My Books, and Publishing….

I was fortunate enough to start having my work published in the early 1970’s.
I say fortunate since a lot of what I submitted was handwritten as I didn’t yet have a typewriter, though
once I started seeing a few checks my father decided to buy me a typewriter.

I saw my work published alongside Lawrence Durrell, which thrilled me as I was enthralled with the work of his friend Henry Miller with whom he was sharing a place in Pacific Palisades at the time; and due to the fact that I had decided to go to Corfu, Greece as soon as possible, though that would take a few years of shitty jobs to save enough.

A partial list of literary journals, university magazines, etc., can be found here. Literary Publications

I won several awards and unsolicited grants; for best work published in a literary journal during a particular year, etc.

Though I had associations/friendships with some of the greatest poets working in Canada, and the USA at the time, this did not result in any publication of a book. The first actual chapbook I had published was in 2010, The Herald, through Mad Poet Press.

Over the years I had accumulated thousands of poems, prose poems, prose pieces, and book reviews (having zero $ it was an easy enough way to get some books I wanted).
I began sifting through these in 2014 with an eye toward publication through self-publishing, all the while writing more; and sometimes more than I could keep up with, since I tended to scrawl a few lines, write entire poems in notebooks before typing them out.

I decided to use the CreateSpace platform, and with constant editing each month – 6 weeks from 2014-2016 – would further edit, thematically arrange, and trim down the contents of each new book, while creating the covers as well.

If you look here on Amazon, https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM, you can see throughout the publication dates for the 20 + books I’ve published so far during that time beginning with 2014.

This has been accomplished without formal or professional literary associations, academic positions, so
obviously without the benefits of distribution and wider awareness that might be the outcome of such things. Plus, with money being tighter than the proverbial nun’s you-know-what I have yet to see most of the books in physical form, and thus haven’t been able to distribute copies for reviewers. Plus of all the poets professionally published who follow me and whom I follow on Twitter and Facebook, despite my constancy in paying attention to their postings, in two years only have 3 even clicked a ‘like’ three times on my multiple posts containing poetry.  There isn’t  even any informal ‘recognition of myself as a writer, or my work.
That isn’t to say that such practicalities won’t change.

Which would be very welcome since selling 2 books in the last 16 months or so bites ass, whether that makes me merely the persistent poet, or persistently deluded that the work deserves a greater audience.

©Dean Baker

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Sunday After Life

If it’s as true as rumored that the dead occupy planets in the far-reaches of our galaxy through celestial heavens so far misspoken of in literature and religious texts, then I have a deep need to master space travel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If it’s as true as rumored that the dead occupy planets in the far-reaches of our galaxy through celestial heavens so far misspoken of in literature and religious texts, then I have a deep need to master space travel.

It’s not hotter than too hot yet I’m sitting in a shade drenched in humidity over 90 degrees while flies populate and breezy by.

The puppies are mud-ensconced in their kennel while I drink somewhat warm coffee and hallucinate desert hills, cool nights and more: cold drinks, night sky without bugs, music. Contentment.
Nobody else is outside on the afternoon lawns reminiscent of landing strips in Phoenix in summertime.

Wages are way below poverty level but the happy horseshit of not saying anything so they don’t find some other more desperate to only eat government cheese extends through the days and nights.

This might feel like I have time to write but that’s a lie: between hours occupied by kids and noise, recuperation of quiet, solitude to do is a matter of cannibalizing attitude making me indifferent to existence as it is though there might be some sentimental attachment to after-effects – if only because I can’t grasp a well-being sufficiently altered to express in my being a gratitude of joy I’ve known when a balance persisted due to my own efforts.

I do recall working and aiming for more than this; not settling, nor compromising. But not having complete enough control – i.e. enough cash – to weather imbalances meant it went sideways and down.
Not difficult to believe but to experience that without enough money you don’t get that sunny and smiling calm no matter what age even minus such extravagances such as choices in more than foods: there really are no extras without the moolah.

