Lay with my wife at my Lord’s lodgings, where I have been these two nights, till 10 o’clock with great pleasure talking, then I rose and to White Hall, where I spent a little time walking among the courtiers, which I perceive I shall be able to do with great confidence, being now beginning to be pretty well known among them. Then to my wife again, and found Mrs. Sarah with us in the chamber we lay in. Among other discourse, Mrs. Sarah tells us how the King sups at least four or [five] times every week with my Lady Castlemaine; and most often stays till the morning with her, and goes home through the garden all alone privately, and that so as the very centrys take notice of it and speak of it. She tells me, that about a month ago she quickened at my Lord Gerard’s at dinner, and cried out that she was undone; and all the lords and men were fain to quit the room, and women called to help her. In fine, I find that there is nothing almost but bawdry at Court from top to bottom, as, if it were fit, I could instance, but it is not necessary; only they say my Lord Chesterfield, groom of the stole to the Queen, is either gone or put away from the Court upon the score of his lady’s having smitten the Duke of York, so as that he is watched by the Duchess of York, and his lady is retired into the country upon it. How much of this is true, God knows, but it is common talk. After dinner I did reckon with Mrs. Sarah for what we have eat and drank here, and gave her a crown, and so took coach, and to the Duke’s House, where we saw “The Villaine” again; and the more I see it, the more I am offended at my first undervaluing the play, it being very good and pleasant, and yet a true and allowable tragedy. The house was full of citizens, and so the less pleasant, but that I was willing to make an end of my gaddings, and to set to my business for all the year again tomorrow. Here we saw the old Roxalana in the chief box, in a velvet gown, as the fashion is, and very handsome, at which I was glad. Hence by coach home, where I find all well, only Sir W. Pen they say ill again. So to my office to set down these two or three days’ journall, and to close the last year therein, and so that being done, home to supper, and to bed, with great pleasure talking and discoursing with my wife of our late observations abroad.
We're not robots. We can identify traffic lights, cars, motorcycles, stairs, the darkness that wraps even obstinate monuments in burial cloths when the sun goes down. We get a scrambled-up word, a code to authenticate in at least two ways and we comply. But in this kind of darkness, we've come to know the difference between the explosion of fireworks and that of vessel strikes in open water, the heat signatures of drones, their high- pitched buzzing. A blade can pass lightly over skin to uncover its hidden lights. But deeper brings on the recoil, the flinch, reflexes of confusion, anger. We feel this and this and see the similar flicker across strangers' faces in waiting rooms of doctors, in lines at the grocery store, at the rental office. The machine might never seem to run out of memory during a computation, but unboundedness is not the same as infinity. What we don't know could be the wound that keeps us hoping, alive.
As that links list suggests, 1663 is the only year of the diary which I haven’t released a compilation for yet, so it’s entirely possible that 2026 will be my final year at this. The question is whether, 365 days from today, I’ll be in a mood to stop.
Lay pretty long in bed, and then I up and to Westminster Hall, and so to the Swan, sending for Mr. W. Bowyer, and there drank my morning draft, and had some of his simple discourse. Among other things he tells me how the difference comes between his fair cozen Butler and Collonell Dillon, upon his opening letters of her brother’s from Ireland, complaining of his knavery, and forging others to the contrary; and so they are long ago quite broke off. Thence to a barber’s and so to my wife, and at noon took her to Mrs. Pierces by invitacion to dinner, where there came Dr. Clerke and his wife and sister and Mr. Knight, chief chyrurgeon to the King and his wife. We were pretty merry, the two men being excellent company, but I confess I am wedded from the opinion either of Mrs. Pierces beauty upon discovery of her naked neck to-day, being undrest when we came in, or of Mrs. Clerke’s genius, which I so much admired, I finding her to be so conceited and fantastique in her dress this day and carriage, though the truth is, witty enough. After dinner with much ado the doctor and I got away to follow our business for a while, he to his patients and I to the Tangier Committee, where the Duke of York was, and we staid at it a good while, and thence in order to the despatch of the boats and provisions for Tangier away, Mr. Povy, in his coach, carried Mr. Gauden and I into London to Mr. Bland’s, the merchant, where we staid discoursing upon the reason of the delay of the going away of these things a great while. Then to eat a dish of anchovies, and drink wine and syder, and very merry, but above all things pleased to hear Mrs. Bland talk like a merchant in her husband’s business very well, and it seems she do understand it and perform a great deal. Thence merry back, Mr. Povy and, I to White Hall; he carrying me thither on purpose to carry me into the ball this night before the King. All the way he talking very ingenuously, and I find him a fine gentleman, and one that loves to live nobly and neatly, as I perceive by his discourse of his house, pictures, and horses. He brought me first to the Duke’s chamber, where I saw him and the Duchess at supper; and thence into the room where the ball was to be, crammed with fine ladies, the greatest of the Court. By and by comes the King and Queen, the Duke and Duchess, and all the great ones: and after seating themselves, the King takes out the Duchess of York; and the Duke, the Duchess of Buckingham; the Duke of Monmouth, my Lady Castlemaine; and