Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Days of freezing cold, nights
listening to sleet scratch vertical
dashes on the roof and windowpanes.
And yet, besides the tiny icicles
that hang from the limbs of the fig
tree, you've seen packed green nubs
that will purple into fruit in summer.
For now, every edge gleams sharp
as the grief of the mother scouring
the earth for the daughter taken into
the underworld. But even now, the light
is already changing. The hard,
packed earth softens after thaw.
In faded photographs you don't have
but still clearly remember, everyone
is facing straight at the camera but not
smiling: uneasy truce after noisy
quarrels behind closed doors, lips
drawn tight as the secrets they took
with them into the grave. You can smell
the must of the grandmother's lace mantilla,
the wool of the father's coat. You can see
the carefully filed points of the mother's
nails, the veins that were starting to show
on her hands. Each of them could have been
a key to a row of doors, each of them
could have been a yellowed note slipped
into a secret pocket or the inside of a hem.
They've left, but now and again they appear
in dreams, in the sudden craving for a taste
from another time, in the lines of an old
song whose refrain seems familiar
though it was all before your time.
Up and to the office, where sat till two o’clock, and then home to dinner, whither by and by comes Mr. Creed, and he and I talked of our Tangier business, and do find that there is nothing in the world done with true integrity, but there is design along with it, as in my Lord Rutherford, who designs to have the profit of victualling of the garrison himself, and others to have the benefit of making the Mole, so that I am almost discouraged from coming any more to the Committee, were it not that it will possibly hereafter bring me to some acquaintance of great men. Then to the office again, where very busy till past ten at night, and so home to supper and to bed.
I have news this day from Cambridge that my brother hath had his bachelor’s cap put on; but that which troubles me is, that he hath the pain of the stone, and makes bloody water with great pain, it beginning just as mine did. I pray God help him.
true grit
is for the mole
no men put on
the pain of the stone
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 27 January
Up and by water with Sir W. Batten to White Hall, drinking a glass of wormewood wine at the Stillyard, and so up to the Duke, and with the rest of the officers did our common service; thence to my Lord Sandwich’s, but he was in bed, and had a bad fit last night, and so I went to Westminster Hall, it being Term time, it troubling me to think that I should have any business there to trouble myself and thoughts with. Here I met with Monsieur Raby, who is lately come from France. [He] tells me that my Lord Hinchingbroke and his brother do little improve there, and are much neglected in their habits and other things; but I do believe he hath a mind to go over as their tutour, and so I am not apt to believe what he says therein. But I had a great deal of very good discourse with him, concerning the difference between the French and the Pope, and the occasion, which he told me very particularly, and to my great content; and of most of the chief affairs of France, which I did enquire: and that the King is a most excellent Prince, doing all business himself; and that it is true he hath a mistress, Mademoiselle La Valiere, one of the Princess Henriette’s women, that he courts for his pleasure every other day, but not so as to make him neglect his publique affairs. He tells me how the King do carry himself nobly to the relations of the dead Cardinall, and will not suffer one pasquill to come forth against him; and that he acts by what directions he received from him before his death.
Having discoursed long with him, I took him by coach and set him down at my Lord Crew’s, and myself went and dined at Mr. Povy’s, where Orlando Massam, Mr. Wilks, a Wardrobe man, myself and Mr. Gawden, and had just such another dinner as I had the other day there.
But above all things I do the most admire his piece of perspective especially, he opening me the closett door, and there I saw that there is nothing but only a plain picture hung upon the wall.
After dinner Mr. Gauden and I to settle the business of the Tangier victualling, which I perceive none of them yet have hitherto understood but myself.
Thence by coach to White Hall, and met upon the Tangier Commission, our greatest business the discoursing of getting things ready for my Lord Rutherford to go about the middle of March next, and a proposal of Sir J. Lawson’s and Mr. Cholmely’s concerning undertaking the Mole, which is referred to another time.
So by coach home, being melancholy, overcharged with business, and methinks I fear that I have some ill offices done to Mr. Coventry, or else he observes that of late I have not despatched business so as I did use to do, which I confess I do acknowledge. But it may be it is but my fear only, he is not so fond as he used to be of me. But I do believe that Sir W. Batten has made him believe that I do too much crow upon having his kindness, and so he may on purpose to countenance him seem a little more strange to me, but I will study hard to bring him back again to the same degree of kindness.
So home, and after a little talk with my wife, to the office, and did a great deal of business there till very late, and then home to supper and to bed.
wormwood wine and I
had a bad fit
so I am not apt to eat
the dead today
nothing but a plain picture
hung upon the wall
a melancholy crow
having to study my supper
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 26 January 1662/63.
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: falling snow, a broken country, walking on an icy sidewalk, the space in which to take a small breath, and much more. Enjoy.
Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 4”
Philippines
Those were years of darkness and silence
when we learned not to trust anything,
not even our shadows because they change
depending on the time of day. The man
in the clean, pressed shirt who sat
next to you in the jeepney, the teacher
who always had the latest hairstyle;
the auntie who sold rice and swamp spinach
at the corner, the man who ladled hot
crisped corn into paper sacks at the edge
of the school yard— our elders said we
couldn't trust anyone. Everyone was afraid,
because everyone could be bribed
or threatened or bought. We spoke
with our eyes or through the lean of our
bodies, taught each other codes for knocking
that meant friend or relative and not
foe. When the curfew sounded at nine,
we sat together with shades drawn, turned
down the volume on our radios. They seemed
to age before their time, but we helped
our children with homework and told them
to say their prayers before going to bed.
