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Lucy Baker
Volume 4 Issue 16 April 2008
Lucy Baker was Poet in
Residence at Poets' Letter April 2008
Lucy Baker
Lucy
Baker is a fourth year student in English Literature at
Edinburgh University. She is an editor of Read This Magazine, and
has been published in the Forest Free Press chapbook, Type
Dreams. She has an unfortunate weakness for high heels, Vogue,
and incredibly dark chocolate.
http://www.readthismagazine.co.uk
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Lucy Baker: Why I write poetry
When I was a child, my parents
immersed me in a world of poetry. I remember my father reciting Edward
Lear’s poems “The Owl and the Pussycat” and “The Jumblies”, to my
sisters and I when we were very young, and I think these poems
especially have imbued in me a love for out of the ordinary imagery. My
father also had an old anthology of poetry that he especially treasured,
and he and my mother would often whip out this faded yellow and green
tome whenever occasion arose, and recite poems to us around the dinner
table. On my 8th birthday I was the lucky recipient of a
beautiful edition of Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of
Verses, and while I must confess that I was much more interested in
the illustrations, I did find many of the poems poignant and
intriguing. However, my greatest fascination with poetry came from Shel
Silverstein, and his book Where the Sidewalk Ends was a constant
companion throughout my elementary school years.
I was an avid poetry fan for most of
my childhood, as I loved reading, and read anything I could get my hands
on, even old cereal boxes and shampoo bottles. When I was 12 I wrote a
short metaphorical piece of poetry, and was terribly disappointed when
it did not garner any recognition in my school’s writing competition.
However, I am forever grateful to the teacher who uses it to this day as
an example for his students. After this disappointment, poetry sadly
fell off the map for me, as in high school I was put through the
standard throngs of tortuous poems, taught by very unenthusiastic
teachers. In the mountains of Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth, the
only poem I truly enjoyed was Coleridge’s “Kubla Kahn”. I found it
unfortunate that so many of my high school teachers had such a love for
prose and taught it incredibly well, but when it came to poetry, all
they gave us was the standard gamut of old stuff, which held very little
interest or entertainment value for any of us at that age.
Sadly, after my experiences with
poetry in high school, I completely lost my appreciation for it until my
3rd year of university, when I had the good luck to be
involved in a creative writing course. For the course, our instructor
made us read reams of poetry every week, from Spenser to Langston
Hughes, and this ignited in me once again the desire to read as much
poetry as I could get my hands on. My initial attempts at writing
poetry were dreadful- I couldn’t seem to get past the idea that poetry
doesn’t need to have a concrete form, rhymes, a specific number of lines
per stanza, etc. The turning point came when one of my classmates read
her poem “Mouth”, which was soul-meltingly beautiful, and rich with the
most incredible imagery. I realized then that the kind of poetry that I
enjoyed reading (and writing), which I had been taught was too clichéd
and not ‘edgy’ enough, had a very valid place in the current poetry
world.
The creative process really came to fruition for me about 6 months
later, when I was writing my dissertation. I was writing on the Beats,
as Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road had been one of my favorite
books since I first read it in high school. As my research began, I
realized that in my ignorance I had ignored the forte of many of the
Beats, which was poetry. I bought Diane di Prima’s book of poems and
short prose, Dinners and Nightmares, from City Lights Bookstore,
and after that I was completely hooked. Her haunting poems of her early
life in New York were in a style that I had never seen before, and her
sense of womanhood came out so strongly in every poem, and effect that I
greatly admired. Since then, her poems have always been a source of
inspiration to me, and my poem “Diane” is written as a response to her
poem “Brass Furnace Going Out: Song, After an Abortion”.
I am now an editor of Read This Magazine, which some friends and I
started 6 months ago. I am still in the very early stages of my poetry
writing career, so the constant flood of submissions to my inbox is a
great way to keep me reading, and writing. I still have many goals for
my poetry, such as being able to sit down and write a poem at will, and
also being able to write numerous drafts of poems without allowing them
to lost their creative magic. Happily, poetry is once again my constant
companion, and whether I am reading or writing it, poetry is incredibly
important to me, especially the euphoric feeling of reading over a
finished poem.
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Lucy Baker's Poetry
Awake
I lie
here
satiated on chocolates and champagne
staring into oblivious darkness
as the embers of my cigarette
glow softly tangerine
at the tips of my fingers.
I feel transparent somehow
as if all sense has fled
leaving a stranger
to right my slowly tilting vision,
which clouds slowly
as my eyelids obscure
the dim shape of darkness.
If only this stranger
would organize the contents of my brain
into labeled filing cabinets.
Instead each thought
sprouts fragile wings
and floats gently
to join its brethren
on the ceiling of my skull.
A crash upstairs
sends these shaking contemplations
flapping madly,
and I remain sleepless
as heavy wings
beat through the fragile web of peace
I have woven
behind my eyelids.
First published in April 2008 issue
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Diane
I want to curl myself around you fetus-like
a sad approximation of your lost child
I’ll lead him from the turtle depths
to show you his eyes his ears he’s healthy
living, grooving somewhere
I’ll pull him from the bloody deep
hold him in your palms your womb
I’ll try to show you it’s right to be alive
(though you know well enough yourself)
take you where it’s different where the heart skips
our woman hands entangled I will try to hold you
I’ll knot us together with faerie strings
of cerise gold hair
You’ve forgotten him but I remember
I’m waiting for you to speak.