And if you reach this age absent friends and immediate relatives, you don’t even have the horizon any more.
Just a bunch of drooling, grey-headed, Alzheimered goobers more certain than ever of the righteousness of their opinions on everything. That’s where you’ve been relegated.
Shit, what’re you going to contribute? If anyone had been interested, this wouldn’t be occurring. And you don’t have the funds, the social grouping, nor the expectation you’ll dispense anything of value or interest.

No problem if you were always one of those who believed breathing was sufficient to occupy the earth and justify living – but if not, harder times without the hope of betterment in the face of a pervasive ignoramus standard of no one gives a shit, you’re not struggling against obvious dictators, you’ve had years… you’ve lived.

What’s truly odd though is: my thought that I once considered the fact that if you were intelligent enough to be aware of these things it meant you weren’t susceptible.
And that travelling to outer planets meant soul growth: that losing the life uncramped by lack of funds suggested there’d be other compensations.

That you’d remain whole, integral, and sufficient unto yourself.

And if not, you’d not experience such a protracted dying unattended by actual illnesses while supplying the impression of some quiet, and sometimes well-mannered, older person content enough to not have thoughts or feelings outside the realm of knowledge of those who merely live by illusions specific to themselves while enjoying every benefit cash conveys.

Where do you go after this? Cat food hors d’oeuvres?

Meow, motherfuckers.

©Dean Baker

 

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for National Poetry Month, April 2017 – Poetry & How It Gets That Way – Buy a Book

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.

“Invaluable teaching tool that makes poetry enjoyably accessible while making the art of poetry relevant to all our times and ages.”

Dean J. Baker is an author of more than 20 books. Composer, performer, and songwriter published in prestigious literary journals worldwide since 1973.

Born in Toronto, Canada, to a Ukrainian/Polish father and an Irish/Scottish mother. Attended the University of Guelph, and later won their book awards, along with several unsolicited Ontario Arts Council awards, best poems published in a year in literary journals, and The T.S. Eliot Society of Miami’s Calendar Poet award. Member of Socan (Society of Authors, Composers, Publishers) he has played guitar, bass, and piano in many bands and is writing more songs. Author of The Herald(2010), and Baker’s Bad Boys(2010), published by Mad Poet Press. His most recent works are Silence Louder Than A Train, The Mythologies Of Love, The Lost Neighborhood, an expanded and revised Baker’s Bad Boys(2014-satiric stories of childhood), Dark Earth, Of Flesh Sculptures And Abandoned Love, The Eschatological Dog, Measuring Gravity By Grace (Poems 1970-1980, Vol.1), Our Geographies (Poems 1970-1980, Vol.2), The Transits Of Revelation, Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic, The Moon Worn Tides Vol. 1, Poetry & How It Gets That Way, In Riparian Fields, Tormenting The Monkey, Provenances And Paroles, Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World, The Poetry Hotel, The Lost Canadian, Early Selected Poems, Vol. 1, The Lost Canadian, Poems Selected, Vol. 2., Blood Upon The Moon, Soliloquies Of The Horizons.

His awards include universities’ awards, along with several unsolicited Arts Council awards; best poems published in a year in literary journals, edited two books of Governor General’s Award winner Joe Rosenblatt, and The T.S. Eliot Society of Miami’s Calendar Poet award.

