Via Negativa

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

Only Money

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

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.

February 15, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Maritime

(Lord’s day). This morning my wife did wake me being frighted with the noise I made in my sleep, being a dream that one of our sea maisters did desire to see the St. John’s Isle of my drawing, which methought I showed him, but methought he did handle it so hard that it put me to very horrid pain; and what should this be but my cods, which after I woke were in very great pain for a good while. Which what a strange extravagant dream it was.
So to sleep again and lay long in bed, and then trimmed by the barber, and so sending Will to church, myself staid at home, hanging up in my green chamber my picture of the Soveraigne, and putting some things in order there.
So to dinner, to three more ducks and two teals, my wife and I. Then to Church, where a dull sermon, and so home, and after walking about the house awhile discoursing with my wife, I to my office there to set down something and to prepare businesses for tomorrow, having in the morning read over my vows, which through sicknesse I could not do the last Lord’s day, and not through forgetfulness or negligence, so that I hope it is no breach of my vow not to pay my forfeiture. So home, and after prayers to bed, talking long with my wife and teaching her things in astronomy.

at sea to see the hard horrid cod
what a strange dream

asleep in my green chamber
picture me there

forgetful of my wife
in her astronomy

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 15 February 1662/63.

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

Go On

I stock the freezer with food—
trays of chicken, a bag of peas 
and one of corn. Blocks of butter. 
Plastic boxes with meals I've made 
ahead of teaching nights or trips 
out of town. Adobo, picadillo, 
afritada: dishes that freeze well. 
I remember reading a poem in which 
the speaker described opening the last 
container of food her mother had made 
before she died; then she and her father
sat down at the kitchen table and ate
through their tears until they couldn't 
anymore. And so, while I can also see 
that part of the reel, I know life will 
continue wanting to be fed— wanting 
the onions peeled, the fruit cored, 
the kettle filled and put on the stove 
to boil. Wanting even the small, ordinary 
work of stirring sugar into coffee then 
tapping the teaspoon on the rim of the cup.

February 14, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Declaration of insignificance

Up and to my office, where we met and sat all the morning, only Mr. Coventry, which I think is the first or second time he has missed since he came to the office, was forced to be absent. So home to dinner, my wife and I upon a couple of ducks, and then by coach to the Temple, where my uncle Thomas, and his sons both, and I, did meet at my cozen Roger’s and there sign and seal to an agreement. Wherein I was displeased at nothing but my cozen Roger’s insisting upon my being obliged to settle upon them as the will do all my uncle’s estate that he has left, without power of selling any for the payment of debts, but I would not yield to it without leave of selling, my Lord Sandwich himself and my cozen Thos. Pepys being judges of the necessity thereof, which was done. One thing more that troubles me was my being forced to promise to give half of what personal estate could be found more than 372l., which I reported to them, which though I do not know it to be less than what we really have found, yet he would have been glad to have been at liberty for that, but at last I did agree to it under my own handwriting on the backside of the report I did make and did give them of the estate, and have taken a copy of it upon the backside of one that I have. All being done I took the father and his son Thos. home by coach, and did pay them 30l., the arrears of the father’s annuity, and with great seeming love parted, and I presently to bed, my head akeing mightily with the hot dispute I did hold with my cozen Roger and them in the business.

time has missed me
as a son of the sand

my necessity
was unreported

I do not know my
own handwriting

I give it all to a love
my head might hold

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 14 February 1662/63.

February 14, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Earful

Lay very long with my wife in bed talking with great pleasure, and then rose. This morning Mr. Cole, our timber merchant, sent me five couple of ducks. Our maid Susan is very ill, and so the whole trouble of the house lies upon our maid Mary, who do it very contentedly and mighty well, but I am sorry she is forced to it.
Dined upon one couple of ducks to-day, and after dinner my wife and I by coach to Tom’s, and I to the Temple to discourse with my cozen Roger Pepys about my law business, and so back again, it being a monstrous thaw after the long great frost, so that there is no passing but by coach in the streets, and hardly that.
Took my wife home, and I to my office. Find myself pretty well but fearful of cold, and so to my office, where late upon business; Mr. Bland sitting with me, talking of my Lord Windsor’s being come home from Jamaica, unlooked-for; which makes us think that these young Lords are not fit to do any service abroad, though it is said that he could not have his health there, but hath razed a fort of the King of Spain upon Cuba, which is considerable, or said to be so, for his honour. So home to supper and to bed. This day I bought the second part of Dr. Bates’s Elenchus, which reaches to the fall of Richard, and no further, for which I am sorry. This evening my wife had a great mind to choose Valentines against to-morrow, I Mrs. Clerke, or Pierce, she Mr. Hunt or Captain Ferrers, but I would not because of getting charge both to me for mine and to them for her, which did not please her.

a couple of ducks
my wife and I
out in the frost

an earful of cold wind
makes me ache
all evening

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 13 February 1662/63.

February 14, 2026February 13, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Burdens

If they would rather slit 
their husband's throats in bed 
than remain in forced, incestuous 
marriages, I imagine the forty-
nine daughters of Danaus must not 
have minded as much their punishment
in the afterlife: endlessly drawing 
water from the river to fill a vessel 
without a bottom. I'd prefer it 
to running a race then getting 
handed off as prize to a man 
I've never seen before. What about 
other characters cursed with impossible 
tasks? The girl commanded to separate 
and count each seed before sundown, 
the child who must sweep up all 
the sand in the desert. Then there's 
Sisyphus, who gets to push a boulder 
up a slope only for it to roll back down 
again. How many times did he say You've got
to be kidding or This is nuts? But he carried 
on, didn't he? What started out as grief or
punishment must have become commitment, 
patience. Maybe even pride. A way to shift
the burden of carrying from Impossible
to No matter what, I know what I can do.

February 13, 2026February 11, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Unknowns

I try deciphering the sky's patterns:
what blue means against grey, how much

white gathers over rust-colored hills 
at which time of day, before night

plunges everything into uniform 
darkness. Homebound during power 

outages as storms lashed at windows, 
to pass the hours sometimes we'd spin

cerveza bottles on the table when we 
played cards, told fortunes, or asked 

questions answerable by yes or no.  
Who its amber neck pointed to 

as it came to rest was the lucky or 
unlucky one. But the future is never 

a transparent sheet— more like a plain 
brown manila envelope with a seal 

that someone shoves under the door 
with a warning not to open it until 

it's time. But when is the right time, 
and what will you find should you open

the flap and bring its contents nearer 
the blue flame to read what it says?