Two
Decades of David Baker's Poetry
~EDWARD
BYRNE~
TO REMEMBER
AND TO ARTICULATE
THE PAST: DAVID BAKER'S CHANGEABLE THUNDER
AND HERESY
AND THE IDEAL: ON CONTEMPORARY POETRY
Few recent American
poets have
been so successful in openly
embracing the Romantic
tradition
of their native land
with poems that both pay
homage
to those poets of the past
who have influenced the
present
literature and yet create
significant new works in
their
own distinctive voices
that may influence others
who
will follow in the future.
The poet's
purpose is
to establish, represent, and articulate mystery. The critic's
purpose
is to analyze and interpret ÷ and sometimes deepen ÷ such
mysteries.
This is their fundamental difference and the locus of their mutually
dependent
natures.
÷ David Baker, "Still-Hildreth Sanatorium,
1936"
With
his latest
book of poetry, Changeable Thunder (2001), and his recent
collection
of critical essays, Heresy and the Ideal: On Contemporary Poetry (2000),
David Baker should now be recognized as being among the most promising
poet-critics to watch as American literature begins another
century.
These two new volumes by Baker exhibit ample evidence of his emergence
as an individual who must be seen as one of the potential leading
talents
in contemporary poetry for decades to come, both as an accomplished
practitioner
of the craft and as an astute observer of others' works. However,
to those of us who have carefully followed for the last two decades the
development of David Baker's lyric voice, as well as his discerning ear
and eye as a literary critic and commentator on contemporary poetry,
his
assumption of this position as an insightful and influential figure who
supplies some of our more delightful poetry and lucid prose analysis
has
always seemed inevitable, merely a matter of awaiting the maturation
that
comes with time.
As
early
as the 1981 publication of Laws of the Land, Baker's
first
full-length collection of poetry, his consistent command of imagery,
constant
use of lyrical language, and continual connection to the landscape have
been present in poem after poem. Indeed, in an introduction to
this
premiere edition of Baker's poetry, Dave Smith reports: "A musical,
sonorous
poet, Baker enters imaginatively those landscapes he praises calmly and
serenely, as if to ask are they crumbling even between his words?
Yes, they are. His question, everywhere implicit, is what is a
man
in his time. Is there time enough to find the place where he
exists,
is himself,
measured, known?" As such questions suggest, David Baker's work
often
exhibits those characteristics usually associated with the rich
Romantic
tradition in American literature, and through its ongoing focus on the
individual's relationship with one's natural surroundings, his poetry
represents
an extension of the legacy left to us by nineteenth-century forebearers
like Ralph Waldo Emerson or Walt Whitman. Not surprisingly, two
decades
after the appearance of his first book, Baker declares in his own
introduction
to Heresy and the Ideal: On Contemporary Poetry: "the heart of
the
lyric poem is fundamentally Romantic, as much of America's social and
political
heritage is Romantic."
Baker's
detailed descriptions of the world around him, plus his attention to
the
consequences of one's actions when traveling along the various paths
across
its landscape, repeatedly display an interconnection and
interdependence,
yet also a contrast, between the temporal condition of the self and the
continuing presence of the other depicted by one's vivid physical
environment.
Smith refers to this aspect in Baker's first works as poetry that
"bears
forward the emotional history of place and a people." Like
the great American Romantic poets from various eras before him ÷
whether
Whitman or Frost or Warren ÷ who serve as some of his
influences, David
Baker links the abstract notions of a nation's stated ideals to the
tangible
landscape and ties the experiences in individuals' lives to those
responses
of one's senses when witnessing that real estate the speaker in each
poem
inhabits. As the title of Baker's initial volume of poetry
indicates,
and a line from one of its pieces, "Homeland," states: "Not one thing
here
moves without a purpose."
Few
recent
American poets have been so successful in openly embracing the Romantic
tradition of their native land with poems that both pay homage to those
poets of the past who have influenced the present literature and yet
create
significant new works in their own distinctive voices that may
influence
others who will follow in the future. As Baker remarks in "Heresy
and the American Ideal," his essay examining the poetry of T.R. Hummer,
"To remember and to articulate the past are the first steps toward
containing
it and addressing the present." Baker appears to understand how
the
adopted internal transcendentalist spirit often directing the content
and
concerns in his poetry, like his perception of the external landscape
itself,
is shaped by the previous existence of Emerson, Thoreau, and
others.
In the title poem of a section in Laws of the Land, Baker
correctly characterizes "History as Place," as he discovers the
decaying
carcass of a deer while hiking hills "above the old house," and bends
toward
it:
I lean to touch its bitten side. A piece of hide
crumbles off like sod in my hand. Soon enough
it will drop to dust:
this land itself is formed
by the shape of its dead. I too have been walking
all day, and have yet to turn back for home.
In the introduction
to Laws of the Land, Smith refers to Baker's approach to
poetry,
often through his presence as the speaker in his poems: "against this
everyman
wandering the landscape
he clusters details we have all known in our physical senses in order
that
we may behold, rehearse, and reenter both the hope for and the idea of
home." Indeed, either physically or spiritually in their
memories,
home is never very far from the speakers in Baker's poems, and in many
instances the notion of what constitutes home, and its significance, is
defined by the details or designed by the effects of encounters
experienced
amid the natural landscape. In "Concurrent Memories: The
Afternoon
the Last Barge Left," another poem from Laws of the Land, Baker
locates home in opposition to experience and uses a sense of place to
feed
his memory of a time with his father:
He's down there now, at the barge-landing with friends.
He cannot see me lean and look into this water.
The sun is coming through low clouds, but I don't
want to go home yet. I want to watch the last
barge leave and never come back. I want to watch him
standing in the slow rain. I want to remember everything.
Like his
poetry, home is frequently the place he returns to only after
wandering,
gathering observations of the natural world and absorbing experiences,
carrying back with him those memories to be stored for future
consideration,
preserved for presentation in his poems. From the very first
poem,
"Skating Pond," a memory of a childhood experience shared with a
brother
and father, which opens his initial collection, published now more than
twenty years ago, Baker clearly established some of the primary themes
that, like the repeated lines left on the ice by their skates, would
recur
in the lines of his work ÷ time, memory, love, loss, nature,
innocence
and experience, a discovery of patterns in our lives, and the need to
mark
one's way:
It was time we had then, more than memory, or love,
or any need to mark some snowy pond with the patterns
of our skates. He'd lead us finally to the fire, pink there
in the snow, and tell us we could do this every year.
We were too young to know the feel of loss. Yet he must
have looked across the pond, those patterns like words,
and seen the story of a joy no child, no man could ever repeat.
Later in
the same section of this book, Baker recalls a shared experience with
his
mother as they walk through woods where they would often hunt mushrooms
when he was young. Once again, as the pattern of his poetry is
still
emerging, the observed details of nature and the memory of experience
blend
in a manner that allows the speaker to associate both ÷ to
design images
and define a relationship now preserved in the words of the poem,
perhaps
as Wordsworth or Whitman might have done:
The wind carried in trees above us
the faint brooding of a stream we would never find.
Today we've simply come to talk. No bag. No hunt.
Yet to talk we've come back here, spring again,
the land the same, us the same. We are another way
the earth remembers itself. Wild flowers bloom
where they bloomed before, water moves slowly
beneath our feet: we walk where we have walked.
["Mushrooms"]
Laws
of the Land ends with a poem spoken by a female narrator, a woman
who
mourns the death of her husband, a farmer whose accidental fall to his
death and the culpability of the land is replayed in her sleep: "I have
dreamed of that // last breath slammed from your chest, your death / by
your father's own hard land. . . ." The closing stanzas of
this poem, like the final lines of the book's opening poem, firmly
establish
the pattern of themes that will be evident in Baker's poetry over the
next
two decades, the list of terms included reading almost as a litany
÷ "words,"
"love," "land," "life," "memory," "past," "story," "lives," and "lost":
These words
are finally not for you, love, any more
than is that rain, the hollow sky,
or land, or life. They are for me, at last,
a woman and a girl grown younger
for a moment with a memory of her past,
and for all of us whose only story of our falling,
failing lives is you, is those we've lost.
["Her Elegy in Harvest Season"]
Just as
the woman in this poem discovers, Baker knows the words of his poems,
as
well as the images and memories of experiences he retains in his lines,
though often spoken of others and dedicated to them (father, mother,
brother,
lover, friend, etc.) are finally not really for them, at least not
completely,
but for the speaker, the poet himself, and also for the reader as an
extension
of the speaker in the poem, as a way to contain one's past and control
one's present, to prepare to face one's future. As Baker states
in
his excellent essay recounting the creation of one of his poems,
"Still-Hildreth
Sanatorium, 1936": "I wrote this poem. I planned it, thought and
thought about it. I am its author. But who holds the
responsibility
for the poem's interpretation and meaning? The 'I' is the author,
but who is the authority? Not me, I gave that to you."
