River of Grief

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
It takes centuries for water to carve
shelves into canyons, for time to show
a landscape different from the ones
scarred with rusted gradations of color,
etched with marks from some previous
inundation. But aren't we always
rivered by grief? And the hollows in
our collarbones, petaled with thorns
and gashed with flowers; the last
to the last press of cold clay lips before the body
sank into the layer where other bodies
were dumped, where a beast kicked
its overburden of dirt and soil. There
they sleep surrounded by slate and
flagstone, dolomite, granite,
veined marble. Every place that bears a wound
simmers with the mineral trace of explosions,
echo of voices torn from bewildered
throats. If we are to rise from out of this
basin's sullied hem, somehow we must believe
what the water says: how the depth of our
grief is equal to how much we remember from when
we dressed each other's hurts, from when
our mouths carried each other's names.

Writer’s wife

Sam Pepys and me

Waking in the morning, my wife I found also awake, and begun to speak to me with great trouble and tears, and by degrees from one discourse to another at last it appears that Sarah has told somebody that has told my wife of my meeting her at my brother’s and making her sit down by me while she told me stories of my wife, about her giving her scallop to her brother, and other things, which I am much vexed at, for I am sure I never spoke any thing of it, nor could any body tell her but by Sarah’s own words. I endeavoured to excuse my silence herein hitherto by not believing any thing she told me, only that of the scallop which she herself told me of. At last we pretty good friends, and my wife begun to speak again of the necessity of her keeping somebody to bear her company; for her familiarity with her other servants is it that spoils them all, and other company she hath none, which is too true, and called for Jane to reach her out of her trunk, giving her the keys to that purpose, a bundle of papers, and pulls out a paper, a copy of what, a pretty while since, she had wrote in a discontent to me, which I would not read, but burnt. She now read it, and it was so piquant, and wrote in English, and most of it true, of the retiredness of her life, and how unpleasant it was; that being wrote in English, and so in danger of being met with and read by others, I was vexed at it, and desired her and then commanded her to tear it. When she desired to be excused it, I forced it from her, and tore it, and withal took her other bundle of papers from her, and leapt out of the bed and in my shirt clapped them into the pocket of my breeches, that she might not get them from me, and having got on my stockings and breeches and gown, I pulled them out one by one and tore them all before her face, though it went against my heart to do it, she crying and desiring me not to do it, but such was my passion and trouble to see the letters of my love to her, and my Will wherein I had given her all I have in the world, when I went to sea with my Lord Sandwich, to be joyned with a paper of so much disgrace to me and dishonour, if it should have been found by any body. Having torn them all, saving a bond of my uncle Robert’s, which she hath long had in her hands, and our marriage license, and the first letter that ever I sent her when I was her servant, I took up the pieces and carried them into my chamber, and there, after many disputes with myself whether I should burn them or no, and having picked up, the pieces of the paper she read to-day, and of my Will which I tore, I burnt all the rest, and so went out to my office troubled in mind.
Hither comes Major Tolhurst, one of my old acquaintance in Cromwell’s time, and sometimes of our clubb, to see me, and I could do no less than carry him to the Mitre, and having sent for Mr. Beane, a merchant, a neighbour of mine, we sat and talked, Tolhurst telling me the manner of their collierys in the north. We broke up, and I home to dinner.
And to see my folly, as discontented as I am, when my wife came I could not forbear smiling all dinner till she began to speak bad words again, and then I began to be angry again, and so to my office.
Mr. Bland came in the evening to me hither, and sat talking to me about many things of merchandise, and I should be very happy in his discourse, durst I confess my ignorance to him, which is not so fit for me to do.
There coming a letter to me from Mr. Pierce, the surgeon, by my desire appointing his and Dr. Clerke’s coming to dine with me next Monday, I went to my wife and agreed upon matters, and at last for my honour am forced to make her presently a new Moyre gown to be seen by Mrs. Clerke, which troubles me to part with so much money, but, however, it sets my wife and I to friends again, though I and she never were so heartily angry in our lives as to-day almost, and I doubt the heartburning will not [be] soon over, and the truth is I am sorry for the tearing of so many poor loving letters of mine from sea and elsewhere to her.
So to my office again, and there the Scrivener brought me the end of the manuscript which I am going to get together of things of the Navy, which pleases me much. So home, and mighty friends with my wife again, and so to bed.

I wake to her ear
the scallop of her silence

believing the body to be true
to her trunk of papers

the tiredness of her life
being read by others

her face in my hands
we do not speak

happy in my ignorance
for her present manuscript


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 9 January 1662/63.