so other lords other ladies: and they danced the Bransle. After that, the King led a lady a single Coranto and then the rest of the lords, one after another, other ladies very noble it was, and great pleasure to see. Then to country dances; the King leading the first, which he called for; which was, says he, “Cuckolds all awry,” the old dance of England. Of the ladies that danced, the Duke of Monmouth’s mistress, and my Lady Castlemaine, and a daughter of Sir Harry de Vicke’s, were the best. The manner was, when the King dances, all the ladies in the room, and the Queen herself, stand up: and indeed he dances rarely, and much better than the Duke of York. Having staid here as long as I thought fit, to my infinite content, it being the greatest pleasure I could wish now to see at Court, I went out, leaving them dancing, and to Mrs. Pierces, where I found the company had staid very long for my coming, but all gone but my wife, and so I took her home by coach and so to my Lord’s again, where after some supper to bed, very weary and in a little pain from my riding a little uneasily to-night in the coach. Thus ends this year with great mirth to me and my wife: Our condition being thus:— we are at present spending a night or two at my Lord’s lodgings at White Hall. Our home at the Navy-office, which is and hath a pretty while been in good condition, finished and made very convenient. My purse is worth about 650l., besides my goods of all sorts, which yet might have been more but for my late layings out upon my house and public assessment, and yet would not have been so much if I had not lived a very orderly life all this year by virtue of the oaths that God put into my heart to take against wine, plays, and other expenses, and to observe for these last twelve months, and which I am now going to renew, I under God owing my present content thereunto. My family is myself and wife, William, my clerk; Jane, my wife’s upper mayde, but, I think, growing proud and negligent upon it: we must part, which troubles me; Susan, our cook–mayde, a pretty willing wench, but no good cook; and Wayneman, my boy, who I am now turning away for his naughty tricks. We have had from the beginning our healths to this day very well, blessed be God! Our late mayde Sarah going from us (though put away by us) to live with Sir W. Pen do trouble me, though I love the wench, so that we do make ourselves a little strange to him and his family for it, and resolve to do so. The same we are for other reasons to my Lady Batten and hers. We have lately had it in our thoughts, and I can hardly bring myself off of it, since Mrs. Gosnell cannot be with us, to find out another to be in the quality of a woman to my wife that can sing or dance, and yet finding it hard to save anything at the year’s end as I now live, I think I shall not be such a fool till I am more warm in my purse, besides my oath of entering into no such expenses till I am worth 1000l.. By my last year’s diligence in my office, blessed be God! I am come to a good degree of knowledge therein; and am acknowledged so by all the world, even the Duke himself, to whom I have a good access and by that, and my being Commissioner with him for Tangier, he takes much notice of me; and I doubt not but, by the continuance of the same endeavours, I shall in a little time come to be a man much taken notice of in the world, specially being come to so great an esteem with Mr. Coventry. The only weight that lies heavy upon my mind is the ending the business with my uncle Thomas about my dead uncle’s estate, which is very ill on our side, and I fear when all is done I must be forced to maintain my father myself, or spare a good deal towards it out of my own purse, which will be a very great pull back to me in my fortune. But I must be contented and bring it to an issue one way or other. Publique matters stand thus: The King is bringing, as is said, his family, and Navy, and all other his charges, to a less expence. In the mean time, himself following his pleasures more than with good advice he would do; at least, to be seen to all the world to do so. His dalliance with my Lady Castlemaine being publique, every day, to his great reproach; and his favouring of none at Court so much as those that are the confidants of his pleasure, as Sir H. Bennet and Sir Charles Barkeley; which, good God! put it into his heart to mend, before he makes himself too much contemned by his people for it! The Duke of Monmouth is in so great splendour at Court, and so dandled by the King, that some doubt, if the King should have no child by the Queen (which there is yet no appearance of), whether he would not be acknowledged for a lawful son; and that there will be a difference follow upon it between the Duke of York and him; which God prevent! My Lord Chancellor is threatened by people to be questioned, the next sitting of the Parliament, by some spirits that do not love to see him so great: but certainly he is a good servant to the King. The Queen-Mother is said to keep too great a Court now; and her being married to my Lord St. Albans is commonly talked of; and that they had a daughter between them in France, how true, God knows. The Bishopps are high, and go on without any diffidence in pressing uniformity; and the Presbyters seem silent in it, and either conform or lay down, though without doubt they expect a turn, and would be glad these endeavours of the other Fanatiques would take effect; there having been a plot lately found, for which four have been publickly tried at the Old Bayley and hanged. My Lord Sandwich is still in good esteem, and now keeping his Christmas in the country; and I in good esteem, I think, as any man can be, with him. Mr. Moore is very sickly, and I doubt will hardly get over his late fit of sickness, that still hangs on him. In fine, for the good condition of myself, wife, family, and estate, in the great degree that it is, and for the public state of the nation, so quiett as it is, the Lord God be praised!
