Posts tagged ‘poets’

June 5, 2011

Day of days

by jhon baker

Garcia Lorca, born today, today I love you, like everyday but today I weep for this love and its end on a moonless night.
a short vignette of sorts…

Garcia Lorca, my Federico – a poet born to violent end
we sing you, decorate your memory with flowers
we sing you and your thousand gypsy songs
we sing you, we sing you a myriad of songs and stars
caught in the heavens looking down

on a completely different subject depending on ones point of view

AIDS is first reported in 1981 and today is that anniversary (30th) – today I love but not love AIDS – today I weep, profoundly – I think of artists, musicians, dancers, lovers and free men and woman all dying or dead of a disease whose name was never spoken by the elected leader of the time – such ignorance and more research put into the common cold than in research for what was killing and would kill – a fantastically dreaded disease which eats not only at the body but at the mind, soul and spirit.
I was born before AIDS but in large it has defined parts of my life, touched others and, if I can say it, graced the rest.

and Micael, Micael… O, now forever on this day shall I think of you, dance to your being – 

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May 10, 2011

poor poor Shel

by jhon baker

Shel, I’ll never forgive you for leaving us, as I’ll never forgive all those tethered to my heart except the one who left to leave behind her pain.

Shel didn’t die those years ago – he just went home.



full moon fifty miles outside Chicago 72° heavy
winds from the should standing under the starry’d night
sky and this is what I’m thinking…

ainsi il va.

March 25, 2011

as a side note

by jhon baker
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as a poet I am venerable,
vulnerable.
I cry.
weep.
stagger.
close my eyes tight.
hope.
dream.
love.
hate.
dance.
I am not weak.
vulnerability is not a weakness nor a reflection of weakness.
I defy any human who fails to see my strength,
with my toothy bared teeth,
my child’s smile,
my care free
turn of daffodils and dandelions.
I do not recite the Lord’s prayer,
I am a poet,

I shall be beatified,

I have my own.
 – Hoc Scripsi – a mediation on Saul Williams and his expressions
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as an aside and I hate to put this here:
support your favorite poets…
January 19, 2011

too early in the morning and I’ve yet to finish a poem this week

by jhon baker

It’s about two in the morning, I’ve a terrible headache and find myself gravitating to yet another mad writer. I had to put down my William Carlos Williams volume II because his imagery is enough to stagger my further ability to parse more poetry. Some poets I can sit and read through masses of their work, enjoying quite a bit of it, while others (like WCW) I have to ingest more slowly; make a complete study of his form and ability. But WIlliams was not mad and I’ve alluded to the insanity of another poet I’ve decided to start a study of now. Anne Sexton.
While being quite familiar with her works already and her death, there was scan familiarity with her and her somewhat unique dedication to her work. I’ve started with a perusal of her letters (what has been published) for now as I am not sure I can intake the severity of her work tonight. After all, I do want to sleep.
My writing method and Anne’s seems similar in its obsessive rewriting and need to solidify the line and word structure. So this might be a positive influence on my poem but an ill advised influence on my mental state. Time will tell. I don’t think I’ve found a better influence than WCW in that I don’t write much like him and most certainly do not share his method or ability. WCW was much more prolific than I have ever been, Like Anne, I cannot leave a poem alone until it is it’s own and I can no longer own it. Leonard Cohen is also like this in writing – I envy those that can write a completed poem nearly daily.

on that which has been plaguing my sleep…
Over the past few nights I keep dreaming that I am being pursued into hell by an enthusiastic and stunningly wretched demon or the devil himself – trapped in a wasting forest, mired ankle deep in mud and telephoning for a savior that can only quote useless scripture, my leg is grasped tightly by a minion looking for a replacement limb, a leg I think – where mine is already damaged, its is worse, its whole self is distorted and seems to be linking itself back together through the bodies of others, in its basement is kept the most vicious of animals and the floors are bathed in blood and alcohol. These dreams are not tempered by visions of former life or current joys, impenetrable in terror and my sleep is abating in restfulness.

so I don’t leave this post on that note…
I’ve missed a magpie- I had no ideas for an image that is so familiar to me – well, there were ideas but they weren’t good verse, at least in my view. I am not sure that the photo of old friends bundled in winter conversations in sepia tone is going to be much easier for me either.
I’ll come up with something. This day, after I sleep is going to have to involve a letter to my aunt and some time with the typer. No matter what comes out.

December 7, 2010

in their own voice also Sylvia Plath

by jhon baker

I’ve come into contact with a lot of live poetry via “The Academy of American Poets” archive Compact Discs. John Berryman, David Ignatow (a personal favorite), George Oppen, Robert Lowell, and three more collections with too many poets to list. I truly enjoy hearing the poet’s voice reading from their works and I’ve managed a large collection of them – some pretty available and some not so much. All Digital now after many hours trying to remaster off of old cassette tapes. My proudest is my Sylvia Plath Collection which has become exceedingly hard to find. In all I have about 2 gigs of recordings not including some of my own which I’ve just begun to do.

My Sylvia Plath Collection is as follows…

Daddy
Ariel
Lady Lazarus
The Ghost’s Leavetaking
November Graveyard
On the Plethora of Dryads
The Thin People
Hardcastle Crags
Child’s Park Stones
The Lady and the Earthenware Head
On the Difficulty of conjuring up a dryad
Green Rock, Winthrop Bay
On the Decline of Oracles
The Goring
Ouija
The Beggars
Sculptor
The Disquieting Muse
Spinster
Parliament Hill Fields
The Stones
Leaving Early
Candies
Mushrooms
Breck-plague
The Surgeon 2 AM
Nick and the Candlestick (not a good copy)
Poppies in October
Fever 103

short list of some reasons I prefer to listen to poetry:
1. In the Poet’s Voice how can you go wrong?
2. Sometimes the pains intensity makes it hard to focus my eyes.
3. I can enjoy poetry in a darkened room.
4. a good read can make me weep, gladly
5. hearing a poem in the authors voice is like experiencing it again for the first time.

If anyone has any obscure or hard to locate recordings I would love to wrench them from your tight grip. Also trade or even purchase. I hunger for more.

Sylvia part 1

I listen to your voice,
late November,

reliving a moment long
worn away by times
passing
and memory.

did you mean to see it out,
taste of poison
fruits? or come
back.
all questions lingering
and a scar,
a very real scar,
traces round our heart,

I’ll show you if you come to see.
no charge,
no heart beats like ours

out of the ash, we sift
and sift, but find
no more

no phoenix burning
the midnight air.

 – Hoc Scripsi

EDIT: poem submitted for the Jingle Poetry Theme of Dreams Visions and Reveries because I’ve visions of Sylvia at times when writing and feel that connection (especially this last one) and at times I dream of her. Is it cheating?

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