A Difficult Hope

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
Listen when philosophers talk 
about their memories of bunkers
and bleak years, but also when

they speak of hope. Envisioning
the future helps us act in certain
ways, so we might make that future

happen— a world where mycelial nets
underfoot give irrefutable proof
of the impossibility of borders,

where fields become living archives
of species we can name again in our
own tongues. I'm not saying

that atrocity did not happen,
that there are those who didn't will-
fully withhold aid as they blitzed

from world to world, torching what they
found for sport. I'm not saying forget how
destruction proceeds in methodical and

not random ways. The call to violence
at times can sound deceptively like prayer.
A congregation gathered on the steps turns

into a mob. History is a record. Poems
gather inventory of what we lose, grieve,
survive. This is how we remember.

Power worship

Sam Pepys and me

Up pretty early, and sent my boy to the carrier’s with some wine for my father, for to make his feast among his Brampton friends this Christmas, and my muff to my mother, sent as from my wife. But before I sent my boy out with them, I beat him for a lie he told me, at which his sister, with whom we have of late been highly displeased, and warned her to be gone, was angry, which vexed me, to see the girl I loved so well, and my wife, should at last turn so much a fool and unthankful to us.
So to the office, and there all the morning, and though without and a little against the advice of the officers did, to gratify him, send Thomas Hater to-day towards Portsmouth a day or two before the rest of the clerks, against the Pay next week.
Dined at home; and there being the famous new play acted the first time to-day, which is called “The Adventures of Five Hours,” at the Duke’s house, being, they say, made or translated by Colonel Tuke, I did long to see it; and so made my wife to get her ready, though we were forced to send for a smith, to break open her trunk, her mayde Jane being gone forth with the keys, and so we went; and though early, were forced to sit almost out of sight, at the end of one of the lower forms, so full was the house. And the play, in one word, is the best, for the variety and the most excellent continuance of the plot to the very end, that ever I saw, or think ever shall, and all possible, not only to be done in the time, but in most other respects very admittable, and without one word of ribaldry; and the house, by its frequent plaudits, did show their sufficient approbation. So home; with much ado in an hour getting a coach home, and, after writing letters at my office, I went home to supper and to bed, now resolving to set up my rest as to plays till Easter, if not Whitsuntide next, excepting plays at Court.

a boy some father beat
a lie to love and a little
hate to mouth

translated into one word
for all time
and one bald sun


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 8 January 1662/63.

I Can’t Go On. I’ll Go On.

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
- after Beckett


Here we are, making plans
to meet again soon in this new
year, to catch up over coffee or
maybe take a walk on a day that slips
rare warmth between weeks of cold
and miserable rain. As we did last
time, we'll bring updates— stories
of any small brightness despite
layoffs and a son's crippling
despair, the still raw grief
of a widow almost a decade after
her husband's passing. The news,
yet again, of blatant injustice.
Disappearances and deaths
in our neighborhoods, another
family bereft of a mother tonight.
What's worse is that evil, that snake
slithering through the grass since
the world began, has been ramping up
its falsehood campaign. How we should
just learn to wear something called
resilience in the face of loss. How,
since everything in life is provisional
anyway, we should cultivate an attitude
of resigned acceptance— Too much. No use,
give up. Can't expect to change it. But
what is it that instinctively makes us
wrap our arms around each other, open our
hearts inside unbearable sorrow? In such
holding, we feel the weight of what was
taken, what could still be lost. If
we did not hold each other, the world
would truly have ended. We would not
have the strength to set another place
at the table, to wrap a blanket
around the shoulders of the one
who can't stop trembling.

Voyage

Sam Pepys and me

Up pretty early, that is by seven o’clock, it being not yet light before or then. So to my office all the morning, signing the Treasurer’s ledger, part of it where I have not put my hand, and then eat a mouthful of pye at home to stay my stomach, and so with Mr. Waith by water to Deptford, and there among other things viewed old pay-books, and found that the Commanders did never heretofore receive any pay for the rigging time, but only for seatime, contrary to what Sir J. Minnes and Sir W. Batten told the Duke the other day. I also searched all the ships in the Wett Dock for fire, and found all in good order, it being very dangerous for the King that so many of his ships lie together there. I was among the canvass in stores also, with Mr. Harris, the saylemaker, and learnt the difference between one sort and another, to my great content, and so by water home again, where my wife tells me stories how she hears that by Sarah’s going to live at Sir W. Pen’s, all our affairs of my family are made known and discoursed of there and theirs by my people, which do trouble me much, and I shall take a time to let Sir W. Pen know how he has dealt in taking her without our full consent. So to my office, and by and by home to supper, and so to prayers and bed.

no light for the morning
only seatime
contrary to the day

search all hips for fire
so many lie together

the water tells me
how to live
without a prayer


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 7 January 1662/63.