the swan is simple but her naked
neck is truth enough
the doctor is patient
like a gentleman that loves horses
my mouth dances better than me
in pain from my riding
as if I have not lived
a very orderly life
I serve myself but a cook may find
my heart too old and hard
Here are 15 of the covers. WICKERWORK clearly wins on design (and maybe overall, too).
For the past couple of years, I’ve gotten lazy about doing any kind of year-in-review post, despite having read some truly remarkable books, especially in translation. I took the attitude that no one really cares what I’ve been reading but me—which might well be true, but ignores the fact that blogging is how I keep track of things for my own purposes, as well. This was brought home to me a couple of weeks ago when I nearly ordered a friend’s book for the second time, forgetting that I had bought and read it just six months earlier… and that it had been absolutely marvellous! I’m talking about Sarah Sloat’s Classic Crimes.
So in order to avoid any further such forgetting, I have combed my emails for tracking notifications, gone through my order history of second-hand books at eBay and Amazon, and attempted to locate all the other collections I’ve picked up hither and yon. I now have a vast pile on the sofa next to me, and am re-reading books I liked on the first read to see what I think of them now. I cannot recommend this enough as a year-end activity. I’m having so much fun!
I very much doubt I’ll be able to pick a single favorite, since they are all so different, and it hardly seems fair to put, for example, a young author’s first collection in competition with a seasoned poet’s collected works. But let me start with a few examples of the latter.
Following my re-read of Neruda’s Residencia en Tierra in late 2024, I wanted to revisit a few other Great Poets. I’d left my copy of Lorine Niedecker’s Collected Works (edited by Jenny Penberthy, University of California Press, 2002) in the UK, and initially I couldn’t find an affordable copy on eBay, so I picked up the earlier selected, The Granite Pail, which is the one edited by her literary executor Cid Corman for Gnomon Press in 1985, and I thought he did a brilliant job—so much so that, as soon as I finished it, I took another look and found a copy of the Collected Works in hardcover, mint condition, for far less than any of the paperback copies, so I ordered and devoured that too. More and more, Lorine Niedecker is the poet I most want to be when I grow up.
Idly going though City Lights’ online catalog one day, I noticed a translation of the 20th-century Spanish poet Jorge Guillén, Horses in the Air and other poems, in a bilingual edition translated by Cola Franzen way back in 1987. The other two translations of Guillén in my library are devoted entirely to poems from his magnum opus Cántico, but this later volume focuses on his later works, especially Cántico‘s companion work, Clamor. One can never have enough Guillén, and Franzen’s translations are spot-on most of the time, I thought.
Michael Longley’s Collected Poems (Jonathan Cape, 2006) was catch-up reading of an essential English-language minimalist and war poet, after first being extremely impressed by his 2011 collection A Hundred Doors (also from Cape, or Wake Forest University Press in North America). I’m not sure how well known he is stateside; he never developed anything like Heaney’s reputation, I gather. I’m afraid I was only prompted to read him by the memorial posts on British and Irish poetry blogs following his death in January.
I tend to prefer single-author collections to anthologies or journals, but I did really enjoy my contributor’s copy of Keystone Poetry: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, edited by Marjorie Maddox and Jerry Wemple (Penn State University Press, 2025). It’s an excellent introduction to the state, organized geographically, and does include a fair number of poets from outside academia and from working-class backgrounds. It does such a great job of representing how residents feel about the places where they live and work, or where their people are from. Every state should have an anthology like this!