He has traveled solo through Canada, the USA, Ireland, England, Scotland, France, Germany, Italy, Greece. Dean J. Baker’s works show a highly disciplined, passionate and informed uniqueness. He brings to his craft a very widely read mind, fully intimate with all the great literature of the past along with a similar awareness of today’s writers.

https://ohcanaduh.wordpress.com/2017/02/28/my-books-poetry-humor-social-commentaries-critique/

“Dean is a combination of thought and torment that has made him write more than a baker’s dozen of fine poems.. he might produce a collection that could astound us all.” – Irving Layton, (“Canada’s greatest poet”-Leonard Cohen), nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature. http://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/ https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

104 pages, $15.99

My Books In Print

My Poetry Ebooks

©Dean J. Baker

http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

Supposed Science Fiction – J.G. Ballard, ‘the poet of desolate landscapes’

‘the poet of desolate landscapes’

 

 

 

 

Fortunately for me I read some early Ballard in the ‘70’s before all the hype and surrounding mess over his work Crash, turned into a movie by Cronenberg.
He was called the ‘poet of desolate landscapes’ for a reason.
(http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/13/books/review/Lethem-t.html)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._G._Ballard

One of my favorite science fiction writers, along with Thomas Disch (particularly Camp Concentration), Philip K. Dick, and other individual books, such as A Canticle For Leibowitz. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Canticle_for_Leibowitz

Most people will recognize what Spielberg did with his quite wonderful autobiographical work, Empire Of The Sun. Excellent movie, wonderful book.

However, a book of interviews with Ballard is more than interesting and shows a prophet of the future now in his words.
Extreme Metaphors is a great compilation of the author in talks that are always interesting, and often revelatory.

Take this passage, from 1974 – (the year, not any particular book), in an interview conducted by Carol Orr, with the influence of Judith Merrill, whom I was fortunate to meet. (Along with Marian Engel, who wrote the great (and supposedly feminist) novel, Bear amongst other works, introduced by poet Gwendolyn MacEwen, to my surprise when I was first meeting Gwen, who introduced me by saying, “This is the poet I’ve been telling you about,” and having Marian interject, “Well, say something brilliant then, poet” to which I apparently satisfactorily replied since both Judith and Marian gave an approving, and raised eyebrows, nod to Gwen afterwards. *biography

“Threats to the quality of life that everyone is so concerned about will come much more, say, from the widespread application of computers to every aspect of our lives where all sort of science fiction fantasies will come true, where bank balances will be constantly monitored and at almost any given time all the information that exists about ourselves will be on file somewhere – where all sorts of agencies, commercial, political and governmental, will have access to that information.”
– Pg.58, Extreme Metaphors, How To Face Doomsday without Really Trying.
Reason enough to start to reading his books, let alone that book.

http://www.ballardian.com/extreme-metaphors-on-sale

©Dean J. Baker

These poems are advertisements for the BOOKS – get uplifted, buy one

Biography

all my books on salehttp://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

 

alternatively, direct from CreateSpace – https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/links-to-my-books-in-print/

<–Check this out: Poetry & How It Gets That Way updated!

also posted – https://ohcanaduh.wordpress.com/2017/01/29/the-herald-2/

****if you wish to add me on any social media sites –*** Facebook, Twitter,*** etc., – feel free to click the relevant links****

Alden Nowlan – Greatness in Poetry

nowlan_

 

 

 

 

 

Alden Nowlan is one of those poets whom I never got to meet, and always wish I’d been able to do so.

I first saw one of his poems when I was in high school. And as with that poem, his other poems: they always evoke, a ‘yes!,’ about honesty and the truth of things. Always memorable. You’ll find them repeating themselves at the least expected moments.
The poem that first struck me was his ‘Aunt Jane.’

Aunt Jane

Aunt Jane, of whom I dreamed the nights it
thundered,
was dead at ninety, buried at a hundred.
We kept her corpse a decade, hid upstairs,
where it ate porridge, slept and said its prayers.

And every night before I went to bed
they took me in to worship with the dead.
Christ Lord, if I should die before I wake,
I pray thee Lord my body take.

 

©Alden Nowlan

Just to be sitting in your own world and to have 8 lines smack you awake out of the blue, away from your concerns and take you to revelation so quickly, so easily, and with such delight – amazing.

But Alden has many, many poems of the kind that do so – surprising in their humility, strength and understanding. His are the works you could carry in a small book with you and find sustaining every time you looked.
He covers history, patriotism, and more all in a beautiful way.

