How early the light
fades at winter's approach
How quiet the wind
moving through no leaves
How mystery unfolds:
bodies at the bottom of the cliff
In this cathedral the eye
of heaven opens and shuts
Witnessing
Gone to the ant
Up and by appointment with Mr. Lee, Wade, Evett, and workmen to the Tower, and with the Lieutenant’s leave set them to work in the garden, in the corner against the mayne-guard, a most unlikely place. It being cold, Mr. Lee and I did sit all the day till three o’clock by the fire in the Governor’s house; I reading a play of Fletcher’s, being “A Wife for a Month,” wherein no great wit or language. Having done we went to them at work, and having wrought below the bottom of the foundation of the wall, I bid them give over, and so all our hopes ended; and so went home, taking Mr. Leigh with me, and after drunk a cup of wine he went away, and I to my office, there reading in Sir W. Petty’s book, and so home and to bed, a little displeased with my wife, who, poor wretch, is troubled with her lonely life, which I know not how without great charge to help as yet, but I will study how to do it.
ants work in the garden
like a cold fire
work below
the bottom of the wall
and me with a cup of wine
and my lonely life
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 19 December 1662. (For the post title, see Proverbs 6:6-8.)
Vox populi
Up and to the office, Mr. Coventry and I alone sat till two o’clock, and then he inviting himself to my house to dinner, of which I was proud; but my dinner being a legg of mutton and two capons, they were not done enough, which did vex me; but we made shift to please him, I think; but I was, when he was gone, very angry with my wife and people.
This afternoon came my wife’s brother and his wife, and Mrs. Lodum his landlady (my old friend Mr. Ashwell’s sister), Balty’s wife is a most little and yet, I believe, pretty old girl, not handsome, nor has anything in the world pleasing, but, they say, she plays mighty well on the Base Violl.
They dined at her father’s today, but for ought I hear he is a wise man, and will not give any thing to his daughter till he sees what her husband do put himself to, so that I doubt he has made but a bad matter of it, but I am resolved not to meddle with it. They gone I to the office, and to see Sir W. Pen, with my wife, and thence I to Mr. Cade the stationer, to direct him what to do with my two copies of Mr. Holland’s books which he is to bind, and after supplying myself with several things of him, I returned to my office, and so home to supper and to bed.
alone in my egg
I was one people
but see what a self
has made of me
what copies of myself
turn to ice
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 18 December 1662.
Moment
The drop and the slide
down the hill was real,
and coasting through thick
overgrowth of cogon grass.
When you are a child this is
enough to disappear the world;
to disappear other children
who ran, moments earlier,
noisy through that small
milky patch of wilderness.
Strangely, you felt no panic
through the hours no one
came to look for you. A bird
called high in the outer
world, its cry rippling down
to the bottom of the bowl where
you just floated, not trapped.
Work
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.
a new day
raining in the garden
next to the office
the poor and the mad
examining books
about the night
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 17 December 1662.
Nausea
It came upon me by degrees, as my friends drove
down the winding hills. I asked if I could crack
the window open. The fog came in, slipping through
rows of cypress trees along the cliffs. I think
there was a wind, but perhaps it was an illusion
created by the vehicle's speed. In films, a moment
of tension can be depicted through a character
immovable before a window, while the landscape
recedes or advances. I distinctly remember
the taste of egg yolk on my tongue, from breakfast
hours earlier. Two triangles of toast, a melange
of spinach and cream on one side of the plate
that couldn't quite make its way down my throat.
I am reminded that not everything we're given
needs to be swallowed. The trees are shrouded now,
but they're still there. They never surrender.
Lost, found
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.
the Lord has played
with my head thinking
to have had a world
that all conclude
to be a knot now
love must take time to age
to know what it loves
wing to wing or in
the artful discourse
of a kiss
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 16 December 1662.
Childhood, or the Perforation
It never ended. It crept slightly
behind, but kept in step. On bright
days, it remembered how you chose
yellow or yellow orange, and with
the crayon in your stubby fingers,
drew a circle with a tiara, larger
than the moon. And when it rained,
you made a hundred slanting lines;
they fell like pins from the sky.
No one really got stung or died but
they made an outline of a roof
and walls and somewhere a door.
Winter Nights
I dream of miles of loamy soil
and potatoes in their winter beds,
their eyes still sealed quite shut.
Crows pick through stones for seeds
and nuts. I know sometimes they tear
small animals furtive in the grass,
while in our houses we dunk chunks
of bread in hot soup. Impartial,
stars leak their shine upon us all.
What luck to feel the thumb of sleep
on our lids, the cold a mantle
flung across every form.
Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 50
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: glitter on our fingers, the heaven of the moon, Emily Dickinson’s 195th birthday, the buzz of numbness, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2025, Week 50”