Archive for ‘Poetry’

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July 20, 2014

Wait… wasn’t this a poetry blog?

by jhon baker

Why, yes it was and is- when I write poetry but lately the focus has been elsewhere and I’m okay with that. I have not been focusing on my disbelief in any god or gods but have been playing music again and seriously studying to become a better musician. Mostly Jazz Trumpet and reading music – Trumpet is a new thing for me as of last October and I am coming along with it as well as can be expected I think – maybe even better than can be expected as this is where all my creative energies lie. You may think it a shame that I am not posting more poetry regardless of what I am writing – there is surely more poetry written than I’ve ever placed on this blog and if you had that thought then you thought correctly and it isn’t as if I haven’t written since I started with the trumpet but I haven’t written much and am waiting to see what of it gets published elsewhere before it lands here.

This is a meditation on the blog in recent light of the most popular post I’ve ever written – far and away the most popular post and I need to consider what this blog is really about as I’ve never really wanted a random blog but one that held out meaning and a constant theme – more or less.

So, I will put a poem here for the followers that are with me for the poetry –

 

speaking of hell

 

this is one poem that will not get written

not everyday can contain a poem

or the written word

or the vague ramblings and ideas

of abstracted madness.

 

my beard grows long

and I am in good company,

months of tender care

with shampoo and conditioner

with little gray.

 

I am younger than I look

and more experienced than the color of my hair.

it’s resilience, perseverance

it’s sitting down and getting to it –

keeping hell in a back pocket.

 

most people live truly blessed lives

their nightmares kept safely at night,

others don’t sleep and howl at the moon

raving like sharp toothed dogs

gnawing at their own fingers and bones.

 

– Hoc Scripsi

 

And put this here for the randomness of it. I don’t think the article needs comment from me but you should know that it is sorta about vaginas – or one particular vagina and it isn’t mine.

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May 10, 2014

Sunny day, Saturday, the day before Mother’s day

by jhon baker

And I don’t feel like posting but think I should.

Sitting on the back porch and enjoying coffee – or what of it we can (see previous post) – smoking and contemplating the universe at last. Too much brain activity for such a beautiful day.

What looks to be six week old kittens peek their heads out from under the porch so we feed them and wait for them to brave the unknown world that is our backyard. An admittedly scary place – the world, including the backyard.

I think of David Ignatow – “The world is so difficult to give up” – I have maybe a half dozen poems memorized and that is almost another – it’s the second line I have trouble with and sometimes in the middle I remember a different poem and start that one instead. I used to have Poe’s “The Raven” committed to memory but now all I hold onto is the first verse. Shame, really. No-one seems to memorize poetry anymore. I’ve committed none of my own to memory and I ought.

the world is so difficult to give up

tied to it by small things

my eyes noting movement

color and form

I am watching, unable to leave

for something is happening so I stand

in a shower of rain or under a hot sun

worn out

with looking

– David Ignatow

the line breaks are wrong, I know and I cannot remember where they go – but this is a close approximation.The world is difficult to give up, but we must. The party will indeed go on without us and in this we must find comfort.

I smoke again and contemplate something closer – more tangible than the universe – my mind isn’t great enough to realize the many stars and the shear insignificance of our own. Earth, the only planet in our Solar system not named after one God or another, our planet is named after it’s dirt. I contemplate its constant survivor, its hero – the tardigrade.

 

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April 18, 2014

poem

by jhon baker

the obvious end

death

and the mystery of it.

love is a chemical thing,

there is only mystery for the uninformed.

 

but

still I love

and soon will die;

the poetry of death is inexhaustible.

the poetry of flowers and birds is equally inexhaustible.

and when it rains everyone writes poetry about the rains.

 

but

we still think of a rising sun

a setting sun

in ignorance that it is the earth

that rotates on an invisible axis.

that we are always in motion,

balancing with the flat of out feet,

sometimes on our knees.

 

– Hoc Scripsi

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April 12, 2014

beautiful day

by jhon baker

TO NOBODY:

Sitting on the back porch for the second time this year and today the weather isn’t necessitating my normal hoodie. Coffee, cigarettes and my wife in and out cooking dinner while the boy practices his instruments. I didn’t ride today and should have but was too shaken by my car deciding to accelerate by itself and smashing into another vehicle. No injuries, no damage – just an unsafe car which has found its way, by tow truck, back to the dealer where they will find nothing wrong. My electrical lemon. It is time to rid myself of this car and go with something used with a bed or nothing at all and rely on my cycle to get me around.

I need a cathartic experience

something beyond the rapture

of the faithful.

Time passes without thought and I am still here – now sitting in the dark and typing by touch alone. At least there are my glasses and the wildlife which makes noise out of range of sight to let me know I am not alone.

The asshole neighbor yells at the feral cats like they can understand his anger at having cats as wild animals in addition to the plethora of other wildlife in the area. We need to protect our garbage cans from all sorts of creatures – possibly including the asshole neighbor.

Past my sons bedtime and it is my turn to read to him, cuddle close and enjoy it while he is still just young enough to want it. nearly too old for the closeness of his parents. This depresses me immensely as I think it does his mother. And there will be no more.

“five dogs went into the wildreness

only three came back

two died of guinea worm

and one died of you

Jack Kerouac”  – Hunter Thompson

We want our children to be sensitive to poetry but not become poets. My son is a musician and I’m not sure if that’s better. But his talent surpasses mine and anyone I know – I light another cigarette – so he can teach, perform, become famous or whatever he wants – he can be the most musically talented garbage man –

garbage men are the real poets anyway.

and my fucking car won’t work.

– Me

 

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