 2026February 18, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Self-Portrait as Late Bloomer with Nudibranch

No, that isn't a piece of frilly green
      lettuce in the aquarium but a slug
which stores chloroplasts from the algae
      it feeds on. Its cells continue to photo-
synthesize light energy, so it's no longer 
      just the dull color of putty but suddenly
the most fabulous creature in the room. 
      I was never that kind of head-turner, 
only the girl sitting in the back 
      of the room, the one with the sensible 
shoes and the sensible clothes made by 
      her mother, never bought off the rack 
from some department store. One year
      in high school, the trend was apple
clogs and Faded Glory jeans— the ones
      with the tiny buckle below the rear 
waistband. I tried to take notes on color
      combinations, accessories, the difference 
between trying too hard and effortless. I guess
      some of us are just late bloomers. There are 
reports of rainbow slugs showing up in rock pools 
      across Britain, little clumps of gummy confetti
bright against rock: audacious carnival of wild 
      color, though their presence means waters 
are warming up even more from climate change.

February 18, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Firm

Up, leaving my wife sick as last night in bed. I to my office all the morning, casting up with Captain Cocke their accounts of 500 tons of hemp brought from Riga, and bought by him and partners upon account, wherein are many things worth my knowledge. So at noon to dinner, taking Mr. Hater with me because of losing them, and in the afternoon he and I alone at the office, finishing our account of the extra charge of the Navy, not properly belonging to the Navy, since the King’s coming in to Christmas last; and all extra things being abated, I find that the true charge of the Navy to that time hath been after the rate of 374,743l. a-year. I made an end by eleven o’clock at night, and so home to bed almost weary.
This day the Parliament met again, after their long prorogation; but I know not any thing what they have done, being within doors all day.

a cast of partners to hate
losing the afternoon

the office not properly
belonging to time

after what they have done
indoors all day

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 18 February 1662/63.