The
title
of Baker's second book of poems, Haunts (1985), implies a
continuation
of the concerns raised in Laws of the Land. The
deliberate
ambiguity of the title permits a number of possible perspectives. Haunts
may be a noun suggesting those places, physical or emotional, the poet
and his readers return to visit persistently, or it may refer to the
spirits
of the past that appear frequently
in our lives. It may allude to a prolonged preoccupation with
certain
themes and issues, thoughts that recur in our consciousness, dwell in
our
contemplations, remain with us like ghosts throughout our lives.
It could be a verb that characterizes the poet's repeated trips as he haunts
familiar locations, family gatherings, and favorite landscapes.
Perhaps
the title points to those lingering images of people and places,
visions
and memories, as vivid or vague as they may be, that accompany us all
our
lives. The title also connotes a sense of unease, if not a
disturbed
or distressed emotional state at times ÷ maybe an acknowledgment
of regrets
or reluctance, a sad recognition of loss, a condition of anxiety or
even
fear. In any interpretation, the title proposes readers regard
the
ongoing impact relationships and personal or historical events exert on
our entire lives or how such experiences are not always eroded by the
passage
of time, but are just as easily enhanced in importance, sometimes
exaggerated
to new proportions, by our memories of them. In a manner T.S.
Eliot
might have appreciated and approved, the wise title of this book
finally
indicates a simple indisputable awareness of the ever-present affect of
the past on the present or a cognizance of the potential influence of
the
present on the future.
This collection
begins with the memory of a childhood experience that offers a portent,
foreshadows the future for the characters in it. In "Poison" a
young
boy narrates a summer incident when his friend "Sally Milsap fell from
the graceful perch" the two shared on a fence rail into a patch of
poison
ivy, and she is taken home by her angry "mother saying soap, soap,
saying dirty girl." The lines of this poem are filled
with
phrases containing sexual double entendre, and the extended metaphor of
warning given the boy by his father in this story is one that will be
repeated
in years to come, as "her face seemed swollen with the awful touch /
our
parents had told us once, / and would tell us so often after that, to
avoid
/ no matter what it took."
The
title
of another sensational poem in this book, "The Wrecker Driver Foresees
Your Death," readily hints to the foreshadowing of death, using the
second-person
pronoun "you" to warn its readers as well as the poem's reflective
speaker,
reminding all of us of our mortality. The narration takes the
reader
walking one summer Sunday past a lot where wrecked cars are kept, and
supplies
imaginitive scenarios that may have happened to the cars and their
occupants
the night before:
Looking at the rows of cars wrinkled
like wads of paper,
windshields webbed with cracks,
oil still oozing from the fresh ones
hauled in the night before, you still could
not believe the pain. You would try to . . . .
That the
"horror of it" is so vividly and intensely described throughout this
poem
in such lovely lyrical language ÷ built upon unexpected layers
of alliteration,
assonance, internal rhyme and richly symbolic detail ÷ appears
perverse.
Initially shocking, the poem's darkly elegant lines jar one's
sensibility
and undeniably trouble its readers, especially as we are told:
You might see the black well of night
crossed with lights flashing
in your mind, or imagine yourself pushing
a stuck door to help the dying
woman crying for you, holding up her damp stub,
the smell of singed hair thick
as honeysuckle, and far sweeter.
Just as
the poem's title, in its black humor, alludes to a Yeats poem ("An
Irish
Airman Foresees His Death"), this work also closes with a line
containing
the playful allusion to another modern poet whose ghostly influence
haunts
these poems and evokes his poetry ÷ Robert Frost and the final
lines of
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" ÷ when again an
experience of the
past remains with us, like "the cut grass, your shoes slick with it,"
as
a haunting memory, and the poem's speaker offers advice, admonition, or
an affect on actions to be pursued in the future:
You would go on like that
swearing to be more careful in your life÷
swearing never to drive again,
or never to be so close to people they might die
weeping in your arms, or you in theirs,
each of these a promise you could never keep.
The final
pair of poems in Haunts reinforce Baker's desire to treasure
memories
of personal history, saving them within his lines of lyrical language
and
rich imagery, especially of people and places that would otherwise be
lost
in the past. In the penultimate poem of the collection, "The
Anniversary
of Silence," Baker's speaker planting spring bulbs in his garden marks
the tenth-year anniversary of the death of a childhood friend who dove
into "the green heart of water" in a quarry lake amid an unseen "ball
of
cottonmouths":
She had found their black secret, so they must have been
on her, mouths blossoming like white flowers,
her mouth open as if to call or sing, yet oddly silent,
perhaps already choked with water.
This poem,
which had begun with a casual nod to Whitman ("Every night for weeks,
from
the lilac's deep heart, / a catbird has softly sung through my sleep"),
closes with Baker's still developing, yet distinctive voice as he
unites
separate allusions to flowers or song and revisits themes of loss and
preservation,
time and timelessness, developed throughout the book. The
ambiguous
opening line of the final stanza reads, "Every night it has sung softly
through my sleep." In this way Baker fuses the two incidents, the
catbird singing and the voiceless girl who had "her mouth open as if to
call or sing."
As
Laurence
Lieberman explains the character of these poems, "spirits of the dead
consort,
easefully, with the living breathing man: lives inexplicably cut off in
mid-stride twenty years ago (or two hundred years ago!) are magically
resumed
in the breath and being of the haunted personae. Reincarnation,
from
moment to moment, in calm natural settings, erupts as spontaneously as
a flower breaking into blossom." The poem's speaker expresses his
wishes to recapture time gone by and give back life to people and
places
in his past in ways that suggest only the preservation provided by art,
particularly poetry, can achieve:
I do not know whether the bird has flown away or what
has happened. It is too dark to see anything
from the window, except the late wind wasting away
in the nearest leaves and a few stars high, faint.
How strange to feel such loss at this small
absence. I wish I could reach out and touch her
hand where she floats, and pull her from the darkness.
I wish I heard her singing softly, safe now, saved.
"Call across
the Years" is the final title in Haunts. It is written in
four numbered sections, and it serves as a perfect complement to the
preceding
poem, as well as a number of others that in their looking back do,
indeed,
present a call across the years. This poem recalls the wind and
rain
in the middle of a summer night when the speaker was still a boy and
his
mother swept him and his brother through their storm-damaged house to
the
cellar. Section three concludes:
We checked the seals of years of jars, shelves of food
lined in the sour dark, counted them, dusted them
with our breath, anything to ignore the roar
and crash of the world above us. Later, too tired
to work, we sang. Huddled in the cellar,
we sang together until the sun was high.
There is
a similarity of images, yet a vast contrast exists between the
speaker's
family sitting in the safety of the cellar singing through "the
rain-driven
night louder than a scream," waiting out the danger of the storm, and
the
visage of the doomed girl in the previous poem who is portrayed with
"her
mouth open as if to call or sing, yet oddly silent, / perhaps already
choked
with water."
The
last
section of "Call across the Years" returns the reader to the present:
"Tonight
the rain is falling gently in the dark, as if / through the wind and
dim
of my past." Appropriately, this closing section of the final
poem
in Haunts also serves as a metaphor for the poet's process of
blending
the past and present, mixing memory with desire, to borrow Eliot's
phrase.
Here, Baker's lines supply subtle symbolic links to those haunts, the
people
and places of his personal history, in a manner that parallels
associations
found in much of the work Baker includes in the rest of this book,
especially
when the speaker asks, "Whose voice do I hear, after all these years,
calling
// through the roar of my memory?"
Once again,
as in "Her Elegy in Harvest Season," the last poem in Laws of the
Land,
the poet's words, though often spoken of others, are finally not really
for them alone, but just as much for the speaker, the poet himself, as
a way to contain the past and control the present, to prepare to face
the
future with greater hope. Also, just as "The Anniversary of
Silence"
ended with a stanza expressing desires ÷ especially to
reincarnate those
seemingly simple and safe times of the past, as well as the lost ones
(including
the innocent self) who shared those treasured and now stilled moments,
with the purpose of overcoming, even overturning, the various losses
that
the passage of time inevitably claims ÷ shaped by sentences
beginning with
the words "I wish," this poem closes with a series of sentences
beginning
with the words "I want":
I want to find
that child and soothe him. I want to get up and go out
beneath the trees, and walk until the morning.
I want to come back to this house, open the door,
and find us all here singing in the spreading sun.
