The Storm: Epicinium

And the rain begins to fall.
Tidal rays and violet veil,
comes forth an inland call
and a semblance on the blue.
A pattered baptism as the dark builds
over lanterns of pallid hues
forming at my footsteps where
hardships and repose thrive.
I speak to the night in broken verse
until there is nothing left to say
and we’ve unwritten the words.
Howling with the haunters,
regaling with the haunted souls
flickering into substance
and drifting through the grave yard stones.


Blueprints: Sketches by the Sea


I’d say that, although there is so much writing to be done, the ‘blueprints’ of Blueprints by the Sea are formulating nicely with chapters, titles and piece direction coming together and promises of a successful campaign on the horizon.

I’ll make it my goal to post as many extracts and info as I can on here, but in the mean time good evening and God bless, all.  

‘On Paper’

Isn’t it fantastic when the words just flow onto a page? I’ve been attempting to get myself full of busy recently as my plans for book #3 come together and that of course means a fuck load of writing!!

I find myself wondering around the world with ideas flowing in my brain that I just can’t wait to get down onto a page. It always bugs me when I transfer that idea or few lines onto a page and then pause and think ‘awesome.. now what?’. I must have the capacity for 50 pieces of poetry at the moment, and around 3 lines for most of them. The question then, is how on earth do I turn 3 lines into 20 at the click of my fingers? Let’s face it, it’s hard to write on cue (or at least I find that hard to do anyway) and it’s hard to create a masterpiece out of nothing. I have certain pieces in the making for Blueprints that I’m really excited about as well as re-writes which ‘on paper’ seem an easy thing to do.. although once on paper it turns out it’s not. I love irony, I believe I’ve mentioned that before. I genuinely believe I have some notes here that can transform into an epic poem or two, and yes, it is frustrating that I’ve sat for a couple of hours and made no progress on them but I know not to worry.

Weirdly enough, every now and then I sit down and start writing something completely new and within one draft and 15 minutes I’ve got myself a decent little piece of writing. I look at that as a good thing though, as those little tit bits of poetry are going to form the meat on the bones of my book and they can come from nowhere. If I did that every day I’d have a lot of my book done in a few weeks, no problem. 

Just remember, when you’re struggling, anything is better than nothing. If you get three lines of your project done today you’re 3 lines closer to completion, take it easy and write what comes naturally to you- not what you think you have to write as you won’t be happy with it. Even a few notes in a note book could be enough work for one day. The rest will come, trust me- I’ve always gotten away with it. One day those few scribbles will turn into something amazing. 


Her hands were built to take dominion over all
to hide eyes glazed in the fiery depths she saw.
With masks held on in clever ways they’re made
spilling over, the guests of the claret masquerade.

Behind her mask she’ll take dominion over all
in a new religion born out of withering souls.
A dance of departed from the visitors she slays
enraptured forces in a claret masquerade.

In her honour they’ll take dominion over all
dancing and haunting at their prophet’s call.
With fractured faces and masks of sanguine shade
they’ll take your substance to the claret masquerade.

Jordan Baker
July 2014

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.


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,


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

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