February 18, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Water ways

Up and to my office, and there we sat all the morning, and at noon my wife being gone to Chelsey with her brother and sister and Mrs. Lodum, to see the wassell at the school, where Mary Ashwell is, I took home Mr. Pett and he dined with me all alone, and much discourse we had upon the business of the office, and so after dinner broke up and with much ado, it raining hard, which it has not done a great while now, but only frost a great while, I got a coach and so to the Temple, where discoursed with Mr. W. Montagu about borrowing some money for my Lord, and so by water (where I have not been a good while through cold) to Westminster to Sir W. Wheeler’s, whom I found busy at his own house with the Commissioners of Sewers, but I spoke to him about my Lord’s business of borrowing money, and so to my Lord of Sandwich, to give him an account of all, whom I found at cards with Pickering; but he made an end soon: and so all alone, he and I, after I had given him an account, he told me he had a great secret to tell me, such as no flesh knew but himself, nor ought; which was this: that yesterday morning Eschar, Mr. Edward Montagu’s man, did come to him from his master with some of the Clerks of the Exchequer, for my Lord to sign to their books for the Embassy money; which my Lord very civilly desired not to do till he had spoke with his master himself. In the afternoon, my Lord and my Lady Wright being at cards in his chamber, in comes Mr. Montagu; and desiring to speak with my Lord at the window in his chamber, he begun to charge my Lord with the greatest ingratitude in the world: that he that had received his earldom, garter, 4000l. per annum, and whatever he is in the world, from him, should now study him all the dishonour that he could; and so fell to tell my Lord, that if he should speak all that he knew of him, he could do so and so. In a word, he did rip up all that could be said that was unworthy, and in the basest terms they could be spoken in. To which my Lord answered with great temper, justifying himself, but endeavouring to lessen his heat, which was a strange temper in him, knowing that he did owe all he hath in the world to my Lord, and that he is now all that he is by his means and favour. But my Lord did forbear to increase the quarrel, knowing that it would be to no good purpose for the world to see a difference in the family; but did allay him so as that he fell to weeping. And after much talk (among other things Mr. Montagu telling him that there was a fellow in the town, naming me, that had done ill offices, and that if he knew it to be so, he would have him cudgelled) my Lord did promise him that, if upon account he saw that there was not many tradesmen unpaid, he would sign the books; but if there was, he could not bear with taking too great a debt upon him. So this day he sent him an account, and a letter assuring him there was not above 200l. unpaid; and so my Lord did sign to the Exchequer books. Upon the whole, I understand fully what a rogue he is, and how my Lord do think and will think of him for the future; telling me that thus he has served his father my Lord Manchester, and his whole family, and now himself: and which is worst, that he hath abused, and in speeches every day do abuse, my Lord Chancellor, whose favour he hath lost; and hath no friend but Sir H. Bennet, and that (I knowing the rise of the friendship) only from the likeness of their pleasures, and acquaintance, and concernments, they have in the same matters of lust and baseness; for which, God forgive them! But he do flatter himself, from promises of Sir H. Bennet, that he shall have a pension of 2000l. per annum, and be made an Earl. My Lord told me he expected a challenge from him, but told me there was no great fear of him, for there was no man lies under such an imputation as he do in the business of Mr. Cholmely, who, though a simple sorry fellow, do brave him and struts before him with the Queen, to the sport and observation of the whole Court.
He did keep my Lord at the window, thus reviling and braving him above an hour, my Lady Wright being by; but my Lord tells me she could not hear every word, but did well know what their discourse was; she could hear enough to know that. So that he commands me to keep it as the greatest secret in the world, and bids me beware of speaking words against Mr. Montagu, for fear I should suffer by his passion thereby.
After he had told me this I took coach and home, where I found my wife come home and in bed with her sister in law in the chamber with her, she not being able to stay to see the wassel, being so ill of her termes, which I was sorry for. Hither we sent for her sister’s viall, upon which she plays pretty well for a girl, but my expectation is much deceived in her, not only for that, but in her spirit, she being I perceive a very subtle witty jade, and one that will give her husband trouble enough as little as she is, whereas I took her heretofore for a very child and a simple fool. I played also, which I have not done this long time before upon any instrument, and at last broke up and I to my office a little while, being fearful of being too much taken with musique, for fear of returning to my old dotage thereon, and so neglect my business as I used to do.
Then home and to bed.
Coming home I brought Mr. Pickering as far as the Temple, who tells me the story is very true of a child being dropped at the ball at Court; and that the King had it in his closett a week after, and did dissect it; and making great sport of it, said that in his opinion it must have been a month and three hours old; and that, whatever others think, he hath the greatest loss (it being a boy, as he says), that hath lost a subject by the business.
He tells me, too, that the other story, of my Lady Castlemaine’s and Stuart’s marriage, is certain, and that it was in order to the King’s coming to Stuart, as is believed generally. He tells me that Sir H. Bennet is a Catholique, and how all the Court almost is changed to the worse since his coming in, they being afeard of him. And that the Queen-Mother’s Court is now the greatest of all; and that our own Queen hath little or no company come to her, which I know also to be very true, and am sorry to see it.

rain through the sewers
a secret flesh of the world

whatever word it means
weeping under us

like the same matter as God
no simple wind

but enough to suffer passion
enough to play

on this dropped ball
that we dissect

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 17 February 1662/63.

February 17, 2026February 16, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Only Money

Explain to me how some people have old
money— old meaning venerable and established, 
and despite all known hindrances, multiplying 
in the dark. Interest compounds thickly through 
decades, not musty nor feeble or infirm. 
When they call to it, it always comes 
obediently, never protesting or throwing 
them off when they ride it like a magnificent 
stallion all over their green acreage.

Meanwhile, I walk through life rounding up 
restless chickens, nervous that every rustle 
in the hedge means a fox, snout twitching 
at the thought of eggs heaped like zeroes 
in the henhouse, ready to be carried away 
and reduced to nothing and more nothing. 
My kind have always been praised for our 
industry. From sunup to sundown, bent over 
in the fields— planting rice, gathering 

strawberries and garlic, lettuce and 
asparagus; pineapples, sugarcane. The kind of
bounty heaped on crystal platters and pristine 
tablecloths in Rockwell's Freedom from Want. 
When the overseer rang the bell, my people 
lined up for paychecks made more meagre 
by illegal deductions. And yet they passed 
the hat to send a son to college, mail 
uplift to families in their village. 