One other:

Canadian January Night

Ice storm: the hill
a pyramid of black crystal
down which the cars
slide like phosphorescent beetles
while I, walking backwards in obedience
to the wind, am possessed
of the fearful knowledge
my compatriots share
but almost never utter:
this is a country
where a man can die
simply from being
caught outside.

©Alden Nowlan

 

Brilliant work.

And from Alden Nowlan, Selected Poems

A Poem About Miracles

Why don’t records go blank
the instant the singer dies?
Oh, I know there are explanations,
but they don’t convince me.
I’m still surprised
when I hear the dead singing.
As for orchestras,
I expect the instruments
to fall silent one by one
as the musicians succumb
to cancer and heart disease
so that toward the end
I turn on a disc
labelled Götterdämmerung
and all that comes out
is the sound of one sick old man
scraping a shaky bow
across and out-of-tune fiddle.

 

©Alden Nowlan

These poems of Alden’s are a few of the good, and representative of his best. You need the book to even begin to get an awareness of his greatness.
Robert Frost may be more well known, but for me Alden wins the laurels.

© Dean J. Baker

all my books on salehttp://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/links-to-my-books-in-print/

Patrick Lane, a great Canadian poet – and his poem, Legacies

patrick-lane

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick Lane, a great Canadian poet. In the tradition of Al Purdy, and Charles Bukowski for those who are unfamiliar with great Poetry. The designation I use – the Canadian part, anyway – to specify country of origin.

Of course as to great and to a degree greatly unremarked poets except or even including within the country of their origins I would have to also mention Kenneth Patchen, whose book The Journal Of Albion Moonlight is not strictly poetry yet is poetry at the core. Something along the lines of Louis Ferdinand Celine‘s Journey To The End Of The Night, or his great Death On The Installment Plan. A few books, along with Djuna Barne‘s Nightwood and a few of Anais Nin‘s, with Blaise Cendrar’s ought to be de rigeur reading ( especially so his Moravagine).

Now of course these have nothing directly to do with Patrick Lane, but they are indicative of what greatness inspires in the fact of a joyful association and the discoveries made along the way.

One of his poems from The Collected Poems of Patrick Lane

Legacies

I’m smoking one of his cigars tonight
after this one
there’s only one left
a pack of cigars
Remington shaver
swagger-stick from the First War
and nothing else
legacies from the old man.

Once in all his eighty years
I saw him – father of my father,
forbear
passing my father to me
in one sudden moment
of a prairie night
begat
begat

and I sit here and smoke his cigar tonight
while I clean his earthly hairs
from the razor
sit and smoked
sit and consume legacies

© Patrick Lane

  • and that is just the first page…

Aslo, you might take note of his memoir – What The Stones Remember: A Life Rediscovered of which a few comments are:

“To read this book is to enter a state of enchantment.”—Alice Munro

“Patrick Lane has written a memoir of heartbreaking struggle that manages to be beautiful and encouraging, finding anchorage in what was once called Creation, the natural world and its unstinting promise of renewal.”—Thomas McGuane

“A tough, lovely book.”—Margaret Atwood

So do look for his work, and enjoy a great Canadian poet. Patrick Lane. Take note that there is even a book where 55 poets celebrate his work: https://www.amazon.com/Because-You-Loved-Being-Stranger/dp/1550171011

© Dean J. Baker

all my books on salehttp://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/links-to-my-books-in-print/

Poets & Poetry

Part One

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It would help to know what poetry isn’t before any declaration is made regarding exactly what poetry is, has been, and may become.

Poetry is not attitude, nor advertisement. It is not the approximation of a recognizably magical moment captured in one frieze of a combination of attitude, a mythical fancy, nor an established attitude limning on the page what is apparently or realistically poetical.
The first is a pose, dangerous in that it represents itself as poetry whereas the real poetry is of a whole, not an imitation, derived from abused elements that have established themselves as tools of the trade of the art of poetry.
That of course is where the attitude has greatly substituted for the art.

