Worm

Sam Pepys and me

Up and drinking a draft of wormewood wine with Sir W. Batten at the Steelyard, he and I by water to the Parliament-house: he went in, and I walked up and down the Hall. All the news is the great odds yesterday in the votes between them that are for the Indulgence to the Papists and Presbyters, and those that are against it, which did carry it by 200 against 30. And pretty it is to consider how the King would appear to be a stiff Protestant and son of the Church; and yet would appear willing to give a liberty to these people, because of his promise at Breda. And yet all the world do believe that the King would not have this liberty given them at all.
Thence to my Lord’s, who, I hear, has his ague again, for which I am sorry, and Creed and I to the King’s Head ordinary, where much good company. Among the rest a young gallant lately come from France, who was full of his French, but methought not very good, but he had enough to make him think himself a wise man a great while. Thence by water from the New Exchange home to the Tower, and so sat at the office, and then writing letters till 11 at night.
Troubled this evening that my wife is not come home from Chelsey, whither she is gone to see the play at the school where Ashwell is, but she came at last, it seems, by water, and tells me she is much pleased with Ashwell’s acting and carriage, which I am glad of.
So home and to supper and bed.

a worm at the steelyard
the odds are against it
in a stiff world

this liberty
is in the king’s head
where you make water


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 26 February 1662/63.

In Praise of the Blue Death-Feigning Beetle

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
It isn't only nonhuman creatures who live
on sweetness that turns to rot,

on flesh before it shrinks to carrion
then bone. Sometimes, we have

no choice. We solder what scraps
we find, fashion these into armor,

knowing how the body underneath is
a lesson in smallness and easy

bruising. The moon spills silver.
Even the desert holds its breath

when dark shadows pass overhead, ready
to swoop down for the kill: the signal

to fold in on ourselves. Consider the iron-
clad beetle, plated with warts.

It rolls over in the face of danger,
turns into the very idea of death.

It clicks so still, the world mistakes
its blue for gone. I want to learn

this trick, train my body to disappear
in plain view until the coast

is clear. To come back alive, still
stubborn, unruined, not yet done.

Freeze

Sam Pepys and me

Up and to my office, where with Captain Cocke making an end of his last night’s accounts till noon, and so home to dinner, my wife being come in from laying out about 4l. in provision of several things against Lent. In the afternoon to the Temple, my brother’s, the Wardrobe, to Mr. Moore, and other places, called at about small businesses, and so at night home to my office and then to supper and to bed.
The Commons in Parliament, I hear, are very high to stand to the Act of Uniformity, and will not indulge the Papists (which is endeavoured by the Court Party) nor the Presbyters.

ice-making is night
laying out a vision of war

other places all home
to a common uniform


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 25 February 1662/63.

Star Café

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
I remember Star Café on Session Road, the place
my father and his friends gathered for a brew.
For me, a cold bottle of chocolate milk; a plate

of fries, homework spread out on the oily table.
Waiters balanced plates of noodles, walking through
iconic Star Café on Session Road. Now, no trace

of this haunt that held memories with such grace.
And fewer, now, the pines that fog can sidle through.
Cold beads on a glass of chocolate milk— that glaze

bends my focus to that faraway childhood place.
Remember egg pie, quail eggs in oyster sauce? Who
still remembers Star Café on Session Road, a place

where time moved on yet anchored itself in place,
in memory? Hands moved pieces over chessboards. Who
knew how much I'd miss Star Cafe, this ordinary place
whose doors swung open to a cold glass, a warm plate.

Poem with a Line from Nay Saysourinho

river in November light between bare woods and mountain
We don't have to lie when we're incredible.
Believe the way you walk into the room, then.
Take possession of the air. The AC's the lie—
carefully controlled temperature that lies
between don't melt or scorch. The chandelier
tinkles faintly. Greenery's espaliered against
the wall. But you can rearrange any disbelief
so it shreds like cheap plastic. Saliently
discomfited that you show up in this milieu
(where youth and beauty believe the lie about
their superiority), the jurors lie: they "always
had you in their sights." In lieu of praise,
a token. In lieu of acceptance, the chance
to be redeemed by those holier than you.

Deportee

Sam Pepys and me

Slept hard till 8 o’clock, then waked by Mr. Clerke’s being come to consult me about Field’s business, which we did by calling him up to my bedside, and he says we shall trounce him.
Then up, and to the office, and at 11 o’clock by water to Westminster, and to Sir W. Wheeler’s about my Lord’s borrowing of money that I was lately upon with him, and then to my Lord, who continues ill, but will do well I doubt not.
Among other things, he tells me that he hears the Commons will not agree to the King’s late declaration, nor will yield that the Papists have any ground given them to raise themselves up again in England, which I perceive by my Lord was expected at Court. Thence home again by water presently, and with a bad dinner, being not looked for, to the office, and there we sat, and then Captn. Cocke and I upon his hemp accounts till 9 at night, and then, I not very well, home to supper and to bed. My late distemper of heat and itching being come upon me again, so that I must think of sweating again as I did before.

I wake in a field
one ear to the ground
a present of the night
itching


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 24 February 1662/63.

Sonnenizio with a line from Anne Sexton

river in November light between bare woods and mountain

Just once I knew what life was for.
The hoarders though, once they got
their hands on it, said once is not
enough. Ones, tens, twenties, currency
in whatever form whet one's appetite
for more and more. For a taste, just once
what would you give or give up? Once, we
lined up for ashes, the ones drawn in
the shape of a cross: reminder that wants
are different from needs, that once this
life is done, one's status and wealth are
of no consequence. Once upon a time, I
wanted just as much and hard as any.
Once, I thought I knew what life was for.

Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 8

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: notebooks full of angel drawings, a dream of burning, forced dactyls, a springboard to spring, and much more. Enjoy.

Continue reading “Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 8”

The Epstein Class

Sam Pepys and me

Up by times; and not daring to go by land, did (Griffin going along with me for fear), slip to White Hall by water; where to Mr. Coventry, and, as we used to do, to the Duke; the other of my fellows being come. But we said nothing of our business, the Duke being sent for to the King, that he could not stay to speak with us. This morning came my Lord Windsor to kiss the Duke’s hand, being returned from Jamaica. He tells the Duke, that from such a degree of latitude going thither he begun to be sick, and was never well till his coming so far back again, and then presently begun to be well. He told the Duke of their taking the fort of St. Jago, upon Cuba, by his men; but, upon the whole, I believe that he did matters like a young lord, and was weary of being upon service out of his own country, where he might have pleasure. For methought it was a shame to see him this very afternoon, being the first day of his coming to town, to be at a playhouse.
Thence to my Lord Sandwich, who though he has been abroad again two or three days is falling ill again, and is let blood this morning, though I hope it is only a great cold that he has got.
It was a great trouble to me (and I had great apprehensions of it) that my Lord desired me to go to Westminster Hall, to the Parliament-house door, about business; and to Sir Wm. Wheeler, which I told him I would do, but durst not go for fear of being taken by these rogues; but was forced to go to White Hall and take boat, and so land below the Tower at the Iron-gate; and so the back way over Little Tower Hill; and with my cloak over my face, took one of the watermen along with me, and staid behind a wall in the New-buildings behind our garden, while he went to see whether any body stood within the Merchants’ Gate, under which we pass to go into our garden, and there standing but a little dirty boy before the gate, did make me quake and sweat to think he might be a Trepan. But there was nobody, and so I got safe into the garden, and coming to open my office door, something behind it fell in the opening, which made me start. So that God knows in what a sad condition I should be in if I were truly in the condition that many a poor man is for debt: and therefore ought to bless God that I have no such reall reason, and to endeavour to keep myself, by my good deportment and good husbandry, out of any such condition.
At home I found Mr. Creed with my wife, and so he dined with us, I finding by a note that Mr. Clerke in my absence hath left here, that I am free; and that he hath stopped all matters in Court; I was very glad of it, and immediately had a light thought of taking pleasure to rejoice my heart, and so resolved to take my wife to a play at Court to-night, and the rather because it is my birthday, being this day thirty years old, for which let me praise God.
While my wife dressed herself, Creed and I walked out to see what play was acted to-day, and we find it “The Slighted Mayde.” But, Lord! to see that though I did know myself to be out of danger, yet I durst not go through the street, but round by the garden into Tower Street.
By and by took coach, and to the Duke’s house, where we saw it well acted, though the play hath little good in it, being most pleased to see the little girl dance in boy’s apparel, she having very fine legs, only bends in the hams, as I perceive all women do. The play being done, we took coach and to Court, and there got good places, and saw “The Wilde Gallant,” performed by the King’s house, but it was ill acted, and the play so poor a thing as I never saw in my life almost, and so little answering the name, that from beginning to end, I could not, nor can at this time, tell certainly which was the Wild Gallant. The King did not seem pleased at all, all the whole play, nor any body else, though Mr. Clerke whom we met here did commend it to us. My Lady Castlemaine was all worth seeing tonight, and little Steward. Mrs. Wells do appear at Court again, and looks well; so that, it may be, the late report of laying the dropped child to her was not true.
It being done, we got a coach and got well home about 12 at night. Now as my mind was but very ill satisfied with these two plays themselves, so was I in the midst of them sad to think of the spending so much money and venturing upon the breach of my vow, which I found myself sorry for, I bless God, though my nature would well be contented to follow the pleasure still. But I did make payment of my forfeiture presently, though I hope to save it back again by forbearing two plays at Court for this one at the Theatre, or else to forbear that to the Theatre which I am to have at Easter. But it being my birthday and my day of liberty regained to me, and lastly, the last play that is likely to be acted at Court before Easter, because of the Lent coming in, I was the easier content to fling away so much money.
So to bed.
This day I was told that my Lady Castlemaine hath all the King’s Christmas presents, made him by the peers, given to her, which is a most abominable thing; and that at the great ball she was much richer in jewells than the Queen and Duchess put both together.

no ring to kiss
the hand turned into a gun

like blood on a door
the face behind the dirt

might be poor and therefore
out of light

no one answering
or seeing a child

in the midst of so much
abominable in the rich


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 23 February 1662/63.

Comfort zoned

Sam Pepys and me

(Lord’s day). Lay long in bed and went not out all day; but after dinner to Sir W. Batten’s and Sir W. Pen’s, where discoursing much of yesterday’s trouble and scandal; but that which troubled me most was Sir J. Minnes coming from Court at night, and instead of bringing great comfort from thence (but I expected no better from him), he tells me that the Duke and Mr. Coventry make no great matter of it. So at night discontented to prayers, and to bed.

all day in a scandal of comfort
no better matter

at night
discontented prayers


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 22 February 1662/63.