This was
first published in Purely Poetry Section
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This Is What Small
Town Life Is Really Like
We lived the clichés-
Of football games on
Friday nights, Cougar
cheerleaders shivering in
exhilaration and the players’
steely concentration as we
huddled together beneath
blankets, sharing each
other’s warmth.
Of creeping to the drugstore
to buy condoms for the first time
with your then-boyfriend,
and meeting your neighbour
or psych teacher at the checkout.
Steamy cars on Mulholland Ridge,
evidence for gossips the next day.
It’s true what they say about
everyone knowing your business.
Of Friday nights at
Nation’s Diner, french
fry missiles and coca-
cola straw wrappers
wriggling on the table.
And Loard’s ice cream
in the summer, peppermint
stickiness dripping on toes,
sugary grins shared
with the best.
Of dancing under the
tangerine fluorescence
at the Rheem,
blacktop slick with
rainwater and our
disco ball reflections
scattered in car mirrors.
Huddled hugs under the lights,
dizzy kisses exchanged.
Of fireworks from Tijuana,
set off in the JM parking
lot with only giggles for
company. Laughter that
turned to adrenaline shrieks
as we ran through beer
bottles and used blunts in
the creek, escaping the
sirens of the Mo-Po.
Of scooters and running
shoes, wings at midnight,
Of grass flecked memories,
the world tumbling over
the hill at The Commons.
Of friends who have known you
Since spandex and side-ponytails,
Of Easy-Mac nights and
sticky sweet Johnny’s mornings.
This is what small town life is really like.
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Copyrights @ Lucy Baker |
Lucy Baker's
Poetry
Lake Windermere
In May Issue 2008
We are sometime tourists,
forever wanderers
in open topped buses
tie-dyed amongst Mercedes’.
Stringy haired,
smelling of campfire smoke,
our pockets filled with menthol cigarettes,
tin whistles,
and skipping stones.
We find ourselves
basking in the glow of laughter
under the dripdrip
of cave music.
Beers and sticky chocolate bars
fill our tattered canvas bags,
alongside leather flip flops,
discarded for bare footed expeditions,
amongst spiders,
daisy chains,
and blood chilling streams.
47 Minutes
The longest sunset
that I ever saw
reflected its abalone insides
on the San Francisco Bay,
its pearlized fingers
reaching tentaclelike
towards our sail-less boat.
Two gashes,
plane contrails,
extended their neon filaments
through the bruised clouds,
their brilliance snagging
on the ever-reaching
arches of the Golden Gate.
Darkness smoothed its way
across a bracelet
of blinking lights,
the Bay Bridge,
reaching rusted
through the waters.
It was surreal,
squatting cold
upon the sandpaper prow
of our little boat,
and watching the naked moon,
shimmering halo-like,
as the fog rolled its burnt greetings
across the bay.
And the jagged ocean
that carried us,
cleaving two hemispheres,
melted golden liquid
into its painted depths.
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City Lights
As
the city lights
fade beneath our scarlet wings,
I pluck them from the sky
and add them to the gemstones
adorning my fingers.
They soon lose their lustre,
bewildered pinpricks
in a blanket of dark,
as we wing onwards
clouds obscuring
until these darts of bright
are lost to my tired eyes.
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The Crabhouse
I remember golf carts and squashed icecream sandwiches
a dark glittering pool covered with deer footprints.
Fishingnet hammocks, boat bathtubs, velvet curtain sunlight-
waking to shadowed stairs, maybe a fall
showers outside, dead crabs.
I remember muddy afternoons, cold tea, boats,
a pair of waterskis that caused splinters.
The poptop, with holes for errant toes and fingers,
a waterlogged blue T-Bird.
I remember losing races in brittle summergrass,
sponging spicy crabmeat from our afterdinner mouths.
Honeysuckle cocktails and pleading for a ride
in the back of the Oldsmobile-
the freedom in our swinging legs.
I remember treasure hunts on paper in longgrasses
glassy rocks staring, our walks into town.
Bonecrushers and running naked
old ducks buoyed- floating plastic smiles.
I remember us, sharing bikini’d falls from the boat trailer,
bossiness and icecream fingers,
sitting oldestprotector at the head of the stairs,
our unfermented sisterhood.
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Grassmarket
Evening
We wrote letters to each other
on a rusty typewriter
in tipped fedoras and scuffed riding boots
neon hair streaming across the pillows
as we shouted at the drunks
on the cobbles below.
I stood alone in the corner
with a collection of Ginsberg,
while endless conversations
of Sammy Davis and Frank Sinatra
floated by with the moths at my ears.
Incense steamed the too big windows
and wax chipped off the eye
of the absinthe bottle
as Eurovision songs played.
We laughed on
in rosy disco sunglasses
by the smoke of handrolled cigarettes.
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Poem to a New Journal
I
would like to tell you of the breeze at my windows,
and the taxis outside with their justshowing lights.
You should know about the chattering girls on my doorstep,
and the barbeque in the garden.
I might even write about the crane in the distance,
flirting with St. Giles’ steeple.
Or perhaps my candles spitting hot wax
on their winebottle lovers.
I could describe your starchy pages
and scratched tan exterior.
Or explain the problem with my word leaking pen,
bought for 45p from the corner shop.
I would like to tell you many things,
but I am afraid.
You will spread your pages to too many
if unwatched.
So I shall bind you tight in black elastic,
and hide you in a torn pillowcase in my bedroom,
where I will choose what ghosts
may find your words.
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Copyrights @ Lucy Baker
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