Poetry By
Bob Baker
Published on: 8/4/2010
Harvest
I will not harvest from my land this year, not this seventh year of jubilee. But I will celebrate the harvest moon. Perhaps fly my celebration in the breach of harvest on a prayer flag chasing after wind watching just the wind on the patch flag show me the business of the earth without the vanity of crops to tend. I will celebrate a heartfelt celebration, of the river running to the sea, as ever. Commerce of the earth, earth, here before my people came to claim that it was theirs. Claim still with pesticides and poison vanity harnessing the wind, claiming the river, forgetting, that it will as always run into the sea. I will celebrate the six straight years of sheaves of grain and corn and beans, my plot of land has given me. An edible menhir. The lord's wrath in every cup of vanity. But no one steals the beans I do not grow this year. Some people horde imaginary post symbolic money beyond trade, or concrete commerce, beyond cover form the rain, beyond the blighted nitrogen and benzene ring stung wrung-out earth of the modern industry called farm. Will they eat the image of a dollar when the hunger strikes? This year, this seventh year, this small piece of earth that takes me as a temporary, privileged guest will get a rest from my demanding hands. Rest, from my hungry mouth; and it will do whatever magic a small brown damp piece of earth will do at rest, ethics of a wise god? rhythms of a finite earth? What have I to do with understanding? Just let it be in faith and practicality, removed from the perceived center of power, center of efforts, focal point of worries about the rain and not the rain. Just leave the ground to amplification, simplify, break down and build up, mingle humus with a higher dignity. I have faith that it will renew and sustain itself somehow. So next year I will plant again, and the next, and I will celebrate the harvest, I will celebrate the cycle of the moon, and I will celebrate the earth and my brief time allowed to see the furrows turn.
Published on: 6/16/2010
The Ceremony and the Burden
In the luxury of indifference the expeditious phrase "I love you," fell from your mouth like brown water from a lapping dog in a dead eddy of the river. Yet I love, as stupid as a sparrow, the lightness of your tasty glaze of passion. What virtuosity you had in the complex act of looking back into my eyes, warm brown-sorrel hue of iris diverting my attention from the endless depth of black. That spring you ran courageously with bulls in Pamplona, knowing you could die. It has happened. When a hapless runner, too drunk to properly defend himself has dived awkwardly beneath protecting walls. But it is the bulls, everybody knows who are running for their lives. When we walked through fresh fallen snow, pristine on a world-white January morning, we wrapped the specular reflex of our ardency around each other like an asteroid circle wrapped around the sun. I welcomed your cold hand, thrust into the playful, trusting, idiot-mittens of my winter. Spring blossomed robin bird-song blue that year your hand withdrew and quickly cooled down from the zap of microwave I was to you, molecules not permanently stirred from warmth, so willing, embarrassingly willing skin convected to your skin. Now what do I do with the lovers drinking coffee on the esplanade, smiling and laughing at foolish things, staring significance into each others eyes, watching the pigeons as if they were turtle doves? One of you is Rabia with tea and oranges, they need to know, a breast in heaven, a visionary to whom truth is an illusion, and love is to kiss a scarring hand. The one who cares the most does not buy a candle and go barefoot looking for an honest man. The ceremony of the one who cares the least is a simple familiarity with these facts; beauty is a knife that will carve its own flesh, pleasure is a hand in the small of an arching back. Love is a market option, put and leveraged, until the profit margin justifies a sell. But the burden of the one who cares the most; that is a bull in the arena holding ten banderilleras, head hug low, lunging at the cape, with no sensible destination, no thought of fighting nobly for the crowd. Treated to a royal life for a few years the bull dies in twenty minutes. The burden of the one who cares the most is laid down late, but at last in the failing light, laid down late in August, laid down in the dust of the arena in late afternoon.
Published on: 6/16/2010
Who Forgets a Shirt?
She answered my knock with a smile and a shirt, that's all. I was pleased. I liked her in an oversized man's shirt. I liked the smile, and certainly I liked that's all. Then the monogram spoke ciphers on a pocket, told a clever secret or a joke, depending on your point of view. We were never lovers. Love, that dread dispensing four letter word. F---buddies had a nice ring to it I thought. The monogram was mine, no doubt, my shirt, her smile, surprise surprise. Cute I said, where'd you get my shirt? Your son left it here she said, and smiled, determinedly demure. Then it was clear. It's not about a buddy it was about a game. Genitalia are terrain and pieces put to use, not pawns, not kings and queens, but bishops, horses maybe, knights you know. Diagonal, they can jump two forward and one always sideways.
Published on: 3/2/2010
In America: Four Times A Day
Alone at crib-side, with the mini-mickey whoosh ventilator-breath fed baby, tend-me-tone multi-monitors, the emitting diode light show, these all fade. I am alone with the baby, motionless both of us, except a rise and fall of chest, hers mechanical, mine catch and release. Hers scheduled to stop, when the committee votes. Two years old, raped, shaken, burned, "Here's what happened. She fell down the stairs." That's the story. That's the case. White coats round and round. Everybody lawyers up. Social services a-buzz. We will now show this baby the best that civilization has to offer. Deal with it Professionally. That is my task. Visualize events, unthinkable events, in detail; accurately enough to present causality. Tediously, I testify, one more time, to one more jury, ordinary men and women bewildered by the horror, desperately wanting to believe there was an accident. I will explain again, that this particular constellation of injuries; the swollen, hemorrhagic brain, blood in every layer of the retina, fingerprint bruises on the arms, multiple fractures in varying stages of repair, torn vagina, cigarette burns; these do not happen by accident. These are not the findings of a baby who fell down the stairs. You see, good people, the size of a baby's head compared to the strength of the neck musculature, when shaken violently by the shoulders subjects the fragile brain to high velocities of deceleration . . . And so it goes, so goes the accounting of the mechanism of neural injury. Ending with the diagnosis, non-accidental trauma incompatible with life. Maybe they didn't mean to. Maybe they were raised in abuse. I don't know about the question why. Others will tell you why. My job here is to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, somebody killed this baby. No transforming metaphor, no cadence of emphatic speech.
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