Haiku 21.2, edited by Lee Gurga and Scott Metz (Modern Haiku Press, 2025) is a follow-up to Haiku 21 (from the same editors), for my money the most important English-language haiku (ELH) anthology of the 21st century. Like its predecessor, Haiku 21.2 devotes plenty of space to experimental and avant-garde haiku, but includes more traditional ones as well, so might be even more useful as a snapshot of where ELH has been going in recent years, and what else it might be capable of.
I can see that if I continue this post in a discursive vein, I won’t finish by the end of the year, so let me speed things up a little and transition to a list. I’m afraid I’m gonna be extra boring and put it in alphabetical order by author’s last name.
Garous Abdolmalekian, Lean Against This Late Hour, translated from the Persian by Ahmad Nadalizadeh and Idra Novey (Penguin, 2020)
Robert van Vliet, Vessels (Unsolicited Press, 2024)
Donna Vorreyer, Unrivered (Sundress Publications, 2025)
These were the poetry books that really blew me away in 2025. Most were either recommendations on blogs or impulse purchases after reading a selection online. Poetry Daily has been really useful for finding out about good poetry in translation, and the Charlotte Eichler book was from them as well. I also learn about new books by signing up for emails from small presses I like.
Currently I’m only subscribed to three print journals: Modern Haiku, Frogpond, and Rattle, plus I always buy the print anthology of a year’s worth of The Heron’s Nest. There are a welter of other online magazines I struggle and mostly fail to keep up with. As I age, I find I prefer reading print to screens by a long shot.
Which, yes, may have implications for how I share my own work with the world at some point. I suppose this is where I should mention that my most impactful and chin-scratchy nonfiction read of the year was Yanis Varoufakis’ Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism, which painted the condition of us cloud serfs in pretty stark terms.
In Bacolod I saw barbecue stands with skewers of chicken classified by parts: livers, gizzards, wings, breast, and isol (bishop's nose or chicken butt)— all marinated in coconut vinegar, lime, and annatto oil. My favorite is the latter, for the enticement to eat with the hands, dip the sizzled flesh into finger bowls of garlic-laced vinegar. Fat, that unctuous texture in the mouth. In the '50s, poultry industries began to dump turkey tails in Pacific markets. These are parts that aren't usually served at squeamish dinner tables. Fish head and collars, marrow bones; oxtail and tongue, pig snouts, hocks, ears— everything our grandmothers charred or salted, sautéed with the holy trinity of garlic, onion, and tomato. Our mothers packed sausages into cleaned casings, thickened stews with blood. Their kitchen knives sang. Our hearts and bellies filled. Our faces shone around the table.
Up and to the office, whither Sir W. Pen came, the first time that he has come downstairs since his late great sickness of the gout. We with Mr. Coventry sat till noon, then I to the Change ward, to see what play was there, but I liked none of them, and so homeward, and calling in at Mr. Rawlinson’s, where he stopped me to dine with him and two East India officers of ships and Howell our turner. With the officers I had good discourse, particularly of the people at the Cape of Good Hope, of whom they of their own knowledge do tell me these one or two things: viz, that when they come to age, the men do cut off one of the stones of each other, which they hold doth help them to get children the better and to grow fat. That they never sleep lying, but always sitting upon the ground. That their speech is not so articulate as ours, but yet understand one another well. That they paint themselves all over with the grease the Dutch sell them (who have a fort there) and soot. After dinner drinking five or six glasses of wine, which liberty I now take till I begin my oath again, I went home and took my wife into coach, and carried her to Westminster; there visited Mrs. Ferrer, and staid talking with her a good while, there being a little, proud, ugly, talking lady there, that was much crying up the Queen-Mother’s Court at Somerset House above our own Queen’s; there being before no allowance of laughing and the mirth that is at the other’s; and indeed it is observed that the greatest Court now-a-days is there. Thence to White Hall, where I carried my wife to see the Queen in her presence-chamber; and the maydes of honour and the young Duke of Monmouth playing at cards. Some of them, and but a few, were very pretty; though all well dressed in velvet gowns. Thence to my Lord’s lodgings, where Mrs. Sarah did make us my Lord’s bed, and Mr. Creed I being sent for, sat playing at cards till it was late, and so good night, and with great pleasure to bed.
the time has come to turn
into stones
that never sleep
but stand and take it all in
the days dressed in velvet
the lords playing cards
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: a magic baby, the local megaliths, over two million lights, the way a poet blinks, and much more. Enjoy! See you in 2026.
