Via Negativa

March 2, 2026March 2, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Poetry Blog Digest 2026, Week 9

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: death stuck in traffic, puritans vs. mermaids, an inflamed labyrinth, rain falling on asphalt, and much more. Enjoy.

March 2, 2026March 1, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Making a Living

river in November light between bare woods and mountain


Living is the oldest war in the world. Out walking,
and twilight leans in. Streetlights blink as if everything

needs to grow accustomed to the dark. Hands
in your pockets against the cold— when did you  

learn to curl them close into themselves, in secret? 
People gather in lit-up spaces filled with song 

and noise. You push the door open, slide
into a seat. Here too, while joining in,

you’ve learned to rearrange those parts of yourself 
at once rawer and softer, the ones you learned to

shelter from even joy.  While glad for welcome, you
never entirely lift  your hand from the dial, always 

taking measure. The list of the wind, any draft 
that could snuff out the fragile spark you carry.

*

March 1, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Echo chambered

(Lord’s day). Up and walked to White Hall, to the Chappell, where preached one Dr. Lewes, said heretofore to have been a great witt; but he read his sermon every word, and that so brokenly and so low, that nobody could hear at any distance, nor I anything worth hearing that sat near. But, which was strange, he forgot to make any prayer before sermon, which all wonder at, but they impute it to his forgetfulness.
After sermon a very fine anthem.
So I up into the house among the courtiers, seeing the fine ladies, and, above all, my Lady Castlemaine, who is above all, that only she I can observe for true beauty. The King and Queen being set to dinner I went to Mr. Fox’s, and there dined with him. Much genteel company, and, among other things, I hear for certain that peace is concluded between the King of France and the Pope; and also I heard the reasons given by our Parliament yesterday to the King why they dissent from him in matter of Indulgence, which are very good quite through, and which I was glad to hear.
Thence to my Lord Sandwich, who continues with a great cold, locked up; and, being alone, we fell into discourse of my uncle the Captain’s death and estate, and I took the opportunity of telling my Lord how matters stand, and read his will, and told him all, what a poor estate he hath left, at all which he wonders strangely, which he may well do.
Thence after singing some new tunes with W. Howe I walked home, whither came Will. Joyce, whom I have not seen here a great while, nor desire it a great while again, he is so impertinent a coxcomb, and yet good natured, and mightily concerned for my brother’s late folly in his late wooing at the charge to no purpose, nor could in any probability expect it.
He gone, we all to bed, without prayers, it being washing day to-morrow.

each word broken among
the courtiers of yesterday

continues a cold discourse
of death and the state

singing some new hither
for others to go without

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 1 March 1662/63.

March 1, 2026March 1, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Making a Living


You walk into this life each morning
as if it was the first day over again and you,
one of the new arrivals to this world. Brush
your teeth, straighten your collar in the mirror,
practice the length or shortness of vowels
your tongue still trips over sometimes. Quickly 
self-correct in front of a roomful of eyes. It’s still 
winter but bodies with skin the same color as yours 
are yanked into the streets in their underwear or 
dragged through the broken windows of their cars. 
Long a, short a. Not pliss, please. Inhale, exhale.
A custom is a habit. A customs is an inspection.
You breathe the indifferent air, you know you must.
Keep walking. Living is the oldest war in the world.

*

February 28, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Sea of doubt

Waked with great pain in my right ear (which I find myself much subject to) having taken cold. Up and to my office, where we sat all the morning, and I dined with Sir W. Batten by chance, being in business together about a bargain of New England masts.
Then to the Temple to meet my uncle Thomas, who I found there, but my cozen Roger not being come home I took boat and to Westminster, where I found him in Parliament this afternoon. The House have this noon been with the King to give him their reasons for refusing to grant any indulgence to Presbyters or Papists; which he, with great content and seeming pleasure, took, saying, that he doubted not but he and they should agree in all things, though there may seem a difference in judgement, he having writ and declared for an indulgence: and that he did believe never prince was happier in a House of Commons, than he was in them.
Thence he and I to my Lord Sandwich, who continues troubled with his cold. Our discourse most upon the outing of Sir R. Bernard, and my Lord’s being made Recorder of Huntingdon in his stead, which he seems well contented with, saying, that it may be for his convenience to have the chief officer of the town dependent upon him, which is very true.
Thence he and I to the Temple, but my uncle being gone we parted, and I walked home, and to my office, and at nine o’clock had a good supper of an oxe’s cheek, of my wife’s dressing and baking, and so to my office again till past eleven at night, making up my month’s account, and find that I am at a stay with what I was last, that is 640l. So home and to bed.
Coming by, I put in at White Hall, and at the Privy Seal I did see the docquet by which Sir W. Pen is made the Comptroller’s assistant, as Sir J. Minnes told me last night, which I must endeavour to prevent.

I take great
pleasure in doubt

things I believe
never trouble
with being true

making up all
the sea I see

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 28 February 1662/63.

