If You Find


 

 

 

 

 

 

If you find yourself,
one day suddenly
writing real poetry, not
those lies that would describe,
design, or otherwise
pedestrianize even Mozart

Alert me –
I shall set another
plate
out, where we can
both listen: and dine
on what nobody else knows, either

©Dean Baker

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Oh The Winter Cars


 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh the winter cars tucked asleep
wake them carefully, brushed
with fragile pieces of the frozen deep

these return to us with swift thrusts
of broom and sweep, hidden
beneath a crust of ruined sugar we

transform by eye and creep around
not so merrily until the
world’s revealed the crystal sleek

becomes tin and chrome
the engine growls, the alien takes hold
the invasion so bold

we do not stop to speak
in tones
for which we have lost the faculty

©Dean Baker

Queen St. East


 

 

 

 

 

 

The jaw slacks, with the weight
of the body’s loss,
to an inexorable acknowledgement

The brain is unfettered
in its jug; spilling over
with the nostalgia of alcohol

Flat on their backs, near Moss
Park, curled fetus-like, the
inhabitants whirl in a static frenzy of

Enfeeblement, any amusement here
sublingual: the posthumous twitching
of cynics en masse

©Dean Baker

from a review -“That, my friends, in one succinct movement is the Grotesque Sublime: “the posthumous twitching / of cynics en masse”. ”

********..from a review..”Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems… instead of Emerson’s “Whim” above Dean’s lintel we might assume “Melancholy” resides here… that dark brooding that laughs below, and rises through the bones to jerk you awake from your too lazy sleep of existence.”***********


on sale 13.99, now 8.99 https://www.amazon.com/Dark-Earth-Dean-J-Baker/dp/150052591X

https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/best-review-of-dark-earth/

Invitation


 

 

 

 

 

 

You’ve caught me with
my suicide mask wearing thin –
Death, an old sidekick
and various forms of unrequited love;
accompanied by
virgin humiliation,
strike the bone of the ghost-ridden
music that echoes in the
hollow of my heart

I want you to take
some of your old medicine;
this hate, this emaciated bitterness
and the dehydration of the body,
the loveless trough
throat and lungs make amid the unheard

Pulsing of a sick sun
in the pumped-out stomach ache.
God, I’m tired of being late –
suiting my person to a fool’s
tailor who labors blind for the emperor;
and does not know
the difference between desire and dust:
nor these odd goodbye scenes
conveying no taste of
the final, approaching lust

©Dean Baker

Abandonment


 

 

 

 

 

 

The past is longer than the future can be. Winters
are now limited, as are the beautiful mild and temperate
days of May.
My personal calendar has switched from notching months or weeks.
Years now represent decades. All the holidays fade toward permanent vacation.
Nothing of bad measure becomes an unexpected surprise.

Wild women or forward men are no longer even incidents
that did not happen to another. Society itself has become
an idiot child, pablumed and cooing, diaper full.
Money a wish for more than less, waning with it the
benefits of better health and food, less stress, even friends.

You know who’s speaking, should you so choose.
Under that snow, poised for flight; that pile of clothes, the vanished
take refuge in plain sight among the fiercely knowledgeable.

Look closely. They leave nothing whether they remain, or go.

© Dean Baker

-excerpt from In Riparian Fields, 162 pages, try one!

Noble Rot


after Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a turd
through the bowels of aching sheep;
beyond the alimentary canals

Where there is no sudden word, past
dreams we do not keep
far from the maddening crowd –

Exploding on the scene that sweeps
small animals which creep
within the visions of my nightmare scene

Towards a breaking dawn, no loss
erupting in passion’s blast: a knowledge
of the heap on this salad bowl I’m tossed

© Dean Baker

Antic


 

 

 

 

 

 

Goddamn the penny
Ante satanic antics of everyday

Adversarial lies that pass
As discussion, in which you

Assume, graceless
You’re above the fray

Competition you made
For a self

A mere ego stroke away
From having its heart

Attack itself in protest of the narcissism
And die

Suddenly disabused
Of the notion that others do not remain

Puppets in your museum
That monument to unholy lies

You enshrine until
The idea of sacrifice is suicide

The unpetalling of a rose
Your only crime

©Dean Baker

Of Insomniacs And Amnesia


 

