February 22, 2010

death in the afternoon

by jhon baker

There has been a death. Our second hamster gave up the wheel and parades now in hamster wherever.

This has nothing to do with that like so many things in life.
If I locate it I will put out my translation of “Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias” which, as you may know, was Written by Federico Garcia Lorca and where the title of this post comes from. Great poem with a lot of poor translations out there. You need to be a poet to create a good translation of a poem. It is more than trying to stay true to the meter and words – you need to stay true to the lyricism as well – even more importantly you need to convey the emotion of such a poem which most out there do not.
I love to translate poetry like the first stanza of a poem that is to be published this week – link forthcoming. Translation is harder for me as I only speak my own language well and just dabble in others all while Spanish speaking poets tend to be my favorites.



the whole of earth

the whole of earth is
beautiful and I carry
a broken watch,
waiting for it to move.

the whole of earth is
beautiful though
we still drop bombs
on weddings and taxi drivers.

the whole of earth is
beautiful;
I am holy in it.

I keep impoverished in
my pockets.

the whole of earth is
beautiful and
I remember when I first
got laid.

               the whole of
earth is beautiful, we
watch home movies to remind.

the whole of earth is
beautiful regardless
of telephone poles,
regardless of
pornographic billboards.

the whole of earth is
beautiful, hearing
children play in the streets.

the whole of earth is
beautiful,
never to spite that which
vainly tries to
take its beauty.

– I wrote this

February 21, 2010

Saturday… isn’t it?

by jhon baker

Getting late now and I will not post tomorrow I think. Going to take Sundays off from this blog/ journal and concentrate on hunting down inspira – bring my 30.06 and enough rope to tie it to the hood of my F-150.

This is another poem that was edited to eliminate two names of living persons who need not be attached to it for it to work and stand. Actually, I think the names took from it it’s meter and force.

poem in divisions

I must remember
tomorrow to
wash the sheets.
I must remember that
the starts above Broadway
are only imagined.

fire hydrants sit
by the street
waiting for disaster;
the mailman hangs out
waiting for conversation.
we take eleven photographs
from off the balcony.

the newspaper arrives
most days
while not arriving today.
the garbage truck comes
only once a week,
usually on time.

J. A. – I am with
you in prison
where your takers
keep watch while
the cell mates remind
you of your betrayal
to skin color.
in two days
F. will be driving up
and I’ve no fresh fruit
to offer or
tea to drink.

watching two insects
crawl on the screen
toward the holes
left for, or by them,
and overhearing a separate
apartment dweller sigh,
      “it ought not to have
      “been that way, but
      “it was.”

I must remember
to shower and
drink coffee before
going to work.
I must remember that
my clothes are
still on the floor from
last night.

I must remember
tomorrow to
wash the sheets.
I must remember that
the starts above Broadway
are only imagined.

– I wrote this

Tags:
February 19, 2010

unknown

by jhon baker

literal or not
we bled on pages
and pages and
pages of uncertain poetry.
women bleed with efficiency.

dying roses are not
broken promises as
are crumbling petals
no longer red.

– I wrote this

Tags:
February 18, 2010

written on a small scrap with editorial department address on reverse

by jhon baker

poetry wastes a lot of
paper that could be used
for holding leaves off the
ground.

there are some things
that trees will never
forgive us for;
art – is not one of them.

no matter how bad.

– I wrote this

didn’t sleep last night, slept the night before but not the night before that. I did not keep track of previous nights only to know that most of them were not fit for sleeping. It amazes me how much two ailments can define your life, Chronic Pain and Insomnia, they are related but it is not a causal relationship as insomnia has far outlasted the pain thing.
this has weakened my current creativity or the current will to be inspired. This statement has been horribly alliterative and I must stop at all costs.
Another lit blog I read posed the question – ‘is everyone an artist? – I think the answer is clear, however, the clarity I have on it is not shared by the many so called ‘artists’ who produce less art and more sentimental bullshit that is only capable of relating to the so called artist. This is not art and as the definitions are straying away from the meaningful I have simply stated that I am not an artist. But these questions that the so called artists struggle with is possibly part of what separates them from the real and the so called. This is not entirely accurate but what I would ask is this – if you go into your garage and change your oil with any amount of required skill or acquired knowledge, does this make you a mechanic? or if you cook diligently a meal that feeds yourself and maybe even a few friends – does that make you a chef? you see where I am going with this I hope. The effort and even the correct result do not make you the arbiter of such titles because that would be widely considered a gross misapplication of the terms. You are not an artist because you happen to create something or your friends like what you have done. A wall painter is considered a wall painter and not a wall artist. It seems that the fine arts are under attack by the same unjustified assumption of entitlement that is plaguing our streets and making me fear to leave my house for too long that I might accidentally add murderer to my short list of titles. I kid though I am often tempted to add aggravated battery to that list for the same reasons. I don’t as I don’t want to go to prison, feeling like you are more than you are is not really a corporal punishment offense (tho why not?) and mostly because even though I am a large and intimidating man – I am not a fighter, I am however, a poet.