If David
Baker's first two books resembled one straight, unwavering river of
images
and narratives fully flowing into another, both often designed to
recapture
the past or otherwise undo the effects of time, creating a continuum of
thematically and stylistically similar poems, his next collection would
add a few new branch tributaries that chart some innovative and
adventurous
directions. Perhaps signaling Baker's own recognition of growing
confidence in his writing, he seeks to be even more ambitious in the
poetry
of his third book, Sweet Home, Saturday Night. This
collection
contains a number of longer and structurally more complex poems or
poetry
sequences ÷ perhaps revealing the influence of Robert Penn
Warren as they
sometimes resemble the extended forms he had employed ÷ that
permit him
the expansion required for an increased range of subject matter or
enable
him to give greater depth to the experiences narrated as he places
layer
on top of layer.
The
title
poem of this collection is centrally located in the book, occupies its
own section, and extends for more than twenty pages. With his
allusion
to "Sweet Home, Alabama," the classic rock song by Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Baker
brings his knowledge, skills, and experiences as an accomplished
country/rock
and jazz guitarist into the elaborate construction of the poem.
One
could claim Baker's acute musical sense contributes to the masterful
lyricism
and accurate rhythms of the persuasive narrative voices present
throughout
his work.
Indeed,
the poem itself is designed in sections ("Intro," "First Verse,"
"Second
Verse," "Chorus and Solo," etc.) titled to closely imitate, apparently
even to follow in parallel fashion, the actual structure of the rock
song.
With its jagged indenting, fragmentation, experimental uses of
typography,
varying voices, parcels of prose or prose-poetry sections, interwoven
and
interlocking narratives, overlapping scenes, portions of parenthetical
text, alternating lines of content and commentary (mimicking harmony),
and other innovations, "Sweet Home, Saturday Night" remains Baker's
most
atypical and ambitious work in terms of style. Nevertheless, at
its
core remain many of the same themes and concerns found elsewhere in
Baker's
poetry.
In
part
four ("Chorus and Solo") of "Sweet Home, Saturday Night," the poet
hints
at how to read the various characters and voices in the poem:
I am, and am not, that guitar player, and these are and are not
my friends and partners and paying customers.
I am sitting here watching myself
finger my Gretsch's frets and stare at a blonde babe
(please try to remember these times)
who's staring back mouthing Baby baby baby!
This is/was my band. I can't help what's about to happen.
Lord I'm coming home to you . . . .
The sections
of the poem that represent the solos are written in prose and appear to
be the most personal and revelatory pieces in the poem. In the
"solo"
for part four, as in so many other poems, the speaker calls across the
years to times past, particularly to his childhood. He remembers
his introduction to playing guitar: "I'm nine and this lesson is only
halfway
over. 7:15. My fingers have been bleeding all week."
He also recalls visiting his grandmother at her work "at the J.C.
Penney
fabric counter." His memory is vivid and sensory as the images
overlap
or evoke others elsewhere in the poem:
I love to watch her. I love to run my hands along the bright
materials
and shake the thimble drawer like her register full of money. I
love
to stack high the wooden spools of thread, and when I give her my
sore hands, she says Sore hands make a strong heart,and
shows
me again her pin-swollen fingers and her calluses gray as nickels.
See, baby?
In the next
section ("Third Verse") Baker's speaker cleverly offers an explanation
for the unusually free-flowing, seemingly stream of consciousness
writing
in "Sweet Home, Saturday Night." He presents self-criticism, not
only of his guitar playing, but apparently proffering commentary on the
meaning the musical metaphor offers to poetry composition, and he casts
a critical and confrontational eye toward the poet's own typically
Romantic
technique:
Cut loose
from the pattern of back-up,
given any freedom to play any notes, I seem drawn
to the ready conventions,
out of fear, to establish
some authority: my solo was all hype, stolen
licks, cheap fingerings÷childhood,
grandmother, nostalgia, you know÷
all the usual moves
strung together in a dried-up stream
of self-consciousness, all
the usual moves, out of fear of sounding foolish.
In his essay,
"Heresy and the American Ideal," Baker concludes that "the Romantic
text
maintains within itself, through the laws of its governing body, not
only
the means but the imperative for its own confrontation." "Sweet
Home,
Saturday Night" is a poem full of self-confrontation, not only as one
poetic
style is placed face-to-face with another, but also when the different
personae of the self, real and unreal, come face-to-face with one
another.
Later in
a second "solo," this poet so enamored with images of the natural world
in almost all of his works hears his speaker's questioning of a
favorite
approach to writing poetry with a confession
about a possible inadequacy of nature writing, even while he cannot
resist
an exquisite image of nature and an observation on an indefinite sense
of time: "Nature's not narrative at all, I hear my voice say, a
faraway ringing in my ears. On a flat stretch of gravel and sand,
humped in the bare moonlight, a small pile of mussel shells, pried
open,
picked apart, cleaned out, dried. They might have been here for a
hundred years or an afternoon." (In "Murder," a poem from his
next
collection, After the Reunion, the poet will report a similar
confrontation
÷ "My friend, who loves poetry truly, says too much / nature
taints my
work" ÷ and the poet, sounding very much like Robert Frost, will
wisely
respond, "a poem about nature contains anything but.")
Further
in this "solo," the author's voice is injected: "The truth is,
chimes
the poet, there is no story, there is only the wanting to tell.
And so that's true enough." Readers might easily find the
following
reflective of the poet's approach to his own craft, one in which the
key
elements are a sense of time ÷ real or fictional, past or
present ÷ and
an attention to timing, the rhythm or other lyrical devices imposed
upon
the telling of the stories within his poems. The speaker in the
poem
reveals:
. . . to tell a story requires two wholly unnatural impositions:
time
(a fiction) and timing (a fictional device). It is 1977 and it is
1988
and so time passes. It is even 1999, if I say so, and so I
do.
Say it
or not. But the tension between the times÷the possible
erosions
of actions and peoples, memories, eons, mistakes, the changing
dramatic settings÷gives us our story. And to make a story
good,
like every stand-up joker knows, requires a right sense of timing.
The various
voices in the poem permit the poet an opportunity to present conflict
and
confrontations, to question, or to masquerade as alternative identities
for the self. The characters in this narrative are all fictional
and all real, in one sense or another at times, as had occurred in Haunts,
sometimes
merely seen as "ghosts" or "notes," suggesting both musical notes and
the
notes of a narrative poem: when "the strobe light kicks on, igniting /
the room, exploding / again and again, it's like we're all characters /
in a slapstick newsreel, ghosts / against a wall, / notes on a burning
page."
In
the
final "chorus" of the poem, one persona of the poet observes another:
The truth: it's far too late
for anything else and we all know it.
The real lovers are long gone to their private
rooms and truck-beds. Oooo Oooo Oooo
and I am looking past the pain, past the lights,
past the writhing dancers, through the wreaking
contagion of the liquored-up air,
at the man far in the back who's been sitting alone
all night. I grip a chord change. He's trying to
levitate
out of his chair.
The speaker
in the poem continues to play his music, especially focusing on the
sense
of time and timing, "for your lyrical pleasure," as well as "for the
dancers,
/ and for the storyless (do you believe that?) man wobbling now
shell- / shocked past his table and stumbling toward the opening . . .
." Seemingly, like those figures who haunt this poet throughout
his
work and for whom he is inspired or encouraged to write many of his
poems,
the dancers are "pleading Don't / Stop Turn it
up!
The crowd urges the band to play on ÷ "They are facing us,
grinning like
the dead, / One more they are chanting TIME
Turn it up" ÷ and so they do.
"Cardinals
in Spring," another magnificent and intricately organized poem designed
to imitate an experienced event appears near the end of Sweet Home,
Saturday Night. In this poem written in nine sections to
parallel
the nine innings of a baseball game, Baker nicely unites time, memory,
loss, nature, and baseball in a clever and witty homage to American
Romanticism,
as this poem carries the epigraph "after Whitman" and contains subtle
jabs
at contemporary deconstructionist criticism.
The
action
in the poem takes place in 1968, and the scene is St. Louis's Busch
Stadium.
Raised in Jefferson City, Missouri, and an avid baseball fan, Baker's
childhood
memories of each spring are marked by the seasonal return of the St.
Louis
Cardinals and their fans at the beginning of another pennant drive:
"Tens
of thousands on the wing, perennial in April . . . ." The names
of
the great Cardinal players who appeared every day in the lineups of the
late sixties are intoned with alliteration and sound like song lyrics
in
this poem: "Brock of the basepath," "Javier of the hopping grounder,"
"Flood
in the field," "McCarver-in-a-crouch," and "Gibby / whipping his
warm-ups
in from the natural dirt of the mound." Likewise, the names of
family
members accompanying the speaker are remembered as if they, too, were
part
of the scorecard, figures filling the program in this memory and listed
almost like a litany written with reverence: "Mom with her bag of fried
chicken, Dad with his cooler, / Dad with his scorecard and program, my
brother next to him, / Uncle Buster crowding down who yesterday flipped
/ a knuckler behind his back . . . ."