Real poetry will result from the poet gorging on the classics; assume the essence of such as its own, and through a passionate breath of love for the rhythm and the intellect in such art allow for the true voice of the poet to be discoverable. The resultant poetry may arise as much as a surprise to the poet as to the reader, otherwise there’d always be the possibility of intellect overwhelming the creation of art.

Poetry is of course an art. Something often dismissed by the fact that at this time and for a long while now it has been assumed as a cloaked attitude by the same ‘writers’ who once stuck to the creation of what were referred to as ‘nurse novels.’
The problem with stating that poetry is an art is that you will confront the stuck-up moralizing fragments of dusty academics who are as far from the reality of poetry as a coroner is from life. They will confront you with lies about poets who lived ordinary lives, were accountants, etc., without also noting that these people were the exceptions.

There will even be ‘poets’ who have somehow – through connections of those wanting to build a sense of personal power – been granted status academically, or in a literary life, unassociated with a realistic assessment of their work.
These will be the neighborhood articulates about whom you will hear other ordinaries commenting that likely they’re merely educated idiots.

This alone can result in a ‘beat poet’ moment where you want to tear off the suit and tie and run away to who knows what, catching the rhythmic notion of Mexico City Blues like Kerouac. And many have done so.
However that place of the Mexico City Blues, celebrated by such music poets as Bob Dylan, and Allen Ginsberg, is not a destination (see ‘Ithaca’ by C.P. Cavafy), but a resultant melding of place and metaphor, from and to which the artist later known as Kerouac to the public arrived without a notion of such. His journey was honest.

The only way an attitude of taking the same journey – almost – can be honest is if the poet or writer is well aware of doing such a thing to contrive a similar sense of discovery, combined with the fact that if they will lose themselves in it what they will discover about it will be themselves, with far different results of the same ‘blues’ since time and its changes will have made it so.
Central to such a journey would be such a poet’s own passion and talent. Some will arise out of genuine being, some out of a mixture of authenticity, and artificiality or attitude.
Only the resultant work will prove what is true poetry, or not.

This is where the mythos of the poet, which can serve as a necessary impulse for the real poet, must be separated from the contemporary poetic attitude.

However, let’s not forget that poetry is ultimately about poetry, in a sense. First, it is about the life of the poet. It may be a rich life as Shelley briefly enjoyed, or a poor life as many minor and major poets have had since. Rich and poor financially, anyway. Poetry is untouched by such things, though the ease or impediment of producing poetry is heavily influenced.

Poetry is not what a contemporary and well known poet has said about producing poetry as a result of poetry. That may be the case for him in his portraitures, and stance as a poet. But his stating it to be so without making the effort of distinguishing how and why he says so is simply a lazy cynicism. And a self-justification for an awareness of a lack of greatness, and thus a self-fulfilling prophecy.
He writes as though poetry entered into existence and went out with both the beginning and end of his own work.

Poetry is an informed and learned enjoyment, an enlightenment, and a passion as discoverably brought into being by observation as it is a celebration of the most ordinary, the most different, and the forever unique where all boundaries of discipline and knowledge result in that art of poetry. I might label all of Jackson Pollock’s works as a statement of Poetry, to illustrate this.

This illustrates where poetry began, and how it continues.
With that open mouth of darkness closing in, that vision of beauty if nature, people, and a greater aspect of civilization.
And how it is learned – absorbed – through the passionate embrace of great poets’ works: more than willingly, since these are the real forbears and ancestors of the poet.

Poetry is freedom to create and recreate worlds, and the world.

It is the responsibility of the poet. Thus, the next question would be: what is the poet.

©Dean Baker

-excerpt from https://www.amazon.com/Poetry-How-Gets-That-Way/dp/1508737525

https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

https://authorcentral.amazon.com/gp/profile

Poetry & How It Gets That Way – 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.

http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

 

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