GO HERE for more poems, etc – WRITINGSOFDEANBAKER
Those who don’t buy my books have Van Gogh’s ear for music
I stand in the Sistine Chapel alone
– the crowd reverent and quiet, now disappeared;
the scent of centuries drifting down
from the sacred ceilinged meeting of God
And Man, not even the ordinary everyday would
begin to touch the slight reel of dust
as it mingles there, rising upward as I can
almost hear the flush of history outside:
Roman soldiers, not the carabinieri with
machine guns on every corner, alert for the Coming
of the Red Brigades or other victims of circumstance
God’s present and alive fully within, wondrous
each point we grasp, whether bloody
or noble; the shouts in the street, the quietude
as I move, walking through St.Peter’s Square,
to stand on the Spanish Steps, feet away from
the room I enter then, where Keats’ gasped his
tubercular air that would inspire Dylan into song,
and Shelley: everything so sweet and fair, forever
young – no signs, yet flesh despairs and doesn’t wake
to even that moment as we touch hands
through what remains still and rare, which we conspire to make
“Required reading for anyone wanting to learn about wit, wordplay, and good, gritty writing in general. Dean Baker knows how to turn a phrase upside down and kick it full strength out the door. Five stars, and here’s to many more…”
<– click to buy
Two weeks without you; not
in, nor anywhere but about,
is a long
lie: which may contain the truth,
or let it out again.
I have kept on waiting, simply
impatient; relishing the pain of
though like two twigs we wind
into one another, bind the common root.
about DARK EARTH, 142 pages, $18.99
“Having read DARK EARTH by Dean J Baker my first reaction is WOW. This was written for me. His poetry speaks to me deep down in my soul. The style of writing then the naming of the poems is so on target. A must read for poetry lovers AND all who just love to read.”
“DARK EARTH is a thought provoking collection of poems..”
“Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems…”
Here’s the link where you can buy my books, in ebook or print format. http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/
The gorilla is swinging
from the rooftops
of a civilization he haunts.
In the back yard of this circus,
the pile of corpses
grows steadily higher.
He handles them quite gently;
as if they were puppets:
no sign of excessive violence.
There aren’t any distinguishing
marks on these tools
foolish enough to get caught.
The ape will oblige whomever
it is wants to be in on the act.
Since he grew weary of his hospital
cage, he falls on their beds
from a great height, always
Poems, evil smelling ways for
achieving wealth; a proverbial
monkey on his back
because it has happened again.
This time nobody gains consent.
He didn’t intend to be provocative,
his hemorrhoids were inspiration.
Words, and thus reading, are our windows into the world, ourselves: a greater vision than one limited by peculiar localities, and consuming familiarities.
I don’t agree with the intellectual laziness of people who attack those whose wordplay is characterized by associations that they object to others using, and thus say words are cheap, demeaning language in its entirety.
What words describe they can bring into being, etch more clearly, and ascribe emotions which can prompt thoughts long buried.
Words are gems, more often treated like coal; designed to comfort us against thought and progress beyond our own associated prejudices.
Poetry of course is the engine against such prideful inhibitions.
Words evolved. A common stop gap. Words are constantly, if not consistently, with any apparent design, evolving – even as we read, as we use them, as they use us. Language is as alive as they who use it.
Words are our exhalation of breath, our rhythm of song, our breathing together: thus our conspire-acy.
We conspire – collude, contrive, devise. That would be our prosaic attitude and mind set at dealing with the world at large.
Words, as the magic they are, inspire. As they inspire, they create.
Poetry is that magic held within a fluid form – the line breaks, the breaths taken – the song sung as a whole in the fullness of the poem, with scraps of revelation breaking through during a reading, a verbal reading, a re-reading done years later.
But the usage is of words, making our world through our perceptions.
Poetry gives us back the child’s delight (which some cynics use as childish verses), discovery, and surprise. The tools at our hands with the ability to articulate are endlessly rich and profound if we choose.
I look at a year and a half old child discovering language and I see: the power to name! The charge of light in enunciating even one or two syllable words. Stella will say, for instance, “Me.. trouble!’ and scream with the energy of coming into the world of objects, things, and people with a yet as unknown awareness in discovering her place at naming.
Bob Dylan used the act of naming in one of his songs in his Gospel days: ‘Man Gave Names To All The Animals.’
What we say, we make.
What is said repeatedly, if not already, is brought more forcefully into being; thus the apparently unrecognized charm of repetitive songs, choruses: to soothe, to stir to passion, to bring into being an active consciousness and transformation.
Poetry was sung from the beginning; was meant to be a song, a charm even against the dark events: a celebration of the new, a welcoming of the unfolding.
Good and great poetry can give that to you with every single reading, each and every poem.