Baker's
self-consciously narrative voice acknowledges to his readers the
parallel
to an appreciation for the cyclical pattern of nature and for the
ritual
that is represented by any observance of the return to spring:
I don't deny this whole thing
is designed to celebrate our most common desires:
it's spring, we want to win, things grow, we feel
inside ourselves the power of something so immense and primitive
it spreads out unchecked, ritual. Redbirds! we sing . . .
.
As
in the alternating lines of "Sweet Home, Saturday Night," the "harmony"
between the conflicting voices of the narrator within the moment and
the
self-conscious literary critic ("We should not confuse poetry with
rhetoric
/ During the last break the bouncer had to bust / the art of
persuasion.
A poem may well use / up a bad fight between two bikers. . .
."), Baker occasionally shifts between the voice of the young baseball
fan ("he's giving it to me, and I hold it, a baseball / signed
by the entire team! I know it : This is mine / to
love!") and that of the sophisticated literary critic alluding to
Emerson
and others ("I think it is // an antique opaque eyeball, a foggy
crystal
ball / through which even cliché transcends itself and so
signifies
/ our inarticulate, collective excitement . . .") This
juxtaposition
of times and personae of the poet present a couple of questions similar
to those that could just as likely be raised in relation to most of
Baker's
poems involving time and memory:
But how can I know that? How can I say all that?
How can I be 13 and 33 at once, cursed and blessed, crying
with all the fever and joy of the stupid
who know the truth and can't speak it, yet speaking . . . .
Keeping
to form, section seven, like the seventh-inning stretch, stands out in
its italicized lines: "When we stand, as we must, when the silence
/
and fragrant calm settle over us all, as surely they must, / and the
caps
come off and our hands flutter up / to our felt hearts, when we begin
to
sing / in a voice so singular it redoubles . . . ." The lyricism
of
this fragment is appropriately musical, and the metaphorical connection
drawn between nature and nation, in a way that may have pleased
Whitman,
reaches its peak in the final lines of the section: "and over
the
land of the free, over the vendors and hawkers, / over athletes and
umps, the fireworks blossom / into smoke-puffs and thunder like the
storms
of creation."
By
the
time the ninth-inning section arrives, although in the poem the first
pitch
is only now about to be thrown, the thousands of fans have been
transformed
the way spring brings transition to nature, and the poet looking back
with
this call across the years once again acknowledges the power of memory:
". . . tens of thousands of us with our souvenirs / and our statistics
committed to memory where all things / change for the better, we are
the
bodies of one desire." In fact, as the poem closes, the ambiguity
of phrases in the final lines ÷ "for us all," "see it still,"
and "never
more perfect than now" ÷ suggests further the perfection
achieved through
preservation in memory or art:
the ball leaves his whipped arm, and hangs there, for us all,
for this moment, this beginning, where we see it still,
all of us, O! never more perfect than now.
Recent American
writers, especially male poets, have often turned to baseball as a rich
metaphor of ritual, particularly for nature's renewal and the nation's
unity, and Baker himself does it elsewhere in his works, but it is
difficult
to think of a better baseball poem ÷ one is even tempted to
remove "baseball"
as a qualifying word ÷ that is as fitting a contemporary tribute
to the
spirit of Whitman and unites so many various elements in the
transcendental
attitude of the American Romantics.
Considering
the expansive and adventurous approaches taken by Baker in the numerous
narrative works of Sweet Home, Saturday Night, many readers may
have been surprised, some perhaps even disappointed, with the
appearance
of his follow-up volume of poems, After the Reunion, which
moves
back toward the shorter lyric form. Indeed, 28 of the 34 poems in
this collection are less than 25 lines long.
On
the
other hand, a number of readers might rightfully claim Baker had
returned
to his strength, lyric poems of memory blending then and now,
connecting
people, moments, and events of the past with the life he leads, maybe
the
lives we all lead, today. These are poems in which "his
deceptively
quiet gentle rhythms lull a reader into a trance, such that poised
climaxes
catch us by surprise with their amazing flashes of myth and history
sweeping
into the present," as Laurence Lieberman described the poetry in Haunts.
David St. John regards the "mature and delicate poems" in After the
Reunion as "the songs that accompany the poet's journey through
elegiac
landscapes," and Edward Hirsch characterizes these poems "fueled by a
deep
human desire to rescue the transient moment and memorialize feeling" as
works "letting lyric poetry stand as a permanent witness to our
passing."
With rare
exception, the poems in After the Reunion might be categorized
as
among those spoken in a quieter voice and with more subtle shifts in
tone,
even when confronting deeply emotional
or momentous situations, perhaps poems able to share the title one of
them
bears, "The Plain Style," in which Baker writes of a wildfire consuming
the narrator's home: "Sometimes disaster speaks most convincingly / in
a lowered voice." However, one should not misunderstand and
conclude
the language in these poems suffers from tedium or could be considered
bland. To the contrary, the compact poems in this collection are
often more powerful because of their brevity, more persuasive because
of
their lyric intensity. Rather than seeking the wider scope of the
narrative, with the deliberate development of many pages as one might
find
in the accumulated frames of a film projected on a wide screen, Baker
attempts
to reach the reader with a fully-formed image as any artist might try
in
a framed painting on a museum wall.
A
remarkable
elegiac poem titled "Mercy" begins with an image that resembles an oil
on canvas by earthy Romantic Ohioan Charles Burchfield, a painter
favored
by Baker and whose artwork would later grace Changeable Weather:
"Small flames afloat in a blue duskfall, beneath trees / anonymous and
hooded . . . ." The speaker reports, "we go down to the water's
level
edge / with our candles cupped and melted onto little pie-tins / to set
our newest loss free." Yet, even the act or remembrance, like
this
poem, also preserves the lives of those lamented for all attending the
gathering and for those of us reading the work. As in viewing a
striking
image in a painting, we are imprinted with the force of the following
lyrical
lines:
Everyone is wholly quiet in the river's hush and appropriate dark.
The tenuous fires slip from our palms and seem to settle
in the stilling water, but then float, ever so slowly,
in a loose string like a necklace's pearls spilled,
down the river as wide as a dusty road.
In the center
of the title poem of this collection Baker offers a wise observation
that
could apply to most of the work between the book's covers: "There is
nothing
/ that does not connect and so sustain." How suitable such a
statement
appears in a poem that seems to celebrate the strength of patience, the
attachment to one another in a family's past ("Who looks like who in
the
crisp old albums"), yet which also hints at difficulties in the reunion
hosts' own relationship: "We couldn't tell them, not the host of
relatives
/ happy to be on each other's hands again . . . ." In fact, it
appears
as if the host couple is in need of reunion, and the effort would
require
much more than a single day. Apparently inspired by the example
of
the older folks at the reunion ("Who knows what sadnesses they have
endured?"),
the speaker decides, "Now I want to keep loving each other, too."
He concludes, "The strength it takes is their patience." However,
the poem closes with a sense of uncertainty, as well as a suggestion of
regret and resignation, perhaps even melancholy. Despite the
speaker's
new resolve, there is only an ambiguous declaration and an image that
seems
to imply hopelessness and impending loss:
Let's open the door and let the bluejays and sparrows
attend our repair. Let's take the whole day.
Let's keep forever the napkin our last waving aunt
pressed her kiss into÷delicate red, already
powdered, doomed as a rose.
Oddly enough,
"Holding Katherine," the poem which folows "After the Reunion," serves
as a welcome contrast with its marvelously buoyant and jubilant mood
delivered
in a richly heightened lyricism. Baker holds his newborn daughter
Katherine in his arms beside her window and shows her the magnificence
of the world that awaits her, the beauty of the nature he loves.
"The Mimosa," a later poem which appears in The Truth about Small
Towns
and seems to display the influence of Charles Wright, a fellow
contemporary
American Romantic poet from the preceding generation, reiterates his
feelings
for nature and learning about the world:
This is how we learned to love
the branching and leaf-work,
the shapely persistence,
in the delicate fires of mimosa.
That is how I came to stand beside windows in darkness . . . .
Surely,
as an expression of his love for his daughter, he wants to share this
love
of the natural world with her as well. Indeed, her presence in
his
life represents the fulfillment of a dream:
Once in a dream you swam in a blue dress dazzled with sun
through a garden of flowers toward me. I wrote your name
in my tablet when I woke, knowing it like the trace
of a habit handed back from the blood, knowing your face
like my own and your arms as I held you for the first time.
Ever since
Adam, the need for humans to name, to distinguish and give separate
identities
has been established. As if to confirm her importance to him,
Baker
has already written her name in his tablet, and as a poet he can offer
no greater tribute than honoring her in the lush lyrics of his
poem.