When we put their pencils and crayons away,
the sight of a brightly drawn yellow sun on
kraft paper was enough to rend our hearts.
(Lord’s day). Lay till 9 a-bed, then up, and being trimmed by the barber, I walked towards White Hall, calling upon Mr. Moore, whom I found still very ill of his ague. I discoursed with him about my Lord’s estate against I speak with my Lord this day. Thence to the King’s Head ordinary at Charing Cross, and sent for Mr. Creed, where we dined very finely and good company, good discourse. I understand the King of France is upon consulting his divines upon the old question, what the power of the Pope is? and do intend to make war against him, unless he do right him for the wrong his Embassador received; and banish the Cardinall Imperiall, which I understand this day is not meant the Cardinall belonging or chosen by the Emperor, but the name of his family is Imperial.
Thence to walk in the Park, which we did two hours, it being a pleasant sunshine day though cold. Our discourse upon the rise of most men that we know, and observing them to be the results of chance, not policy, in any of them, particularly Sir J. Lawson’s, from his declaring against Charles Stuart in the river of Thames, and for the Rump.
Thence to my Lord, who had his ague fit last night, but is now pretty well, and I staid talking with him an hour alone in his chamber, about sundry publique and private matters. Among others, he wonders what the project should be of the Duke’s going down to Portsmouth just now with his Lady, at this time of the year: it being no way, we think, to increase his popularity, which is not great; nor yet safe to do it, for that reason, if it would have any such effect. By and by comes in my Lady Wright, and so I went away, end after talking with Captn. Ferrers, who tells me of my Lady Castlemaine’s and Sir Charles Barkeley being the great favourites at Court, and growing every day more and more; and that upon a late dispute between my Lord Chesterfield, that is the Queen’s Lord Chamberlain, and Mr. Edward Montagu, her Master of the Horse, who should have the precedence in taking the Queen’s upperhand abroad out of the house, which Mr. Montagu challenges, it was given to my Lord Chesterfield. So that I perceive he goes down the wind in honour as well as every thing else, every day. So walk to my brother’s and talked with him, who tells me that this day a messenger is come, that tells us how Collonel Honiwood, who was well yesterday at Canterbury, was flung by his horse in getting up, and broke his scull, and so is dead. So home and to the office, despatching some business, and so home to supper, and then to prayers and to bed.
who is against divine power
to make war or banish the day
imperial sunshine
though cold to any laws
is alone in sundry wonders
going down just now
his castle growing every day
more of the horse
taking a road
given to the wind
we talk with his messenger
a skull dead to prayers
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 25 January 1662/63.
You show up late to a wedding
reception, missing not only the Chicken
Dance and all the versions of the Electric
Slide, but also the moment when the bride
and groom cut the cake and try to cram
the largest morsel into each others'
mouths. All the slices have been served;
only a few mangled pieces are left, thick
with buttercream and too little cake.
You think about your youth, that sequence
of finish school early, marry early,
for fear of missing the train called
adulthood. Should you have waited, gone
to more parties, hung out with the shinier
and more ambitious crowd, focused on those
with one eye on real estate and the other
on trading futures? Now, approaching
the later threshold of life, you take
stock of what you have and what you
can leave behind; some kind of bequest
or legacy. Have you told your daughters
your most important stories, what they
should do with all these books and all
the trinkets you saved from your other
lives? You've never had a financial
adviser but now you're standing in
the lobby of his building, about to take
the elevator up to your appointment. Perhaps
this means something in you still believes
in the future, something now willing
to join the game of risk and gain.
Lay pretty long, and by lying with my sheet upon my lip, as I have of old observed it, my upper lip was blistered in the morning. To the office all the morning, sat till noon, then to the Exchange to look out for a ship for Tangier, and delivered my manuscript to be bound at the stationer’s. So to dinner at home, and then down to Redriffe, to see a ship hired for Tangier, what readiness she was in, and found her ready to sail. Then home, and so by coach to Mr. Povy’s, where Sir W. Compton, Mr. Bland, Gawden, Sir J. Lawson and myself met to settle the victualling of Tangier for the time past, which with much ado we did, and for a six months’ supply more.
So home in Mr. Gawden’s coach, and to my office till late about business, and find that it is business that must and do every day bring me to something. So home to supper and to bed.
my old upper lip
is red in the morning
I change the station
and land in the past
which must every day
bring something up
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 24 January 1662/63.
Sometimes it is small
as a moth folded in the hollow
of my chest. Sometimes it circles
my wrists and ladders up my spine,
then takes hold of my shoulders
to twist them into ache. Sometimes
it has the heft of stone and I
no longer remember when exactly
it grew more weighted, or when
I thought the body could make a little
more room for what it can't actually hold.
Though I want to forget, it shapeshifts.
My only hope is that in staying and not
simply passing through, it becomes
the kind of root which remembers
it can grow into something green.