A friend of mine was a great poet whose live readings illustrated this as much as anyone I’ve heard read. His work changed with the reading. Irving Layton, who was a friend of, and taught one of our most singular poetic voices, Leonard Cohen, who called him “Canada’s greatest poet.”
Much as Dylan Thomas’ did. Or in hearing Sylvia Plath read her poem, ‘Daddy.’
You can see she was already where she would go when she opened that oven door to the abyss – or the implication is that here was a great poem, conveyed in the ‘voice’ of the author not distant at all from the voice that conveyed it onto paper.
Even the re-readings of Allen Ginsberg in ‘Howl’, or ‘America.’
And to hear Seamus Heaney, or Galway Kinnell. Or as I did in old Dublin, Maud Gonne, Yeats’ inamorata, and then Yeats’ reciting is altered into full recognition once again.
This is what we have as adults – not an intellectualization, but a fertile development, an enrichening.
Anyone who has ever been open to being affected by a poem, or poet, knows this. And anyone knowing this has a duty to further the advance of such a reality affecting everything in an artistic world, a musical world, a world consigned to images then described by words.
Those songs around the Greek and Roman campfires were first verses, words – then repeated songs due to refrains common to experiences.
Then the intricacy of such things felt and known leading to what was suspected but unspoken.
Fire was not the only thing of warmth, and still is not. Comforts are fine and necessary at times, but words can illuminate, describe and by doing so, enlighten.
Not the false digitalized shadows, but the real things. Buy a book, hold a book. That is a true investment in the future always to be determined by words – your breath, your thoughts: your discoveries.
And since this has always been a part of history, is a part of every moment and in every breath taken, make your own passionate involvement in your time; and what time will bring, one you know will permit to be nothing less than fresh and new, discovered to be known and true – the process by which civilization is actually created as it is known.
Discover the magic of words – the beauty of poetry, the sheer force of songs – and know there is no settling for anything less, except maybe by the dead or those already so.
Enjoy being a child again – with all the emotions, delights, and discoveries – with the power you hold as an adult. Every grouping of thought can be and is a meditation, a prayer, a song whether a meditation, exultation, lament, or dirge.
Invest in words you can willingly, and with your own informed power, acknowledge – don’t settle for others’ associations, lazy simulations of shadow play designed to manipulate.
Read, and discover the poets. Not only what is served up by the commercial houses, but the independent publishers, self-publishers: discover who deserves your interest.
Don’t settle for what is merely brought forth unless you wanrt to contribute to the derogation of the art by the passive acquiescence of which no real poet is a part.
Read them aloud.
Know your singers, and the songs in all aspects of contemporary things: get to know yourself… in other words.
Poetry & How It Gets That Way – In the face of an ever diminishing interest in one of the oldest arts, poetry, this book serves as an introduction why that interest should be revived in schools and individuals: illustrating the loss that accrues by not doing so, and the benefits to society through a passionate involvement in the poetic arts. Poetry has been an essential art in history and is in danger of being trivialized into extinction. Several seminal events in recent literary history are detailed in illustrating how poetry is not merely an adjunct to history and culture but can elucidate, influence and in changing perspective alter those same events and deeds. Find out more in this treatise more sociologically descriptive than academically oriented.
This is poetry
I’m sorry I don’t
agonize over the poem
I apologize for everything
spoken, and unknown
I repent my deeds
Misinterpreted, or not
my torment won’t be forced
you are the final arbiters of taste
I do admit
I investigate emotion
with my thousand bad habits
yet I still own the lines
and music, you would supervise
though you will allow
others to tell you otherwise
I know if I succeed
I have earned your praise and lust
If I have displeased
I must be shown
the multiple errors of my way
but I confess to nothing
In this experiment
of sunsets and slaughter
where you always know
more than I could hope to show
[read further here]
Darkness draws down the curtain,
the liquid sky swirls into a shift,
coalesces to be made solid again
The backdrop to every dream creates
a breathing landscape; out of every
stone and tree, dog’s calling card
Enmities or alliances, stick or name
from earth’s clean dirt and mongrel
mouth that shouts the plan
Which shall be explained, but lifts
changed within the secret metamorphosis we live:
to rearrange verbs, and the sacred sentences
Goddamn the penny
Ante satanic antics of everyday
Adversarial lies that pass
As discussion, in which you
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
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
Buy a book, support Poetry – DARK EARTH – – to own for next month – National Poetry Month….especially for those for don’t own any of my books….
“Having read Dark Earth by Dean J Baker my first reaction is WOW. This was written for me. His poetry speaks to me deep down in my soul. The style of writing then the naming of the poems is so on target. A must read for poetry lovers AND all who just love to read.”
“Dark Earth is a thought provoking collection of 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.”***********