 

 

 

 

 

I could not sleep
until I learned to stay
awake:
the words of your betrayal
speak loud and clear, in
every action that you take
As though you keep
behind those swept green eyes
each secret of defeat

As if carrying on,
when the days are dark
could be all;
but I must travel far,
to gain back
the self I lost in torment
Loving you, forever as I do,
amid such careless lives:
tossed upon the world, against that splash of blue

-excerpt from Silence Louder Than A Train*

©Dean J. Baker

http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM


Own my books – SALE all ebooks $2.99, print mostly $5.99

Who among us cannot remember a time when silence alone didn’t ring in our ears as loud as thunder?”

A bold and refreshing approach to modern poetry, one that breaks the rules when necessary and yet conforms when it suits. Highly recommended…”

“If all the reader is looking for in a poetry anthology are the poetic ramblings of someone trying to impress with their command of language or a gently rolling stream of consciousness then this probably isn’t it; but for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean J. Baker’s Silence Louder Than A Train.’”

https://www.amazon.com/Silence-Louder-Than-Train-Baker/dp/1494963353

Banditry


 

 

 

 

 

 

I offer you my hand: you swing
the axe faster than the eye can see

I tell you my love: you wish
me well with these labors in hell

I proffer gifts wise men do not bring:
you refuse permission of such bribes

I kneel down beside you: without enmity,
or attack, you pat me on the back

I accede to your lack of humanity:
you feel my politics are not Third World

I wonder where you find yourself: we
sing and stare, the bare moon our ornament

I know you are there as well: hiding
behind the True, the Good, the Beautiful

“This author’s mastery in posing challenging questions by default is a rare skill. A superb set of poems I would recommend to any potential reader of modern poetry seeking out the works of a poet, who has no fear; who never pulls a punch or flinches from one circumstance has thrown his way. He simply commits the event to words.”

“Those in or out of ‘love’ will find much to identify with here.

“There are the general accepted thoughts of love and its antecedents, and then there are these fine poems which give us through their ironic delight in what might be oppressing another appreciation for both poetry and the messages conveyed through its medium.Not your parents, or their parents’ poetry, these works, distilling through a loving awareness of great literature and its medium, the newer dimensions not previously available through such manner of thoughts and expression.

As with his previous books, Silence Louder Than A Train, and The Lost Neighborhood – along with such masterworks as Dark Earth, The Eschatological Dog, the volumes of early poetry in Measuring Gravity By Grace, and Our Geographies, Dean J. Baker’s poetry succeeds beyond hope in transcending the limits of abstract poetry (which it is not), and conventional literature. Something new, different, and great.”

Anonymous, or In These Territories


I like the sunlight
in my life

It’s not too bright and warm,
as opposed to night

Which I like as well;
even more,

If I didn’t have to think about
what I must always tell

 

©Dean Baker

“This author’s mastery in posing challenging questions by default is a rare skill. A superb set of poems I would recommend to any potential reader of modern poetry seeking out the works of a poet, who has no fear; who never pulls a punch or flinches from one circumstance has thrown his way. He simply commits the event to words.”

“Those in or out of ‘love’ will find much to identify with here.

“There are the general accepted thoughts of love and its antecedents, and then there are these fine poems which give us through their ironic delight in what might be oppressing another appreciation for both poetry and the messages conveyed through its medium.Not your parents, or their parents’ poetry, these works, distilling through a loving awareness of great literature and its medium, the newer dimensions not previously available through such manner of thoughts and expression.

As with his previous books, Silence Louder Than A Train, and The Lost Neighborhood – along with such masterworks as Dark Earth, The Eschatological Dog, the volumes of early poetry in Measuring Gravity By Grace, and Our Geographies, Dean J. Baker’s poetry succeeds beyond hope in transcending the limits of abstract poetry (which it is not), and conventional literature. Something new, different, and great.”