How can I not respond when one of my children 
calls to ask for help with rent, an insurance 
payment, gas? Some friends say I'm an enabler, 
by which they mean I'm feeding a crippling 
dependency. Or they'll say, Do what you 
want; it's only money— suggesting the more 
important thing is to take care of what 
needs taking care of. But for those who've 
always had enough, it only means the loss 

of any money should not cause undue 
agony. My elders spoke of certain types 
of debts written on water: a ledger 
with lines and entries never legible, 
except perhaps in the heart's memory. 
Perhaps these calculate a different currency: 
one that envisions how things might someday 
return to hands resting in empty pockets, 
that hopes for a different kind of saving.

February 16, 2026February 16, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 7

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: cobra mating season, the hand of a Medieval scribe, a riddling hermit guarding a magic portal, and much more. Enjoy.

February 16, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Rooted

Up and by coach with Sir W. Batten and Sir J. Minnes to White Hall, and, after we had done our usual business with the Duke, to my Lord Sandwich and by his desire to Sir W. Wheeler, who was brought down in a sedan chair from his chamber, being lame of the gout, to borrow 1000l. of him for my Lord’s occasions, but he gave me a very kind denial that he could not, but if any body else would, he would be bond with my Lord for it. So to Westminster Hall, and there find great expectation what the Parliament will do, when they come two days hence to sit again, in matters of religion. The great question is, whether the Presbyters will be contented to have the Papists have the same liberty of conscience with them, or no, or rather be denied it themselves: and the Papists, I hear, are very busy designing how to make the Presbyters consent to take their liberty, and to let them have the same with them, which some are apt to think they will.
It seems a priest was taken in his vests officiating somewhere in Holborn the other day, and was committed by Secretary Morris, according to law; and they say the Bishop of London did give him thanks for it.
Thence to my Lord Crew’s and dined there, there being much company, and the above-said matter is now the present publique discourse.
Thence about several businesses to Mr. Phillips my attorney, to stop all proceedings at law, and so to the Temple, where at the Solicitor General’s I found Mr. Cholmely and Creed reading to him the agreement for him to put into form about the contract for the Mole at Tangier, which is done at 13s. the Cubical yard, though upon my conscience not one of the Committee, besides the parties concerned, do understand what they do therein, whether they give too much or too little.
Thence with Mr. Creed to see Mr. Moore, who continues sick still, within doors, and here I staid a good while after him talking of all the things either business or no that came into my mind, and so home and to see Sir W. Pen, and sat and played at cards with him, his daughter, and Mrs. Rooth, and so to my office a while, and then home and to bed.

in a sedan chair my body
would be content

to have the liberty of a priest
officiating in a cubical

whether to see within
or play root

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 16 February 1662/63.

February 16, 2026February 15, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Self Portrait, with Once-Lonely Sheep

Even now, in my sixties, I keep falling
in love with things. The crumpled
texture and weave of linen, the sharp
clean edge of a cotton collar, the soft
slouchy hems of bright socks. A lingering 
lanolin smell in the folds of a wool 
sweater makes me think of the sheep 
that was in the news not too long ago. 
There was ample grassland where she
was stranded at the foot of the Scottish 
highlands. But with steep walls of rock 
on one side and open water on the other, 
she grew lonely for the company of others. 
It took two long years until four farmers 
used a winch to rappel down eight hundred 
feet to rescue her. If Fiona— for that 
was the name they gave her— could signal
her desire across the lonely shore 
of Cromarty Firth, I too understand 
the inner stirrings reminding me I'm 
still here, inhabiting a body that quickens 
to spring. Aren't you eager for the promise 
of light the clean color of washed quartz, 
for any small warm flame of delight you can 
still cup in your hands? The humming 
in the blood says yes, why not. Yes, yes.