Your Heart as My Script (Falling Awake)

I’ll take my finger to the grains
and draw blueprints by the sea.
It may take months but I’ll build
us our mansion out of silt.
It may be cold in the winter
but I’ll hold you tautly all night
with my chest as your pillow
and your heart as my script
I’ll write you poems about angels
with words about love.

And if the world floods over
you’re the break in my waves.
And if once more abating
I’ll land on your shoulder.
As time transpires I’m falling awake.

June

My mind has been awash with wondering about where my writing career is over the past few months. More so, where do I leave it and where do I pick it back up? What do I do next and am I ready to take the next steps? I believe an artist’s mind never shuts itself off; no matter what else is going on in there it will continuously provide inspiration and insight necessary to be written on a piece of paper (or in my case a memo in my phone). 

It would appear, and in truth I accepted it as true on occasion, that for now at least I was stepping back from this aspect of my life. I have been less active in all senses of writing, including my blog. But the next steps have continued to be put in place; when they will formulate I don’t yet know and I will take my time in putting the pieces together. Perhaps over the last couple of years I have exhausted my brain with the desire to succeed, even if to a large extent I did succeed. 

The plans I made following TFA’s release are still on my agenda. I have some fantastic ideas for pieces of writing and have continued to work as I have felt the need, even when their creation’s reasons seemed unclear. When it will be completed I do not yet know or worry about, but my next collection of poetry will be called ‘Blueprints by the Sea’ and in large it will be a ‘resurfacing’ of These Waters as I’ve discussed. I will hopefully continue to update my blog with news and extracts as I go. 

All my best to everyone,

Jordan. 

When You Lay With Me

I stand overlooking under a gaze of Heaven’s own.
Its showers are clichéd of the episodic loss of faith
drifting down just as Neptune’s cold blue kiss
through the systems like crystals on my wrist.
But when you lay with me the silks of summer
and afire breath of life slip through my compact crypt
carrying me through the underpass of lives once seen
and bear my bestirred body into this age of Holocene.

-Jordan Baker
June 2014

Blueprints by the Sea

Send Me Home

Through the cold rays I’m tired of running
though the sun shines clear through cloud.
Over valleys which on bright days are stunning
in the darkness are shaded in doubt.
Send me home into the fires
which surround my koshered crypt.
Carry me home over These Waters
until the ground parts from Evil’s grip.

Spring has come with few sights of snow
and golden daffodils are quickly budding
over valleys walked high and low.
And this varmint that I’m becoming
is going home.

The Small Stuff

So I’ve been lying awake in bed for hours now, as usual. There are several reasons for this. Number one being that there’s a massive storm going on outside and my room is an attic room meaning I’m lying about a foot from the roof and it’s loud, as are the bed springs which creak each time I breathe. Secondly, this is a rare occasion where I’m sleeping apart from my girlfriend which is always an unusual feeling. Thirdly I’ve been ill all week so my stomach’s got me on edge. But the most important reason and the most irritatingly familiar one is that I can’t turn my mind off.

I suppose what I’m trying to do is define myself. What makes me who I am? What motivates and inspires me? I’m not necessarily thinking ‘writing’ here- but life in general and I guess they’re linked. What’s great is when I think about it my life is pretty good at the moment, especially in comparison to how it was when say, I left school several years ago, or University a couple later. I’ve gone from being (largely) overweight to being in pretty good shape, I’ve got a promising writing career ahead of me, including two books and a couple of awards behind me and my personal life is fantastic. Despite being unwell over the last month or two I’ve managed to quit smoking too, a little bonus. I guess you’d say that these are the ‘big’ things in my life and they’re going well, but I’ve been over-thinking the little things. It’s the little things that give you inspiration to write, make you smile at random points during the day. It’s the little things that happen that make us laugh- a joke being shared, that book you’re enjoying reading that you can’t wait to tell someone about, that television show that you dash home for. We forget that while these ‘little’ things give us things to talk about, it’s the ‘big’ things that keep us alive.

I know I’d never have been able to write a lot of the things I have done over the years if not for those. I mean, fuck, if my life hadn’t sucked when I was penning the pieces for These Waters, God knows what would have happened. I wouldn’t have had that book published, I know that much!! Sure, I write about the little things too. Last week I wrote a poem about a painting I found interesting for example. I’ve made a poem out of a yellow flower. I’ve used the story of Lucifer and Salome. But without being shit on in life and writing Cigarettes In The Snow, quite honestly, poetry would never have happened for me. At this point I was at University studying creative writing in general and until about 8 months earlier had never written a poem or considered liking one in my life. I was 19 at this point and I’m 21 now!! I’d not long started dicking about writing poems along with short fiction for my first blog when it clicked with that piece.

I just don’t think life can move forward with just the little things. You know that saying ‘don’t sweat the small stuff?’- I’d never had a second thought about it until tonight. During my overly long, and possibly to you- boring, thought process I got thinking about ‘small victories’- you know the sort, the little bonuses you get during the day that make it a good one or perhaps the moment in which you feel smug having shown yourself to be better than someone else in whatever way.