He tells his daughter: "Soon we will sit back to rock a little longer
through
/ the hungry night always within us. I will sing you your
name."
This lovely poem is written in four stanzas, each with a last line that
alludes to "time"; however, Baker's references to time are no longer to
look back and with hope of preserving what has passed. Instead,
the
optimistic poet holding his daughter here holds forth the magnificence
of nature ÷ "the tentative call of night birds spinning their
place through
the tremulous dark," symbols of the world he treasures and that has
always
mattered so much, or "the spinning stars," images "from a lifetime to
come,"
but now compared to this new life he holds, obviously lesser lights in
his life.
In
"Murder,"
a powerful poem about love, loss, and language, Baker again addresses
the
need to express oneself with words of consternation and consolation, to
examine our past experiences and understand our emotional condition,
(".
. . it's all I recall, or now need"). For him, this occurs in the
form of poetry. As he has done throughout the years, Baker writes
with quiet eloquence in this poem of anguish, grieving, and recovery,
reviewing
his memories as a way of explaining his present state of mind.
When
confronted by such sad or painful circumstances as all humans face, as
in many of his poems, one response is to use language that elicits
answers
for our emotional traumas. Baker determines: "Language must
suffice.
/ First, it doesn't. Then, of course, / it does." In this
manner,
the speaker hopes to recover what he can "before it is too late, /
before
they have killed me, / before they have killed you, too," before he
also
becomes another one of those only remembered through words of
reminiscence,
perhaps even in poems, as part of the past:
or before we have all become something else entirely,
which is to say
before we are
only language.
After
the Reunion closes with a poem titled "Contract" that is directed
by
its epigraph, a quote by the noted physicist Stephen Hawking: "People
in
the contracting phase [of the universe] . . . would remember events in
the future." Throughout this poem, the reader is reminded of the
ambiguity of its title, the double meaning that allows us to interpret
it as relating to the contraction mentioned in the Hawking quote, but
also
to view the title as indicating the contract we are offered as humans
in
this life and the terms of living we all accept (". . . let's promise
our
children the world") or the pacts we make to one another, as in a
marriage
("Won't our lives be joyful together and often sad?"). The
speaker
is amazed by the world Hawking describes in his quote, one in which the
events of the future would already be known and imbedded in our
memories.
For a poet whose works are constantly looking back in time to what has
happened in the past to understand or cope with the mysteries of the
present
or future, this must seem revolutionary indeed:
Won't the thousands more evident days and nights
burn with a future to lend us, like prophets
peeling backward, a vision so true we complete it
by walking into each moment already resolved?
However,
in his final stanza, the speaker proposes that he and his spouse
perceive
their lives in a similar fashion due to their contract with one
another:
"Let's ease our lives with the certitude of lovers whose futures are
fact
. . . ." One of the terms of this contract is to "promise our
children
the world." Once more, the poet regards the past as something
that
may be relegated to memory as a source for art when he recommends the
lovers'
"pasts tighten deep into the dim, thrilling regions of art." The
poem ÷ which begins with a statement, "It's the singular grace
of gravity
holding things up" ÷ and the book conclude with a declaration
praising
the world of the present, that world which had been held forth for the
daughter in "Holding Katherine," with all the ambiguity of
interpretation
"present" lends to the line: "It's the singular gift of the present
binding
us now."
With its
dedication to "Katherine Gerard Baker," The Truth about Small Towns,
David Baker's next collection of poems, seems a natural extension of
the
tone established in the poetry of After the Reunion.
Wonderful
poems of love for spouse and daughter bridge the two collections.
In fact, in 1996 some poems from each of these two books were collected
in a chapbook, Holding Katherine, which alternates works
written
by Baker and his wife, poet Ann Townsend, about the birth and early
life
of their daughter. Also, like its predecessor, The Truth
about
Small Towns contains shorter lyric poems almost exclusively.
The title of this new book, too, calls to mind the epigraph to "Sweet
Home,
Saturday Night": "Does your conscience bother you? Tell the
truth."
In
this
book the themes remain the same as well. "Top of the Stove"
offers
a description of a childhood memory that is relived, and the family
members
returned to life, each time it is recalled in the present and then
written
into this poem, in the language he has learned a second time, now as a
poet, to use "to say so." Just as Baker had mentioned in After
the Reunion that "language must suffice," here again he emphasizes
how for him language is sometimes all he has left:
Our faces pinked over to watch coal
chunks churn and fizz. This was before
I had language to say so, the flatiron
hot all day by the kettle, fragrance
of coffee and coal smoke over
the kitchen in a mist. What did I know?
Now they've gone. Language remains.
On the back
cover of this collection, Eavan Boland observes that Baker's lyrical
poems
contained within attempt "to measure the distance between memory and
reality,
between the living and the dead." For years now, Baker's use of
language
appears to have been able to limit the separation between the past and
the present, the lost and the living. Boland concludes Baker's
"real
achievement is that we are invited to stand on the boundary between the
lived world and the lost one and, as we read on, it is hard to
distinguish
between them."
Such a
difficulty to distinguish between the past and the present, the living
and the dead, appears at the crux of "Still-Hildreth Sanatorium, 1936,"
a riveting poem that maintains its intensity
and mystery throughout. This poem is the subject of the most
personal
and most moving essay in Heresy and the Ideal: On Contemporary
Poetry,
where Baker discusses the circumstances surrounding the poem's
inspiration
and inception, as well as the goals in his approach to writing it: "In
my poem I have wanted, variously, to fuse and diffuse the elements of
story,
location, emotion, and thought. The details of any one part
become
the details of any other." Ironically, considering the title of
the
book in which this poem is published, Baker confesses: "Some of it is
true
to the facts of my life, and some is imagined. I hope you can't
tell
which is which. I want this to be a real experience rather than a
true account." In this statement the reader may be forewarned
that The
Truth about Small Towns is not an attempt at a documentary
gathering
of facts, but the seeking of a more substantial truth that full or
partly
fictional poetry and prose often provide.
"Still-Hildreth
Sanatorium, 1936" is a compelling poem with two narratives told in
separate
voices, that of the poet and that of his now-deceased grandmother whose
figure visits his bedside during a prolonged illness. The poet
has
been suffering multiple serious symptoms of a disease we learn, from
the
piece in Heresy and the Ideal: On Contemporary Poetry, after
months
of negative tests is eventually diagnosed as chronic fatigue syndrome,
a condition extensively explained in the essay, that keeps him
incapacitated,
unable really to even read or write for more than a year. In the
poem he describes his state:
And this was my illness, constant, insomnalent,
a burning of nerve hairs just under the eyelids,
corneal, limbic, under the skin, arterial,
osteal, scrotal, until each node of the four hundred
was a pinpoint of lymphatic fire and anguish
as she rocked beside me in the family dark.
He would
sometimes wake late, "shaking, exhausted, soaked cold // in soiled
bedclothes
or draft." During those moments in the middle of the night, he
"would
waken and find her there, waiting." She would help him "get
through
the bad nights." In his essay, Baker explains: "One night I woke
up, in pitch dark, and spoke a long and lovely while with my
grandmother,
who sat beside me in my high fever. It was a late spring
night.
I was very happy. To this day I swear it was her."
His
grandmother
tells how she had once worked among the infirm and insane at a state
sanatorium:
The first time I saw them strapped in those beds
caked with sores, some of them crying
or coughing up coal, some held in place
with cast-iron weights . . . .
The poet
is advised by his mother, who had cared for the grandmother in her
dying
days, that she did not even recognize her own daughter during a
"weeks-long
marathon of great pain, dementia, the body's relinquishment of all its
habits," as Baker details in his essay. In this remarkable poem,
Baker repeats themes his readers have seen many times before when he
deftly
brings together three generations of family, the living and the dead,
the
past and the present. Memories become sources for current
experiences
as the grandmother's narrative joins with the poet's. There are
parallels
of illness and delusion reported by the grandmother from her encounters
with the mentally unbalanced at the sanatorium, by the mother who
witnessed
the grandmother's slide from reality, and by the poet whose fevered
hallucinations
surprisingly may have served to comfort him when he most needed
it.
He asks: "What more can we know in our madness than this? / Someone
slipped
through my door to be there / ÷ though I knew she was a decade
gone ÷ //
whispering stories and cooling my forehead . . . ."
In
his
essay, Baker offers this as part of his summary of the poem:
If I can tell you anything useful, and critical, and explanatory
about
the poem, I can tell you that it takes place in several locations and
in
a single place, at several times but in just one instant, that it is
about
memory as well as the imagined. It is about strength and
sheer
helplessness, the support of others but the isolation, the
absolute
loneliness, of us all.
It is a love poem.