Small Graces

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
When I push open the screen door, plop
the garbage in the bin and snap the lid

back shut, the neighbor's dog two
houses over starts to bark. How tuned in

it seems to the smallest shift in its universe.
The sound it makes in reciprocation is either

alarm, question, or warning. The crows, too,
startle at my approach, though they are

quicker to size me up and dismiss me
as of no consequence to their foraging

in the gravel. I wish I could meet
the world with that kind of unerring

intuition, prickle to a presence that could
either be kind or unkind, well-meaning or

mean— and in that heightened watchfulness,
be more present. I know I've made my share of

wrong judgments, been ungenerous when I
could have shown more forbearance, less

defensive snarl. The cold afternoon light
still is light. The harsh weight of darkness

is hours yet away, and like mercy,
the moon makes an early show of its face.

Among the upright

Sam Pepys and me

(Twelfth Day). Up and Mr. Creed brought a pot of chocolate ready made for our morning draft, and then he and I to the Duke’s, but I was not very willing to be seen at this end of the town, and so returned to our lodgings, and took my wife by coach to my brother’s, where I set her down, and Creed and I to St. Paul’s Church-yard, to my bookseller’s, and looked over several books with good discourse, and then into St. Paul’s Church, and there finding Elborough, my old schoolfellow at Paul’s, now a parson, whom I know to be a silly fellow, I took him out and walked with him, making Creed and myself sport with talking with him, and so sent him away, and we to my office and house to see all well, and thence to the Exchange, where we met with Major Thomson, formerly of our office, who do talk very highly of liberty of conscience, which now he hopes for by the King’s declaration, and that he doubts not that if he will give him, he will find more and better friends than the Bishopps can be to him, and that if he do not, there will many thousands in a little time go out of England, where they may have it. But he says that they are well contented that if the King thinks it good, the Papists may have the same liberty with them. He tells me, and so do others, that Dr. Calamy is this day sent to Newgate for preaching, Sunday was se’nnight, without leave, though he did it only to supply the place; when otherwise the people must have gone away without ever a sermon, they being disappointed of a minister but the Bishop of London will not take that as an excuse. Thence into Wood Street, and there bought a fine table for my dining-room, cost me 50s.; and while we were buying it, there was a scare-fire in an ally over against us, but they quenched it. So to my brother’s, where Creed and I and my wife dined with Tom, and after dinner to the Duke’s house, and there saw “Twelfth Night” acted well, though it be but a silly play, and not related at all to the name or day. Thence Mr. Battersby the apothecary, his wife, and I and mine by coach together, and setting him down at his house, he paying his share, my wife and I home, and found all well, only myself somewhat vexed at my wife’s neglect in leaving of her scarf, waistcoat, and night-dressings in the coach today that brought us from Westminster, though, I confess, she did give them to me to look after, yet it was her fault not to see that I did take them out of the coach. I believe it might be as good as 25s. loss or thereabouts.
So to my office, however, to set down my last three days’ journall, and writing to my Lord Sandwich to give him an account of Sir J. Lawson’s being come home, and to my father about my sending him some wine and things this week, for his making an entertainment of some friends in the country, and so home. This night making an end wholly of Christmas, with a mind fully satisfied with the great pleasures we have had by being abroad from home, and I do find my mind so apt to run to its old want of pleasures, that it is high time to betake myself to my late vows, which I will to-morrow, God willing, perfect and bind myself to, that so I may, for a great while, do my duty, as I have well begun, and increase my good name and esteem in the world, and get money, which sweetens all things, and whereof I have much need. So home to supper and to bed, blessing God for his mercy to bring me home, after much pleasure, to my house and business with health and resolution to fall hard to work again.

at this end of town we talk
highly of hope

the woods scare us silly
night sings in the day there

we have a God to eat as sweet
as health and hard work


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 6 January 1662/63. (For the Monday 5 January entry, see my erasure from ten years ago.)

Hunger Wakes Me

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
In the hours between midnight and morning
I dream of shadowed hills, the scent of night-
blooming datura spilling over our old home.

What was the question that nudged
me awake, that I know still
has no answer?

I have a memory of pork
smoked over embers, the mumbled
prayers of mambunong, rice

wine scattered on the ground
for blessing; knives slicing meat
to dress in a bowl with lime and pepper.

My tongue is always bathed
with longing. Daughter, I can't remember
anymore what it was that severed

us from each other. The language
for what I want to say scrolls
into the ether but its root

is still there. I want to believe
the broth hasn't cooled. I want to believe
we still drink from the same bowl.

Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 1

Poetry Blogging Network

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: wolf moons, egg-life, the voice of a middle-aged witch, a linear accelerator in a radiation bunker, and much more. Enjoy.

Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 1”