Having been thinking back to when I was fat (by the way I really was huge as a teenager) I recalled the many occasions over the last few years where I’d ran into someone who I maybe hadn’t seen since leaving school, people who didn’t give my existence a second thought. So often they’ve came up to me, shook my hand, gave me a hug, whatever, and told me how great I looked (i.e. you used to be fat, Jord, remember? You’re actually quite good looking under all that flab, though, aren’t you?). For a moment, that’s a good feeling. There I am being awed by someone who I (more often than not) have a reason to hold a grudge against, but then when you think about it it’s not a little victory. If this person’s opinion mattered to me at all then they’d have been made aware over the last few years that I was looking good now. The people who need to know this do already.

What is important is enjoying the big things in life. I can write all day about my personal life for example, but whilst some scenery I pass may be pretty enough for a poem or a joke I see on twitter may be worth a retweet, the moment passes straight away and it’s never as special second time around. However life is there for, well, a lifetime. It can inspire every day and it does should you let it. I never thought I’d be giving this type of advice, and trust me; if you know me personally you wouldn’t either.

Sorry to go on and on for something I could have said in a few lines, but I needed to bore myself to sleep.

Dreams are possibilities.

Blueprints by the Sea

On many days before our own I would take my wits
and walk to kill whiles and desolate summer truths.
I would be besotted with new paths I traipsed
as my world was filled with enough beauty that
I believed there was something worth locating
in its cute but pallid blueprints by the sea.
For my place was gyred by waters as if to keep
me caged, pondering their artistry, wander them
and write words in marvel and despair.

I remember the breeze would stand still long enough
should I stand there idly and just observe
that I could waste away my days in acts and in mind.
Between its bursts would come whispers within
the cracks of the waves but it was voiceless.
I knew still how it whimpered sorely as if there
was not enough spirit by my side to hamper.

It was only once I could share my world with you
and walk you by my waters with hands enlaced
that I could see the extra colours by their banks.
Those solemn spring-grown buddings
quickly faded from white to shaded hues.
And in such moments it seems only fitting
that the sky be bluer and the Sun burn golden
more so than ever on me before.

On such days I’d make a promise
never to let those colours tarnish
and to cherish each footstep on the shores.
On such days I’d make a promise
never to leave my spirit barren
or forget the splendour of our world.

Jordan Baker
2014

For never can These Waters be Revisited with the same resonance again.

Good Friday

Lowry_Lancashire_F_2586157b

Lancashire Fair: Good Friday, Daisy Nook (1946)
by LS Lowry

Good Friday
by Jordan Baker (January 2014)

Haunted faces sinuous in pallid space
I’m screaming should I be granted verve
lost in a crowd in a lucidly festive place.
Through these souls lies the solemn turf
where I may find my site of kin.
From here where I stand it is inhabited still
but those distant strokes are gone within.
They run from the fields the branches fill
for it is not winter and the woods are dead.
They chase only the guise and noise ahead.

Depiction

Image

Smudge the charcoal with fingertips
which tremble at the touch of you
and try to make it just as smooth.
Art from cinders crushed to gold,
a valoured tone of heart and soul.
Rose by rose and star by star,
words defining what you are.
But how to put it on a page,
what you seem to be to me?

You are stars,
and all the sky,
the light of sun and moon
mixing the world in bloom
so it’s always bright for me.

You are life,
you are it all,
you are my summer and my fall.
You are the day and the night,
you’re always there for me.

You are me,
you are everything.
The way I laugh, the way I breathe,
the way I see the world
which is what you are to me.

Let Her Tears Flow..

tfaangelfire

 

In the corner of an eye
the past comes to mind
in a glimpse of haunting lie
that in one moment I’m blind.
Silhouettes catching fire in snow
turn and leave, double takes
walking the winter roads
a shadow fading in fiery flakes..

-to be continued..

‘I think I’m falling…’
-You could have saved my life.

………

Since you’ve gone I guess I’ll wait.
Somehow I love you just the same
so many hundred miles away.

………

Jordan Baker
2014
Dreams are possibilities.

Identity

jbtfa1

 

One day we wake up and everything is clear,
the next it can be gone once more.
Drowned and sank with legacies we create
and dreams we strive to live for.
We create characters for ourselves to be
and maybe place them into writing form.
Desiring to be the best in the world,
to be worshiped, to be loved and adored.
But if our identity was a sketch of hand,
what emblems and effects would be drawn?

‘I am a dreamer of a man.
I’m esoteric, compelling and vain.
I carry alchemy in my hands
and bane scarlet veneer in my veins,
silver tainted illusions at the tip of my wings
and a nostalgic beating at my core.
Its cadence is one of a king’s
but it’s fragile and forged as yours.
I take your mortal heart in mine
and turn its brittle pages one by one.
I pick out the most sublime lines
and leave them to burn in the sun.
My whisper as wind to a feather
can order a world to its grave.
My touch; pure as spring’s first heather
can calm the sea’s wildest waves
and alter the blush of your face
and tear up the form of your grace’.

-An extract from ‘Gabrial’
Jordan Baker 2012.

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