"Still-Hildreth
Sanatorium, 1936" is just the second poem in The Truth about Small
Towns,
and another incredible work much later in the book, "Treatise on
Touch,"
is a poignant poem that could easily serve as its companion
piece.
In this poem the poet-speaker ÷ who in his essay on
"Still-Hildreth Sanatorium,
1936" credits his wife as heroic ("doing virtually everything to keep
me
alive, protected, safe, as comfortable as possible") ÷ finds
himself in
the position of caring for her as she too is struck by a long, painful,
and undiagnosed illness:
They don't really know what is wrong. The weeks
have brought only pain, how the slightest touch
burns from the fingertips upward, wrists, fore-
arms, elbows, until even the muscle
mass, the tissue, atrophies. She cannot
hold a spoon or brush our child's hair to sleep.
She cannot hold her body still to sleep.
This wonderfully
constructed poem twines itself around its core composed of a systematic
exposition on the sense of touch and the principle of faith ("Whom to
believe?
This is our central task."). Throughout the poem the reader is
asked
to consider the ways we may trust in others, as the poet must choose to
trust in his love, in the doctors, in life, in death, in God, in the
human
condition that allows such pain, or even in himself. When the
speaker's
love is examined by doctors with differing opinions on the causes or
forms
of care to follow, the couple are confronted by the question again,
"Whom
to believe?" For the doctors "it is a matter of training, of
touch,"
"the nurse holds her hand steady to clear / the path the medicine takes
through the tube," the woman bleeds "as if pregnant by a lover's
touch";
however, for the patient the needles, just the slightest touch, bring
pain.
Outside,
the grounds are described as "green, medieval yards" with pathways
lined
by witnesses ÷ "gargoyles in stoneworks, stations of the cross,
// the
melancholy watchers of the faith, and the Sisters of Divine Providence
/ laid to rest in the nunnery graveyard," this place of the dead "the
parochial
children dread." This is where the children "learn to love or
fear
their / own lives better, blessing the mouth of the dead." The
love,
herself, apparently had been a student there two decades earlier, and
the
speaker, possibly viewing all through his own fear, pain, and anger,
observes
her reactions: "I feel the remnant fear / in the way she holds herself,
and anger, / the way the woman I love is a child / again watched by the
watchers from above." The grounds, the landscape, present a
meaningful
metaphor for the poet:
. . . Whom to believe? To the touch the grounds
are fertile, fruitful with pain, the needling
undergrowth, dense pollen brushed at the nose,
the figure of the martyr hung and pierced,
a hand struck in punishment from pure air . . . .
The speaker's
struggle to discover what or whom to believe is resolved in a litany
that
suggests his faith in those principles reflecting the poet's Romantic
notions
of the natural and the spiritual: love, innocence, nature, human life
evidenced
by pain, and of course, for this lover of lyrical language, song:
. . . I believe my love, who
lies as still as stone below her good nurse.
I believe the children walking the path,
watching the bees, and the bells which call them
to music or mass, immaculate song,
I believe this pain, which makes us all sing . . . .
Just as
he has since his first book, Baker continues to attach history to
place,
especially home, and a number of poems in The Truth about Small
Towns
concern the return, physically or emotionally, to home, to family, to
the
familiar and secure, to where one began his journey, although at times
the separation seems too long: "Who would guess it takes this long to
come
home?" ["Dust to Dust"]. Indeed, one of the most intricate and
most
interesting poems in this collection is a short lyrical work, a
different
sort of sonnet simply titled "Home."
In
this
poem whose vocabulary, actions, and atmosphere one might link to Robert
Frost, though with greater tenderness and optimism than may be expected
from the old master, a father takes his daughter for their daily
morning
walk in the woods, where they find deer prints in the sand along a
creek
("Their hooves / have left some telltale moons and hearts"). The
poet, who appreciates the significance of naming and who had written
his
daughter's name on his tablet in "Holding Katherine," now tells his
daughter
the sounds of creatures nearby warn and "call our human name."
Likewise,
at that moment their names also are being called out by the mother
seeking
her husband and daughter, "not knowing we'd be gone." The speaker
comments that the calls "sing us back / because they fear our straying
out too far, / farther than the deep woods reach." But the
mother's
"sweet voice" rises "above the others come back in." In
the
closing line the father confides in the daughter something he seems to
share with readers often in his poems. Despite all the travels
and
events this poet experiences, like Frost he realizes that after getting
away for awhile, it is always better, as Frost notes, "to come back"
because
even in good times and bad times "it would be good both going and
coming
back." Therefore, the speaker's final comment about the calls
that
sing them back is consistent with the thoughts he's shared with readers
elsewhere in his poetry through the lyrics that time after time
repeatedly
sing and lead his readers back: "In time we'll let it lead us home
again."
In fact, "The Second Person," the last poem in The Truth about
Small
Towns, ends the book with the following lines:
. . . We must go back
where the world is still washed in the worries
of sorrow and self. I want to keep shining
these words for him, who carried me so far÷
water like a light in the vanishing
night. And for you who have carried me back.
Although
a deceptively simple and brief poem, "Home" is actually more complex
than
first meets the eye, its lines carefully and craftily designed so that
the last word of each line contains a rhyme, half rhyme, near rhyme, or
alliterative sound to allow an echoing in the first word of its
following
line: walk/look, dear/deer. hooves/have, in/innocent,
creek/creatures,
near/hear, mother/her, air/where, back/because, far/farther, we/went,
hear/her,
in/in. Additionally, the first and final words of the entire
poem are the same, again, lending a sense of repetition and
ritual
to the walks and a cyclical pattern resembling that of life and
nature's
seasonal order. Considering the many similar experiences shared
with
his parents and related in this poet's works, one might readily relate
this to the father's generational repeating or reliving with his
daughter
the kind of shared experiences readers have seen he'd enjoyed with his
own mother or father and preserved in his poetry as well.
David Baker,
predominantly a poet of free verse or syllabic verse ÷ although
thoroughly
infused with the subtleties of internal rhyme, alliteration, assonance,
and discernible rhythms designed
to heighten the lyricism of his poetry ÷ has also always been a
poet with
great respect for form and a critic continually curious about poets'
choices
and uses of rhyme, meter, and specific traditional or innovative forms
of poetry. This ongoing concern led him in 1996 to edit Meter
in English: A Critical Engagement, a collection of essays on the
practice
and the prosody of meter in English poetry. The book is
constructed
as a dialogue in which more than a dozen highly regarded poets and
critics
write commentary as a way to engage in a dialogue responding to "Meter
in English," an essay by Robert Wallace.
In
the
introduction to this volume, Baker states: "All poetry is formal
poetry.
It has shape, and meaning, and nuance, and layers of technique."
In a manner resembling the reasonable and readable prose one finds in
almost
all of his criticism, perhaps Baker indirectly offers advice to his own
readers about how to approach the poems he has presented to them over
the
years. Baker begins the introduction by commenting:
Poetry is an art of repetitions. Images and ideas repeat and
combine
into patterns of conceit, into symbols, into epic similes. A
poet's
rehearsal of ideas may become his or her theme, and the recurrence
of themes, or of a theme's tropes, may develop into a convention.
Indeed,
the act of repetition in the form and content of a single poem ÷
or for
that matter, as a primary characteristic in a poet's compilation of
works
÷ seems paramount in this poet-critic's evaluations to creating
a multitude
of effects:
The results of poetic repetitions are manifold: a returning phrase
may
enchant, a repeated line may emphasize, a pattern of rhymes or
repetitions
of poetry may hold itself longer in the memory. The recurrent
sounds
of poetry embody the music of the language itself.
Baker's
care and attention to form, especially syllabic patterns, is never more
apparent than in The Truth about Small Towns and never more
appropriate
than in his most recent book of poems, Changeable Thunder, a
collection
continuing many of the poetic patterns and repeated themes of the
earlier
volumes, but containing a number of poems which move farther along a
less
traveled path. The book jacket copy of Changeable Thunder
declares, with enough legitimate evidence inside the book's covers,
that
this volume marks his "emergence as a major contemporary poet. To
his abiding sense of the Midwest ÷ its politics, people, and
landscapes
÷ Baker adds a powerful historical dimension . . . ." For
twenty
years readers have become accustomed to finding accurate and insightful
examinations of the contemporary American Midwest, its natural and
cultural
environment, in David Baker's poetry. As Marilyn Hacker has
correctly
pointed out, Baker "is the most expansive and moving poet to come out
of
the American Midwest since James Wright." Nevertheless, most
close
readers of Baker's poetry and criticism have detected works addressing
other subject matter, differing regions, and even earlier eras.
Baker
is clearly a devoted and diligent student of the American history or
literature
of the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. His
essays
in Heresy and the Ideal: On Contemporary Poetry lean heavily on
the examples of the American Romantics and allusions to their
works.