February 28, 2026February 28, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Flightless

Up and to my office, whither several persons came to me about office business. About 11 o’clock, Commissioner Pett and I walked to Chyrurgeon’s Hall (we being all invited thither, and promised to dine there); where we were led into the Theatre; and by and by comes the reader, Dr. Tearne, with the Master and Company, in a very handsome manner: and all being settled, he begun his lecture, this being the second upon the kidneys, ureters, and yard, which was very fine; and his discourse being ended, we walked into the Hall, and there being great store of company, we had a fine dinner and good learned company, many Doctors of Phisique, and we used with extraordinary great respect.
Among other observables we drank the King’s health out of a gilt cup given by King Henry VIII. to this Company, with bells hanging at it, which every man is to ring by shaking after he hath drunk up the whole cup. There is also a very excellent piece of the King, done by Holbein, stands up in the Hall, with the officers of the Company kneeling to him to receive their Charter.
After dinner Dr. Scarborough took some of his friends, and I went along with them, to see the body alone, which we did, which was a lusty fellow, a seaman, that was hanged for a robbery. I did touch the dead body with my bare hand: it felt cold, but methought it was a very unpleasant sight.
It seems one Dillon, of a great family, was, after much endeavours to have saved him, hanged with a silken halter this Sessions (of his own preparing), not for honour only, but it seems, it being soft and sleek, it do slip close and kills, that is, strangles presently: whereas, a stiff one do not come so close together, and so the party may live the longer before killed. But all the Doctors at table conclude, that there is no pain at all in hanging, for that it do stop the circulation of the blood; and so stops all sense and motion in an instant.
Thence we went into a private room, where I perceive they prepare the bodies, and there were the kidneys, ureters, yard, stone and semenary vessels upon which he read to-day, and Dr. Scarborough upon my desire and the company’s did show very clearly the manner of the disease of the stone and the cutting and all other questions that I could think of, and the manner of that seed, how it comes into the yard, and how the water into the bladder through the three skins or coats just as poor Dr. Jolly has heretofore told me.
Thence with great satisfaction to me back to the Company, where I heard good discourse, and so to the afternoon Lecture upon the heart and lungs, &c., and that being done we broke up, took leave, and back to the office, we two, Sir W. Batten, who dined here also, being gone before.
Here late, and to Sir W. Batten’s to speak upon some business, where I found Sir J. Minnes pretty well fuddled I thought: he took me aside to tell me how being at my Lord Chancellor’s to-day, my Lord told him that there was a Great Seal passing for Sir W. Pen, through the impossibility of the Comptroller’s duty to be performed by one man; to be as it were joynt-comptroller with him, at which he is stark mad; and swears he will give up his place, and do rail at Sir W. Pen the cruellest; he I made shift to encourage as much as I could, but it pleased me heartily to hear him rail against him, so that I do see thoroughly that they are not like to be great friends, for he cries out against him for his house and yard and God knows what. For my part, I do hope, when all is done, that my following my business will keep me secure against all their envys. But to see how the old man do strut, and swear that he understands all his duty as easily as crack a nut, and easier, he told my Lord Chancellor, for his teeth are gone; and that he understands it as well as any man in England; and that he will never leave to record that he should be said to be unable to do his duty alone; though, God knows, he cannot do it more than a child. All this I am glad to see fall out between them and myself safe, and yet I hope the King’s service will done for all this, for I would not that should be hindered by any of our private differences.
So to my office, and then home to supper and to bed.

we go to see a man
hanged for robbery

I touch the dead body
with my bare hand

cold as silk
sleek as a seed

and I hear the fuddled
impossibility of a heart

like one wing unable
alone to hope

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 27 February 1662/63.

February 28, 2026February 27, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Connect the Dots

High up on my left thigh, a brown mole,
its tint muted by time. I used to wonder
if this could be listed as one of my
"identifying features"— what's meant 
when describing the shape of your nose,
how your brows arch or careen to the left 
while the other lies inert as a tent 
that could never be raised. Most 
of the time I forget it's even there. 
Not something to register, stepping out 
of the shower and toweling off. My mother 
had moles across her back— a page out of 
connect-the-dots coloring books like the ones
she bought so I could amuse myself and never
be bored. Connect the dots, from one to ten 
to fifty to almost a hundred, the age she 
would have been had she not passed away 
at ninety. After I gave birth to my first
child, she handed me a warmed-up cup
of coconut oil to stroke across my
belly. For the stretch marks, she said.
For helping speed up the skin's snapping
back to the state it was before it
was marked by life, if I was lucky.

February 27, 2026February 27, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

Little Essay on Disorder

The bottom drawer holding sweaters and 
scarves: you can't make it stick, except 
with a wad of cardboard. The refrigerator 
leans slightly to the right, resting against 
a wooden block you inserted between its shoulder 
and the wall. The jagged line across the counter 
panels, invisible until you look under the top: 
like the view of a crooked gap in the teeth 
of someone when they finally smile with their 
whole mouth. There's so much inventory you 
can list of the mismatched, the propped-
up, the almost falling down. Your dream,
when you dreamed of a house, was of floors
that flowed smooth as the afternoon light
falling on them through windows. Rooms
you could almost hear breathing, before
the years filled them with clothes and 
furniture, small appliances that chimed  
or sang the start of the day or the end  
of a washing cycle. You want to apologize
to keys and quilts, bottles of cleaner 
under the sink, the orange in the fruit
bowl and the banana that turned mushy— 
at least explain how all you wanted was 
an orderly life, the magic of simplicity
and alignment. But they remind you again
that this is what it is. And if you are
tender to yourself, you'll hear and 
maybe even smell the rain falling on 
asphalt, unroll the waxed and wrinkled 
map of this life which shows you there 
are still wildnesses left unexplored.

February 26, 2026 by Dave Bonta

Worm

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.

February 26, 2026February 25, 2026 by Luisa A. Igloria

In Praise of the Blue Death-Feigning Beetle

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.