In its introduction Baker admits: "Much of my graduate schooling, and
subsequently
much of my teaching, has been in American and Romantic literature. Heresy
and the Ideal finds its critical center ÷ its theory
÷ based on my
sense of Romantic poetics, especially on how contemporary poets have
applied,
altered, or rejected certain Romantic principles. The heart of
the
lyric poem is fundamentally, as much of America's social and political
heritage is Romantic." In fact, as noted previously, one of the most
substantial
and satisfying essays in the collection is titled "Heresy and the
American
Ideal." It is this essay, with its addition of "American," from
which
the central tenets of Baker's thesis are borrowed. In his
commentary
on the poetry of T.R Hummer, clearly a kindred spirit, Baker summarizes:
Throughout his work he contends that his evolving poetic is driven
by "heresy," by his rebellion against the fundamental Romantic
paradigms. His earlier work employs and his later work
provides
a severe critique of that ideal. But the central paradox
remains.
Overseen, it continues to oversee. After all, the Romantic
text
maintains within itself, through the laws of its governing body,
not
only the means but the imperative for its own confrontation.
Much of Changeable
Thunder represents a new call across the years for David Baker, one
in which he speaks not only to and for those of his personal past, but
one in which he engages some of the influential voices of his
philosophical,
literary, and poetic heredity ÷ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt
Whitman, Emily
Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Percy Bysshe Shelley, John
Keats, Edward Taylor, Samuel Sewall, Cotton Mather, and others.
Introducing
the extended notes at the back of the book that offer readers
additional
insights, assistance, and documentation on the sources for many of the
poems in the collection, Baker even echoes the "haunts" of his first
book
as he explains: "I have aspired in this book to the ventriloquist's art
÷ borrowings, hauntings, quotations, and citations
throughout." The
manner in which Baker adopts these voices of the past and incorporates
their materials of lives lived long ago into a collection of works
which
often maintain a feeling of immediacy and urgency demonstrates an
outstanding
skillful performance by this poet. Even the descriptions of
nature
the speaker witnesses during a storm that appear to resemble a Thomas
Hart
Benton painting, especially the ever-present clouds, seem to imitate
the
style of that artist whose masterpiece murals, Social History of
Missouri,
fill the Member's Lounge of the Missouri House of Representatives in
Baker's
childhood home of Jefferson City.
In
"Benton's
Clouds," the opening poem of Changeable Thunder, Baker displays
the strength and magnitude of nature in its power to enliven great art
with its beauty and to instill great fear with its destructive
ability.
The speaker and his family are caught in the force of a coastal storm
and,
as in previous poems, due to the likeness the scenes drawn here have
with
the images in Benton's paintings, time seems to collapse: "It is
eighteen
seventy in nineteen / twenty-seven in nineteen ninety-eight."
When
the family members flee from the shoreline for safety, repeating the
fleeing
from a storm scene from "Call across the Years" in Haunts, the
reader
is informed "it was only accident the baby's / carriage was not crushed
by the linden bough." Once again in Baker's poetry, nature which
must be admired for its capacity to inspire as well as to intimidate
also
serves as a conduit for emotional and spiritual understanding, while
images
of the present and the past blend, influencing and offering a
foreshadowing
of the future:
It was too soon to tell what damages
there would be, though we knew, as in his art,
as though before the last skier had tipped
into the lake, there was peril ahead.
We could see it all in an instant's clear
likeness, where the future is not coming
but is already part of the story.
"Romanticism"
is a poem again written with a look toward the past as Baker adopts an
experience from the life of Ralph Waldo Emerson ("It is to Emerson I
have
turned now"), but it also tenders another, more literal way in which
one
may revisit the past, in this case a wife lost to illness and
death.
As the notes in the book indicate, Baker extracts the circumstances in
the poem from "Emerson's account of his first wife Ellen's illness . .
. taken from a letter on the day of her death, February 9, 1832" and
from
his journal entries, including a "solitary sentence in his journal: 'I
have visited Ellen's tomb and opened the coffin.'" The poet
juxtaposes
Emerson's accounts with a familiar activity to Baker's readers, a walk
in nature with his daughter Kate. Connecting to his own recent
experiences
of illness narrated in The Truth about Small Towns, the speaker
is still sick himself, "still full of fever, insomnia-fogged."
Through
metaphor Baker's thoughts once more reflect on the ways in which one of
those like-minded literary forebearers of Romanticism shaped his
present:
"Emerson, gentle mourner, would be pleased / by the physical crunch of
the ground, damp / from the melt, shaped by the shape of his boot . . .
." However, once more another side of nature is shown through the
discovery Kate makes of "a deer carcass tunneled / by slugs, drilled,
and
abandoned, a bundle / of bone shards, hoof and hide . . . ." The
presence of such beauty and horror, life and death, health and illness,
is made more personal in the intimate contemplation of the poet on the
relationship between himself and his daughter as well as his mind's
association
with Emerson:
What does she see when she looks at such things?
I do not know what is so wrong with me
that my body has erupted, system
by system, sick unto itself. I do
not know what I have done, nor what she thinks
when she turns toward her ill father. How did
Emerson behold of his Ellen, un-
embalmed face fallen in, of her white hands?
Likely,
much of Baker's kinship with Emerson also comes from their common
concerns
with nature and language. In the middle of the poem Baker
characterizes
Emerson, "that half of him for whom nature was thought," and in the
closing
lines of the poem the reader is advised: "Perhaps it is the world that
is the matter . . . / ÷ His other half worried by the wording."
Similar
issues are exquisitely evident in "The Puritan Way of Death," a poem
that
displays Baker's lyrical talent at its finest and evokes emotions that
easily elicit empathy from its readers. This poem, again based
upon
details and passages borrowed from past lives and passages in the
writings
of Cotton Mather as well as other seventeenth-century publications,
concerns
the deaths of children, specifically a young girl victimized by
smallpox.
The repetitions of sound and the rhythm in the lines opening the poem
perfectly
create an atmosphere for what will follow:
How hard this life is hallowed by the body.
How burdened the ground where they have hollowed it,
where they have gathered to set the body back,
handful by handful, the broken earth of her.
They have gathered to sift back the broken clod
of her body, to settle her, now, back down.
Reading
the poem we become aware how commonplace was the pain felt by parents
losing
their children to illness and disease. Cotton Mather was the
father
to fifteen children, yet only two outlived him as he loved them,
"suffering
their afflictions." Although the poem also pertains to more
philosophical
points of interest, including views on nature and God, on the
corruption
of the innocent ("They go astray as soon as they are born.
They
/ no sooner step than they stray, they no sooner //
lisp than
they ly, mourns Cotton Mather . . .), or the destruction of man,
the
state of illness and the sorrowful loss of a child seem to strike the
speaker
with a special impact, and it allows him to arrive at a conclusion to
the
poem very familiar to readers of his previous works ÷ uniting
the past
and the present, placing the dead beside the living through the
preservation
of his poetry, and addressing those for whom he knows these thoughts
will
matter. It is an ending every bit as forceful as its beginning:
She goes beside us, even so, even as
I write this to you, neighbor, friend, daughter,
my reader, this day, in nineteen ninety-nine.
She reminds us always of this death, this life,
which is redundant, awful, endless, and ours.
"Mr. Whitman's
Book" takes the reader to another era and another place again, this
time
to "autumn, eighteen forty-two" in New York City. If any poem is
meant to be an homage by Baker to one of his literary forefathers, this
one serves the purpose perfectly. In addition to Whitman the free
verse poet, so well known by readers nowadays, Baker borrows from
Whitman
the fiction writer. As he notes, "Whitman wrote and published a
considerable
body of fiction (as well as traditional verse) in the 1840s. His
longest work of fiction is a temperence novel . . . ." Thus, the
poem starts with allusions to that novel and its characters ÷
Franklin,
the orphan and thief; Margaret, his mulatto wife "who murders / a rival
and then kills herself in prison. / The story is so good it tells
itself."
However,
through the course of the poem the focus shifts from the popular novel
to his less popular, but more important poetry collection, Leaves
of
Grass, as "Mr. Whitman's Book." Reviewing the acceptance of
his
novel by Whitman's contemporary readers ("his life's best-seller"), the
speaker in the poem reacts as any reader today ÷ especially the
author
of this poem ÷ might who now recognizes the excellence and the
significant
influence of Whitman's poetry: the poem's speaker is saddened when
considering
the lack of readership for the great Leaves of Grass by
Whitman's
fellow citizens. Baker intersperses action from the novel and its
main character, Franklin, with brief but absolutely stunning portraits
of Whitman:
He writes without stopping, stopping only
to stroll the Bowery running with dock boys
and street-whores, or take his cup with the wags
of Tammany, basking in the rank yarns.
In three days he will finish÷as he claims
for decades÷three days without sleep, three days
and help of a bottle of port . . . .
Later, Baker
presents the portrait of an older Whitman who has already experienced
the
publication and strong denunciations to sections of Leaves of Grass,the
horrors of the Civil War with its "legions dead, wounded / wondering
what
happened to the promise / of perfection," the death of his hero Abraham
Lincoln, the onset of age and illness. This image of Whitman is
tinged
with pity and yet reverent:
. . . Soon now the sweet old man
of Mickle Street, the strokes and lectures, wrapped
in a shawl, hardly stirring for the pain
of tubercules, awash with Visions
from his improvised waterbed. The street
clamors÷his readers now coming to call÷
Whitman's
devoted followers and readers still come to call ÷ just as
Whitman had
predicted his readers may hear from him again, just as his latter-day
disciple
David Baker with his readers today continue to come to call on Whitman,
referred to by Baker as "the hero" in this poem's closing line.
"Midwest:
Georgics,"
a poem in six sections, offers an appropriate contrast to "Mr.
Whitman's
Book." At first glance, as the speaker relates attending an
auction
where criers are calling for bids, selling the possessions of a family
farm foreclosed by the bank, this may seem to be a poem typical of
David
Baker's works about the Midwest, a region with which, like his Ohio
predecessor
James Wright, he is closely associated. (Indeed, there are a
number
of poems in this collection, such as "Midwest: Ode" and "Ohio Fields
after
Rain," that also bring the writings of James Wright to mind. Yet,
other twentieth-century poets are also brought to mind in parts of
these
poems or other poems elsewhere in this collection, and he is in good
company:
for example, Richard Hugo in "Midwest: Ode," C.K Williams in "Pulp
Fiction,"
Linda Bierds in "Dejection," and Wallace Stevens in "After Rain.")
However,
the initial lines of section two introduce a surprising element: "I
wish
I were like the famous poet / ÷ disembodied, a voice out of
nowhere ÷ /
postmodern and uninvolved." From this point on in the poem the
words
of "the famous poet" are woven into the narrative of the poem with
those
of the narrator and the auctioneers. This is a technique readers
have seen Baker use frequently, especially since "Sweet Home, Saturday
Night," and the effect of ridiculing the attitudes or positions of some
postmodern poets and critics is not new either, as was witnessed in
"Cardinals
in Spring." Although some readers and critics may seem less
sympathetic
to Baker as a contemporary writer because of his insistence on adhering
to Romantic notions or sentiment, and his use of the personal pleasures
and pain of autobiography in readily accessible poetry might appear old
fashioned in the postmodern world, Baker sometimes comes to support his
own Romantic literary positions both in his poems and in his
criticism.
In
the
introduction to Heresy and the Ideal: On Contemporary Poetry,
Baker
sets forth his principles as a practitioner of "practical criticism"
and
speaks against "criticism of exclusionary jargon," as well as that
criticism
often found in academia: "At its worst its fascination with theory
÷ and
with theory's technically bland language ÷ has blinded its
ability to appreciate,
to evaluate, and to savor." Speaking of his mixed feelings when
evaluating
poets in his essay "Smarts" ÷ examining the poetry of Susan
Howe, Andrew
Hudgins, Mark Doty, Lynda Hull, and Billy Collins ÷ Baker states:
Perhaps, in widening the scope of poetry from the personal to the
historical,
political, scientific, or more broadly cultural, poets are struggling
to
find
appropriate voices and forms to bear such heavy weight. Indeed,
it's
finally
not a bad development. Poetry had better be able to think
hard.
But our best
poets are careful also not to destroy the passions, humilities, and
mysteries
that make poetry ÷ not merely to talk so smart that only a few
other poets
(or critics) will care or pretend to understand them.
In "Midwest:
Georgics" the famous postmodern poet brags his work is unattached to
actual
lives and "sounds like / nobody's story in particular." But Baker
refutes this poetic philosophy with the particulars of a scene he
describes,
the lives of those neighbors he names for the reader, and the reality
of
the emotional cost he is chronicling:
. . . It's worse than
a wake. The ones being mourned attend their
own ceremony, selling-off of goods
and souls, and three mouths to feed. Such pain is
serious, tangible, unironic . . . .
Later, the
postmodern poet and "his sales rep" reveal his feelings, or perhaps
more
accurately lack of feelings, about the importance of details or
specifics
of events and experiences in his own life: "My autobiography has
never
/ interested me very much. Whenever / I try to think about it, I
seem to / draw a complete blank." Baker's critical and slyly
humorous response is to offer the following description:
There floats a reek of cattle on a breeze
from the gone barn÷lilac and acid, sharp
as a pinch to the nose÷and a shift in
the cheap wind twists the voices about, out
of their heads, meaningless as merchandise.
In the final
section of "Midwest: Georgics" Baker gives a brief glimpse into his
attitude
toward "the famous poet" and as well, one would assume, toward the
distanced
and bland language of much postmodern poetry and theoretical criticism,
perhaps summing up his own philosophy in the magnificent last line of
the
following excerpt:
I wish we could all be like the poet,
out-of-body, misrepresentative
of our bad luck and lot, no one's story.
But this is what it means to have our life.
Elsewhere,
"The Rainbow" is a moving meditation in which Baker interlaces his love
for his daughter and their relationship, as well as his concerns for
his
own father who has suffered a stroke, with the father-daughter
relationship
displayed in the diary writings kept in the late seventeenth and early
eighteenth centuries by Samuel Sewall, the American Puritan minister:
"It's
here we connect. It's how / we join each thing with care."
Baker characterizes
in his notes the nightly diary entries of Sewall as often "tender,
confessional,
even self-doubting" in contrast to the "fury and indictments in his
public
tracts and sermons." Like Baker, Sewall even writes with care and
detail about nature, especially the weather, which he seems to regard
as
"a holy language to be read by devout souls."
In
the
poem, Baker reports to his readers how he has been constructing a
swing-set,
the craft of woodwork and the care to be exact so that brackets hold
perfectly
and swivels align ÷ "because my father / passed / a memory of
such things
to me." This poet and teacher muses, "now I only work to make a
toy,"
and slips in another dig at academic language or theoretical thought
that
may make abstract too much of life: "My colleagues call that irony. /
(Our
meager making wants to / theorize each life we touch to death.)"
Soon we see the metaphor of the swing-set applies to life when the
speaker
confides:
. . . I think we wish too hard
for sense when what we want
is wonder, swinging on a toy.
I love the life we've made despite
our carelessness. I love the care.
The following
lines from the closing stanza in this poem serve as a deserving summary
of some of the themes Baker has consistently addressed in his poetry
since
his first collection two decades earlier:
The mind is faithful in its
memory÷connecting signs,
it makes a memory
to connect to what it needs.
The body will forget us all
anyway, in time, as it forgets
its breath, and how to live,
how to forgive. I keep this
story close whenever I grieve
or fear, growing cold. A father
and his child wait through a storm.
Great rain with Thunder. Fear has
drenched the child. (Is this my father,
or me, my girl, or someone
in a book? I don't remember.
Forgetfulness has taken part
of me already÷besides,
it doesn't matter). The child cries,
I'm scared, to which the father
whispers, holding on, Don't worry . . . .
Once more
in this latest collection of poems, Baker speaks to the importance of
memory
even when selective or ambiguous, the value of life and the language to
describe or explain it, the need to know how to connect the past with
the
present, to blend memories with continuing events in a way that seems
to
keep all alive simultaneously in our minds, to mourn but also to learn
from the past and the people who still reside there for us in order to
direct the present wisely or to turn with optimism toward the future.
With an
assured attitude and an even more mature vision, David Baker has again
proven he is one of our finest poets, as he has produced another
original,
ambitious, and powerful collection of poems in Changeable Thunder
that somehow manages to seem familiar, yet fascinatingly new.
Baker
speaks with a private and passionate voice, whether in a lyric or
narrative
form, which almost always expresses empathy through splendid imagery
and
brilliant commentary. Like the essays in Heresy and the
Ideal:
On Contemporary Poetry, the language in this book is at times
intimate
and at all times intelligent, its personal observations are
well-informed,
sympathetic, and significant. His strong poetry, as well as his
insightful
literary criticism, is an important contribution to contemporary poetry
and a gift for its readers. As David Baker writes in "Mr.
Whitman's
Book," anyone "who touches this book touches a man."
Baker, David. Changeable
Thunder.
Fayetteville, AR: University of Arkansas Press, 2001. ISBN:
1-55728-715-5
$16.00
Baker, David. Heresy
and the Ideal:
On Contemporary Poetry. Fayetteville, AR: University of Arkansas
Press,
2000. ISBN: 1-55728-603-5 $20.00 paperback, $40.00 hardcover
© by Edward Byrne